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?” The boy stared hard at Jason. “Or did you take lessons?” He then disappeared behind a cypress tree.
When Jason looked up, he was glad to see that Grampy Luke was close.
Photo by Richard Sexton
The creek behind the Tackle Shop, where everyone launched their boats, was like a single-lane road leading into Orange Lake.
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