Jason and Elihu. Shelley Fraser Mickle
Every one of them would love to have Elihu stuffed and hanging on their walls. But more than that, fishing companies would pay thousands of dollars just for a photograph of a bass that breaks the world record. Elihu would certainly do that. Look out there. Dooey caught those yesterday.”
Buck nodded toward the live-wells on the back porch of the Tackle Shop. Jason and Grampy Luke went to see what was in the dark, swirling water.
Two big bass, of about twelve pounds each, hunkered down, barely moving in the circulating water. They were wild things trying to hide in shadows, even from each other. When Jason and Grampy Luke leaned over to look down in, the bass bolted for cover, which of course was not there.
With their fins waving to keep them afloat, and their gills opening and closing in a frightened rhythm, they hugged the corners of the live-well.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Grampy Luke said softly.
Jason felt his skin tingle. His eyes watered. The fish were mighty things of wonder. He knew he was standing in the presence of one of the earth’s greatest mysteries; and yet, looking at the captured bass, he felt a deep, horrible sorrow. The fish were too splendid to be held in metal tanks. He was embarrassed for them. They deserved to be free.
“Hey, Buck,” Grampy Luke called into the bait shop. “Are these females?”
“Don’t know.” Buck came out onto the porch with his coffee still steaming. “Most bass don’t have roe this time of year.”
“Roe?” Jason repeated.
“Fish eggs,” Grampy Luke explained.
Buck put his hand on the live-well and looked down in. “Yeah, each year a bass can spawn thousands of babies. Usually they spawn here in February. Florida stays so warm, fish can lay eggs early and feed all year. That’s why bass get so big in Florida.”
Jason dangled his fingers in the water. The live-well was also where Bill kept the bait-shop shiners. The shiners were a natural food source for bass. They were bigger than minnows. They darted in the water like shooting stars. At least Dooey Murdock’s bass had plenty to eat.
“How long they been here?” Jason asked.
“Dooey put ’em in there last night.” Buck smiled at Jason. It was clear that Buck was getting a kick out of Jason’s awakening to the love of fishing. “Dooey’ll take ’em to a taxidermy man when he leaves here tonight. When Dooey put ’em in, they looked half dead. But the circulating water has lots of oxygen in it, and they revived in no time.”
“How long can they live in here?”
“Oh, a good long while. But it’s hard on them. It’s not natural. Fact is, fish are fragile. In a way, they’re our mirror. They reflect the health of our world. They tell us a lot about our environment. When fish die, or stop spawning, or stop moving to their spawning grounds, something’s wrong.”
The thought of Elihu ending up with Dooey Murdock made Jason’s heart pound. Sweat broke out across his shoulders. Yet, strangely, part of him was thinking just like Dooey: for what would it be like to have the great fish Elihu hanging on a wall in his own room? How wonderful would it be to wake up each morning to the sight of Elihu? Every night, just before sleep, he could look up to be reminded of what a great fisherman he was. No longer would he be Wiggly Worm or Squirt or P.P. or Ants in His Pants Jason. He would be Elihu’s conqueror. He would be Jason, expert fisherman. He would own Elihu.
Grampy Luke put his hand on Jason’s shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. “We have a lot to learn about bass fishing, Jason. I say, let’s get that Devil’s Horse and try it.”
Jason followed Grampy Luke back into the main room of the Tackle Shop. His feet shuffled in excitement as he watched Bill take the lure down from the beam. While Grampy Luke pulled out his wallet to pay for it, Bill handed the Devil’s Horse to Jason.
Buck’s big hand curved over Jason’s shoulder. “Here let me show you how to put a double loop to tie it on.” Buck whispered close to his ear. “Now, Jason, when you cast the Devil’s Horse, do it just like you are throwing a baseball. And when you’re ready to try it on Elihu, follow the one-eyed eagle to its cove.”
“Eagle?” Jason turned, looking up at Buck.
“Yes. He’s one-eyed like Elihu. His name is Apache. He’s the eagle that roosts over the cove wherever Elihu is. He’s done it for as long as we all can remember. He’ll scream if Old Snout comes at you. Last year, a boy here at the Lake shot the eagle and blinded its right eye. But that eagle will kindly lead you to Elihu, if you hold up his breakfast to make his hunting easier.”
“What do eagles like. . .” But before Jason could finish asking what an eagle would like for breakfast, Buck whispered more, pointing to the Tackle Shop’s front door. “Better hurry if you want to put your name with those who have hooked Elihu. ’Cause here comes Dooey.”
The screen door whined shut with a slap. Dooey Murdock’s fishing vest and plaid shirt strained at their buttons. He looked like a well-fed bull as he walked across the wood floor in rubber boots and a blood-red ball cap. At the cash register, he ordered Bill, “Give me a box of peanut butter crackers. And two Cokes and a Devil’s Horse.”
He then looked up and said, “Hey, what happened to the one you had up there?”
“Sorry, Dooey. I just sold it, but we got another one over yonder. It’s still in its wrapper.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Come on, Jason,” Grampy Luke picked up their cooler. “Let’s launch the jon boat.”
While Grampy Luke went out to move the boat to the dock, Jason stood beside the launch, carefully holding his Devil’s Horse. He watched Dooey Murdock untie his bass boat and step in behind the wheel. The motor started like a lion’s roar, and the big red-and-white boat sent ripples against the pilings in a lapping sound.
Dooey motored out of the creek, leaving a wake as wide as a basketball court.
Leaning to look down the creek, Jason watched Dooey’s boat become a pinpoint in the distance on the surface of Orange Lake. The setting sun threw red and peach streaks onto the water.
The creek was like a single-lane road leading into the great Orange Lake. The bridge ran over it, and fish-camp cabins dotted the banks.
Water was almost to the level of the dock, and Jason crouched down to trail his hands in it. He took a long, deep breath, pulling in the smell of lake grass and cypress roots and dark water. The years-old lake bed was as ripe with smells as an old forest. The water, the musk of the mud bank, the huge cypress trunks, the bird sounds and frogs—all of it now—felt as necessary to him as air. Everywhere there was life: birds, bugs, frogs, turtles, snakes, fish–moving, making sounds, or calling out, Here, here, is anyone else here?
He stood up. The water lapped against the dock pilings. As if to tease him, a frog jumped on the dock and hopped onto his shoe. Laughing, he picked it up. “Look at you, frog. Funny frog. That’s what you are. A funny old frog.” He let its little curved legs dance on his palm, tickling. “Lookit!” he almost said.
But there was no one to hear. There was no one to show the little frog to. Maybe Sunday he’d tell his father. When he got in the boat, he could at least tell Grampy Luke.
He opened his palm. The frog hopped off and dived under water with its legs scrambling. Jason reached down and made a squirt fountain with his fist as Grampy Luke had taught him. He squeezed his fist until the water shot out like a little fountain.
Suddenly, the tall weeds on the bank rustled. The boy with the cane pole stepped onto the dock. His smile was more a sneer than a smile. In one hand he held his cane pole. In the other, his fingers were wrapped around an air rifle with a short barrel.
Right away, Jason knew–just as if he were adding two numbers together–this was the boy who shot Apache and blinded the eagle’s eye.
“Did you come stupid?”