Something Rich and Strange: Selected Stories (22 page)

“Them snakes ain’t of the poisonous persuasion?” Campbell asked.

Rudisell turned and shook his head.

“Naw. Them’s just your common water snake. Mean as the devil but they got no fangs.”

As they got close the skinks and lizards darted for crevices in the rocks, but the snakes did not move until Rudisell’s shadow fell over them. Three slithered away before Rudisell’s creaky back could bend enough for him to grab hold, but the fourth did not move until Rudisell’s liver-spotted hand closed around its neck. The snake thrashed violently, its mouth biting at the air. Campbell reluctantly moved closer, his fingers and thumbs holding the sack open, arms extended out from his body as if attempting to catch some object falling from the sky. As soon as Rudisell dropped the serpent in, Campbell gave the snake and sack to Rudisell, who knotted the burlap and put it in the trunk.

“You figure one to be enough?” Campbell asked.

“Yes,” Rudisell replied. “We’ll get but one chance.”

The sun was beginning to settle over Balsam Mountain when the old men got back to the bridge. Rudisell led them down the path to the riverbank, the feed sack in his right hand, the hay hook and twine in his left. Campbell came next with the rod and reel and sinkers and hooks. Creech came last, the great book clutched to his chest. The trail became steep and narrow, the weave of leaf and limb overhead so thick it seemed they were entering a cave.

Once they got to the bank and caught their breath, they went to work. Creech used two of the last teeth left in his head to clamp three sinkers onto the line, then tied the hook to the monofilament with an expertly rendered hangman’s knot. Campbell studied the book and found the section on fish living in southeastern rivers. He folded the page where the photographs of relevant species began and then marked the back section where corresponding printed information was located. Rudisell took out the whetstone and sharpened the metal with the same attentiveness as the long-ago warriors who’d once roamed these hills honed their weapons, those bronze men who’d flaked dull stone to make their flesh-piercing arrowheads. Soon the steel tip shone like silver.

“All right, I done my part,” Creech said when he’d tested the drag. He eyed the writhing feed sack apprehensively. “I ain’t about to be close by when you try to get that snake on a hook.”

Creech moved over near the tailwaters as Campbell picked up the rod and reel. He settled the rod tip above Rudisell’s head, the fish hook dangling inches from the older man’s beaky nose. Rudisell unknotted the sack, then pinched the fishhook’s eye between his left hand’s index finger and thumb, used the right to slowly peel back the burlap. When the snake was exposed, Rudisell grabbed it by the neck, stuck the fish hook through the midsection, and quickly let go. The rod tip sagged with the snake’s weight as Creech moved farther down the bank.

“What do I do now?” Campbell shouted, for the snake was swinging in an arc that brought the serpent ever closer to his body.

“Cast it,” Rudisell replied.

Campbell made a frantic sideways, two-handed heave that looked more like someone throwing a tub of dishwater off a back porch than a cast. The snake landed three feet from the bank, but luck was with them for the snake began swimming underwater toward the pool’s center. Creech came back to stand by Campbell, but his eyes watched the line, ready to flee up the bank if the snake took a mind to change direction. Rudisell gripped the hay hook’s handle in his right hand. With his left he began wrapping bailing twine around metal and flesh. The wooden bridge floor rumbled like low thunder as a pickup crossed. A few seconds later another vehicle passed over the bridge. Rudisell continued wrapping the twine. He had no watch but suspected it was after five and men working in Sylva were starting to come home. When Rudisell had used up all the twine, he had Creech knot it.

“With that hay hook tied to you it looks like you’re the bait,” Creech joked.

“If I gaff that thing it’s not going to get free of me,” Rudisell vowed.

The snake was past the deepest part of the pool now, making steady progress toward the far bank. It struggled to the surface briefly, the weight of the sinkers pulling it back down. The line did not move for a few moments, then began a slow movement back toward the heart of the pool.

“Why you figure it to turn around?” Campbell asked as Creech took a first step farther up the bank.

“I don’t know,” Rudisell said. “Why don’t you tighten your line a bit.”

Campbell turned the handle twice and the monofilament grew taut and the rod tip bent. “Damn snake’s got hung up.”

“Give it a good jerk and it’ll come free,” Creech said. “Probably just tangled in some brush.”

