Light the Hidden Things (9 page)

Wryly, Crow smiled back. Steelhead weren’t so easy to come by that two men could anticipate they’d both catch one on the same morning in the same place. Nevertheless, he went back to work. Immediately, he was too involved to worry about being skunked. The slash of the rod, the grace of the line, the need to concentrate on the exact positioning of the fly - it was all pleasure.

And then that world exploded into primal, beautiful, contest.

Crushing the lure, the fish struck so hard the sucking sound of its intake was clear against the background murmur of the river. A large swirl marked its return to deeper water and Crow was in a fight.

Major broke his silent vigil, scrabbling to his feet, racing up and down the small beach, barking encouragement.

Pastor Richards cheered as if salvation was at hand.

The fish dove and sulked. Then it raced downstream. In an instant it had turned and surged the other way. Crow hauled in line like a demented sailor. Twice it pulled that trick. The second time the line went dead slack. Crow groaned and assumed he’d lost. That was when the fish shot clear into the air, a berserk silver missile twisting to throw the galling hook.

Crow stopped breathing. The hook held.

The animal’s sheer spirit could overcome incredible obstacles, forge through days of constantly swimming upstream. Spirit and instinct could outwit or outspeed predators. Spirit even enabled the fish to suffer through foul pollutants nature had nothing to do with.

In the end, it was the combination of savvy and equipment that won. Spirit couldn’t outlast the unforgiving flex of a graphite rod, a perfectly controlled fly line, years of accumulated knowledge. Muscle wearied. Courage alone couldn’t serve. The fish came to the net in exhausted defeat.

Gently, Crow slipped the metal ring under his prize and lifted. The fish was so big its head extended part way up the handle. The tail drooped outside the ring on the far end.

Sunlight struck its silver scales to a mirror gleam. Black spots glittered like crystalline insets.

Crow told it, “They don’t get better than you, big fellow. I thank you.”

The black and gold eye looked directly into his. The gills flared, closed. The hard-lined mouth gaped wide.

With no perceptible movement, the fish spat the hook like a watermelon seed.

Predator and prey continued to look at each other for an interminable moment.

The least flick of the man’s hand and his catch would tumble into the mesh and be hoisted helplessly.

Crow tilted the net. No more than a hair.

Swift as a spark in the night, the fish was gone. Crow stared at the rippling water as if waking, uncertain if there had even been a splash.

Then he grinned.

Pastor Richard’s hand on his shoulder turned him around. The lined features were thoughtful. “That was a monster. A trophy. Not everyone would release it.”

Crow rubbed a hand across unshaven bristles. He said, “I’m not sure I did. I wouldn’t want to have the net under him again. I don’t know which way I’d move.”

“You did it this time. Next time’ll take care of itself.” Pastor Richards moved shoreward. Over his shoulder, he said, “You better come calm down this big mutt. He’s having a conniption.”

Major wasn’t ready to do anything as rash as leap into the cold Fortymile. With ludicrous daintiness, he minced back and forth through the shallows, barking huge celebration of Crow’s safe return. Despite concern for his own comfort, however, Major had no qualms about slathering Crow with his wet, muddy self.

Crow took it with a practiced gruffness that had no visible effect on the dog and entertained the Pastor. When the confrontation calmed, he told Crow, “I think I’m ready to eat. What say we head back to civilization?”

“You sure Lupine fits?”

“Close enough. Not so sophisticated you and I won’t impress everyone with our Nimrod prowess, though. Bragging about hunting and fishing’s Lupine’s major indoor entertainment.” He paused, then, “You hunt much?”

“Not at all.” Crow shook his head while he prepared his gear. “Do some target shooting. Rarely.”

"Same here. No hunting, I mean. Sort of gave up on it long ago.” Together they started up the steep bank. Pastor Richards continued, “I quit one day when the man I was with said we hunt and kill because we love the things we hunt and killing them gives us possession. It happens I was holding a ringneck pheasant in my hands. Colors and patterns like something dropped straight from heaven. What that man said suddenly sounded so unspeakably self-delusional it sickened me. What makes anyone think that killing a thing you love makes it yours?”