Campbell yanked upward, and the rod bowed. The line began moving upstream, not fast but steady, the reel chattering as the monofilament stripped off.

“It’s on,” Campbell said softly, as if afraid to startle the fish.

The line did not pause until it was thirty yards upstream and in the shadow of the bridge.

“You got to turn it,” Rudisell shouted, “or it’ll wrap that line around one of them pillars.”

“Turn it,” Campbell replied. “I can’t even slow it down.”

But the fish turned of its own volition, headed back into the deeper water. For fifteen minutes the creature sulked on the pool’s bottom. Campbell kept the rod bowed, breathing hard as he strained against the immense weight on the other end. Finally, the fish began moving again, over to the far bank and then upstream. Campbell’s arms trembled violently.

“My arms is give out,” he said and handed the rod to Creech.

Campbell sprawled out on the bank, his chest heaving rapidly, limbs shaking as if palsied. The fish swam back into the pool’s heart and another ten minutes passed. Rudisell looked up at the bridge. Cars and trucks continued to rumble across. Several vehicles paused a few moments but no faces appeared at the railing.

Creech tightened the drag and the rod bent double.

“Easy,” Rudisell said. “You don’t want him breaking off.”

“The way it’s going, it’ll kill us all before it gets tired,” Creech gasped.

The additional pressure worked. The fish moved again, this time allowing the line in its mouth to lead it into the tailrace. For the first time they saw the fish.

“Lord amercy,” Campbell exclaimed, for what they saw was over six feet long and enclosed in a brown suit of prehistoric armor, the immense tail curved like a scythe. When the fish saw the old men it surged away, the drag chattering again as the fish moved back into the deeper water.

Rudisell sat down beside the book and rapidly turned pages of color photos until he saw it.

“It’s a sturgeon,” he shouted, then turned to where the printed information was and began to call out bursts of information. “Can grow over seven feet long and three hundred pounds. That stuff that looks like armor is called scutes. They’s even got a Latin name here. Says it was once in near every river, but now endangered. Can live a hundred and fifty years.”

“I ain’t going to live another hundred and fifty seconds if I don’t get some relief,” Creech said and handed the rod back to Campbell.

Campbell took over as Creech collapsed on the bank. The sturgeon began to give ground, the reel handle making slow, clockwise revolutions. Rudisell closed the book and stepped into the shallows of the pool’s tailrace. A sandbar formed a few yards out and that was what he moved toward, the hay hook raised like a metal question mark. Once he’d secured himself on the sandbar, Rudisell turned to Campbell.

“Lead him over here. There’s no way we can lift him up the bank.”

“You gonna try to gill that thing?” Creech asked incredulously.

Rudisell shook his head.

“I ain’t gonna gill it, I’m going to stab this hay hook in so deep it’ll have to drag me back into that pool as well to get away.”

The reel handle turned quicker now, and soon the sturgeon came out of the depths, emerging like a submarine. Campbell moved farther down the bank, only three or four yards from the sandbar. Creech got up and stood beside Campbell. The fish came straight toward them, face first as if led on a leash. They could see the head clearly now, the cone-shaped snout, barbels hanging beneath the snout like whiskers. As it came closer Rudisell creakily kneeled down on the sandbar’s edge. As he swung the hay hook the sturgeon made a last surge toward deeper water. The bright metal raked across the scaly back but did not penetrate.

“Damn,” Rudisell swore.

“You got to beach it,” Creech shouted at Campbell, who began reeling again, not pausing until the immense head was half out of the water, snout touching the sandbar. The sturgeon’s wide mouth opened, revealing an array of rusting hooks and lures that hung from the lips like medals.

“Gaff it now,” Creech shouted.

“Hurry,” Campbell huffed, the rod in his hands doubled like a bow. “I’m herniating myself.”

But Rudisell appeared not to hear them. He stared intently at the fish, the hay hook held overhead as if it were a torch allowing him to see the sturgeon more clearly. Rudisell’s blue eyes brightened for a moment, and an enigmatic smile creased his face. The hay hook’s sharpened point flashed, aimed not at the fish but the monofilament. A loud twang like a broken guitar string sounded across the water. The rod whipped back and Campbell stumbled backwards but Creech caught him before he fell. The sturgeon was motionless for a few moments, then slowly curved back toward the pool’s heart. As it disappeared, Rudisell remained kneeling on the sandbar, his eyes gazing into the pool. Campbell and Creech staggered over to the bank and sat down.

“They’ll never believe us,” Creech said, “not in a million years, especially that smart-ass game warden.”

“We had it good as caught,” Campbell muttered. “We had it caught.”

None of them spoke further for a long while, each exhausted by the battle. But their silence had more to do with each man’s self-reflection on what he had just witnessed than weariness. A yellow mayfly rose like a watery spark in the tailrace, hung in the air a few moments before it fell and was swept away by the current. As time passed crickets announced their presence on the bank, and downriver a whippoorwill called. More mayflies rose in the tailrace. The air became chilly as the sheltering trees closed more tightly around them, absorbed the waning sun’s light, a preamble to another overdue darkness.

“It’s OK,” Campbell finally said.

Creech looked at Rudisell, who was still on the sandbar.

“You done the right thing. I didn’t see that at first, but I see it now.”

Rudisell finally stood up, wiped the wet sand from the knees of his pants. As he stepped into the shallows he saw something in the water. He picked it up and put it in his pocket.

“Find you a fleck of gold?” Campbell asked.

“Better than gold,” Rudisell replied and joined his comrades on the bank.

They could hardly see their own feet as they walked up the path to the bridge. As they emerged they found the green fish and wildlife truck parked at the trail end. The passenger window was down and Meekins’ smug face looked out at them.

“So you old boys haven’t drowned after all. Folks saw the empty chairs and figured you’d fallen in.”

Meekins nodded at the fishing equipment in Campbell’s hands and smiled.

“Have any luck catching your monster?”

“Caught it and let it go,” Campbell said.

“That’s mighty convenient,” Meekins said. “I don’t suppose anyone else actually saw this giant fish, or that you have a photograph.”

“No,” Creech said serenely. “But it’s way bigger than you are.”

Meekins shook his head. He no longer smiled. “Must be nice to have nothing better to do than make up stories, but this is getting old real quick.”

Rudisell stepped up to the truck’s window, only inches away from Meekins’ face when he raised his hand. A single diamond-shaped object was wedged between Rudisell’s gnarled index finger and thumb. Though tinted brown, it appeared to be translucent. He held it eye-level in front of Meekins’ face as if it were a silty monocle they both might peer through.

“Acipenser fulvescens,”
Rudisell said, the Latin uttered slowly as if an incantation. He put the scute back in his pocket, and without further acknowledgement of Meekins stepped around the truck and onto the hardtop. Campbell followed with the fishing equipment and Creech came last with the book. It was a slow, dignified procession. They walked westward toward the store, the late-afternoon sun burnishing their cracked and wasted faces. Coming out of the shadows, they blinked their eyes as if dazzled, much in the manner of old-world saints who have witnessed the brilliance of the one true vision.

S
he don’t understand what it’s like for me when she walks out the door on Monday and Wednesday nights. She don’t know how I sit in the dark watching the TV but all the while I’m listening for her car. Or understand I’m not ever certain till I hear the Chevy coming up the drive that she’s coming home. How each time a little less of her comes back, because after she checks on Janie she spreads the books open on the kitchen table, and she may as well still be at that college for her mind is so far inside what she’s studying. I rub the back of her neck. I say maybe we could go to bed a little early tonight. I tell her there’s lots better things to do than study some old book. She knows my meaning.

“I’ve got to finish this chapter,” Lynn says, “maybe after that.”

But that “maybe” doesn’t happen. I go to bed alone. Pouring concrete is a young man’s job and I ain’t so young anymore. I need what sleep I can get to keep up.

“You’re getting long in the tooth, Bobby,” a young buck told me one afternoon I huffed and puffed to keep up. “You best get you one of them sit-down jobs, maybe test rocking chairs.”

They all got a good laugh out of that. Mr. Winchester, the boss man, laughed right along with them.

“Ole Bobby’s still got some life in him yet, ain’t you,” Mr. Winchester said.

He smiled when he said it, but there was some serious in his words.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I ain’t even got my second wind yet.”