Crow’s words ripped, cruel as a saw. “Some would say that sometimes that's the only love that's left.”

Pastor Richards stopped, whirled, and looked directly into Crow’s eyes. “That’s a very impressive answer, my friend. I won’t ask where it came from. But it makes me wonder if you might want to think about one of my favorite passages: ‘We are troubled on every side, but not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair.’ I always took that to mean a person soldiers on. Keeps the faith, if you will.”

“Maybe so,” Crow said. “Faith’s a strange thing. It can betray you.”

Pastor Richards broke away from the other man's challenging gaze, almost shamed by his sense of escape when Crow's too-penetrating eyes were no longer scraping at his own deepest layers of existence. Not until Crow had taken several steps did Pastor Richards' mind take him back to the beautiful pheasant and how, in death, the fire of life in its eyes emptied.

Still at the Pastor’s feet, watching him, Major cocked his head, uneasy. Suddenly, realizing his master was leaving, the dog rose and shook as if scattering uncomprehended misgivings. He galloped off, carefree as ever. The Pastor hurried to catch Crow.

Pastor Richards knew better than to pry further into Crow’s words. Still, an inner need deviled him to press ahead. He tried to diminish his question with a lightly conversational tone. “You’ll have to forgive me, but your position on faith sounds like what I’d hear from an atheist or an agnostic. You don’t strike me as either. Can I ask - Exactly what are you telling me about you and God?”

Crow stopped, chin tucked in, shoulders hunched, hostile. “Anyone else, Padre, I’d make them understand how rude that is.”

Hair bristled the length of the Pastor’s arms. He shook his head. "Never mind, son. I didn't think you'd feel so strongly or I'd never have asked. You're right. It was rude."

Crow continued as if not hearing the words. He said, “This one time I’ll answer you. I don’t talk about God. I do talk to Him. He never answers. That’s ok, too, because He doesn't seem to care much about what I say. People like you like to tell me His eye's on the sparrow. Maybe so. But if it's on me, too, I'd just as soon He looked the other way."

The walk back to Lupine was slow and heavy. Conversation finally resumed. It never strayed beyond fish stories.

Martha slapped down the menus and an ultimatum. “First things first, boys. Order. Then I’ll listen to as many lies as I have time for.”

It pleased Pastor Richards to see a slow smile crease Crow’s face. Behind his own forced grin was hidden regret for paining Crow so deeply.

Crow said, “Keep feeding me the way you have been and I’ll tell you wonderful lies all the time.”

The Pastor said, “Careful, son. Many a man's thought Martha’s greatest attraction was her food and learned that her charm is what gets them. You heard her call me boy? There's no end to the woman's wiles.”

“Oh, hush.” Martha’s cheeks went pink. “You’re all boys. You get bigger and older, but never change. Are you going to eat or just sit there smelling like wet dog and sweat and river muck and Lord knows what? Excuse the expression, Pastor.”

“No excusing needed, dear. It happens the Lord actually does know what. A Reuben sandwich, please, and coffee.”

“What about your cholesterol?”

The Pastor patted her hand. “A sandwich won't finish me. You worry too much.”

Martha turned to Crow for support. “Lives all alone, him and his gunky arteries. Old fool thinks he’s immortal.”

Crow said, “If you could see him cover ground you might want to rethink 'old.' And no man can know a river the way he does and be a fool. Best bring him his sandwich.”

She made a face. “Sure, take his side. You going to order today? I’ve got other customers, you know.”

“Grilled ham and cheese,” Crow said. “Devil take the cholesterol.”

“He’ll take something,” Martha said, giving them both a look, and swished away.

Crow raised his chin in her direction. “You two go back a long way.”

The Pastor’s smile was an image of memory waking. “Watched her kids grow up. One son’s a dermatologist in Chicago, the other an airline pilot, works out of Miami. Wonderful kids, great people. Three grandkids.”

“Her husband?”

“He was working on their roof. Fell off. Stupid, pointless accident. She raised the kids alone.”

Estelle brought the sandwiches, her friendly smile unchanged. The men ate in silence until the Pastor asked, “Where do you call home?”

“My Airstream’s down at the county campsite.”

“I meant where you stay when you’re not traveling.”

“No fixed address. You've been here a long while. What brought you? Your church send you?”

“God set it up. But we were talking about you. Surely you winter over in the same place?”

Crow took a bite and chewed a moment. “I keep moving.”

Pastor Richards forked an errant piece of corned beef around his plate. Once he captured it, he regarded it, ate it, and sighed. “Martha’s right; my arteries dread these sandwiches. Too bad my mouth loves them.”

Minutes passed before the Pastor ended the silence again. “I was prying again, asking about your home, wasn't I? I didn’t mean to. Decades in a little place like this develops a sort of proprietary attitude about folks. Sometimes I forget to respect privacy.”

Crow said, “No problem, padre.” They pushed empty plates aside.

Another man stopped beside the table. Despite abundant agitation, he took the time to nod at Crow before addressing the Pastor. “You have to do something. She’ll kill herself.”

Pastor Richards’ reaction to the dire warning startled Crow. The older man just waited. It gave Crow time to study the newcomer. He was short, his shaved head blunt as a bullet. He dressed well - pressed trousers, shirt, light sweater - and still managed to look slightly disheveled. Pastor Richards introduced him. “Crow, I’d like you to meet George Weathers; he owns our local hardware store. Crow’s passing through; I was showing him the Fortymile this morning. Caught us a steelhead apiece. Me first, of course. Sort of showed him how. You're in the presence of greatness, so simmer down and show us proper respect. Now, what’s this about?”

The man danced from foot to foot. “This morning she ordered a Shopsmith, you know, one of those do-everything machines.”

Pastor Richards spoke to Crow. “I believe George is talking about our mutual friend, Lila Milam. He’s convinced she shouldn’t be trying to rehabilitate the bait shop.”

“Never said shouldn’t.” George got in his disclaimer before he stuck out a hand to Crow. There was fleeting contact and then George went on, “The place is ready to fall in on her and she knows as much about carpentering as a I know about nuclear science.” The fact that he pronounced it
nookalar
added weight to his argument. Pastor Richards tried to speak, but George was too fast for him. “I hear she's barely keeping up with the payments to the bank. If she misses many, you know Edwards'll call in the debt. Then what’s she got? Nothing, just hard work down the drain.” He turned to Crow, eyes wide, as if remembering something. He said, “Pleased to meet you. Crow a first name or a last name?”

“Yes,” Crow told him, then, rising, he added, "When you get around to it, ask my mentor here who caught the biggest fish." Looking back the Pastor, he said, “Lunch is on me. It doesn’t even start to say thanks for one of the best fish I ever saw. If I ever come through Lupine again, dinner’s my treat, as well.” For George, he added, “Glad to have met you, too.”

Pastor Richards stood. “You don’t need to do that. You sure you want to move on already? You haven’t even tried Lake Connolly.”

“Places to go. You know how it is.”

The Pastor smiled. “No, not really.”

From directly behind Crow, Martha demanded, “You’re not leaving? You just got here.”

Crow nodded at her frown. Richards said, “Not everyone’s like us. Crow’s a wanderer.”

She spoke past Crow to the Pastor, “He ought to slow down. Hardly had a chance to talk to him.” Then, to Crow, “Come back and see us, hear? I like folks who appreciate a good meal.”

“If I ever come back, it’ll be for the food.”

Pastor Richards feigned indignation. “Not my sparkling conversation? Perfect flies? The fish we caught today?”

Crow bent toward Martha. “Classic case - the curse of the fishing rod. First it’s minor wickedness - twenty-five miles an hour in a twenty-mile zone. Next, it’s substance abuse. Corned beef. Hot cocoa. Extra large, mind.
Double
espressos. Then here come the fishing lies. Whoppers, stories he doesn’t even believe himself, like how we caught two lunkers just this morning.” He sniffed loudly. “Oh, you can just smell the brimstone.”