A Strange Little Band

by Judith B. Glad

  She could see why the Henrys Fork was considered one of the most beautiful rivers in America--according to her family, anyhow. I've always taken it for granted, but it's really beautiful. How could I have not appreciated it?

  There was something almost hypnotic about gentle hint of current, the sparkling circles where fish poked their noses through the mirror-like surface. Peaceful. Tranquil. She was drawn closer by a hunger she hadn't know was there, closer to the bank, until she could look into the pure, transparent water, could watch an enormous silvery fish swim leisurely upstream.

  It was shallow here, where it flowed through the state park in wide sinuous curves, broken by rocky islets. Shallow enough that fishermen could wade in their pursuit of the legendary trout that made their home here. Shallow enough that glittering stones could be seen on the bottom, through water incredibly clear and clean.

  For several minutes she stood there, on the grassy bank, watching the water flow past, her mind almost blank. There was still a residual fear, buried deep in her mind, of flowing water, but if she fell in, she'd be able to swim. Wouldn't she?

  Or had she forgotten how? The last time she'd had on a bathing suit was in Cozumel. And then all she'd done was wade along the water's edge. She really didn't like to swim, wasn't comfortable in water deeper than a bathtub, wider than a hot tub.

  Calvin didn't know how to swim. I could have taught him, but I didn't. I let my old fear of water overrule my better sense.

  My fault.

  Abruptly she turned away from the river and strode across the rocky ground toward the trail.

  Hoarse calls broke the silence as she followed a dimly seen path beside the river. They seemed to come from Silver Lake, where a number of trumpeter swans made their homes Remembering how excited she'd been in earlier years to see the big white birds in their slow, majestic flight, she hoped to spy one. All she saw were a few swallows swooping silently over the water, hunting early rising insects.

  She was so busy watching the swallows that she missed the rock in her path. It rolled when she stepped on it and she went sprawling. She tripped and fell, skinning the heel of one hand when she caught herself on a rough basalt outcrop. "Oww!" She pressed the abrasion to her mouth, sucking at it to relieve the stinging pain.

  There was a patch of short, dry grass in the small depression where she had landed, inviting her to sit. Looking behind her, Annie could see the river and the lodgepole pines on the opposite shore. With any luck, here she would find the privacy she sought. She wriggled about, finally finding a comfortable position, with her back supported by a knob of basalt. Before her was a full view of the river, reflecting the colors of sunrise, the pastures through which it meandered, and the forest beyond it. She let the sounds of the awakening world envelop her, finding temporary peace in nature's music.

  Annie woke with the sun shining directly in her face and trickles of perspiration making their way between her breasts. Her watch told her it was just after ten. The day was already too warm for a down parka. Her muscles told her it was time to stretch, to move from her cramped position. She slid out of the parka, tossing it aside, and extended her legs in front of her, her arms high over her head. She felt almost glad to be alive! Better than she had for a long time.

  For a year. A year, today.

  A gentle breeze stirred her hair, cooling her scalp and caressing her face. The scents of pine, of sagebrush, of crushed grass invaded her nostrils. Sharp, rough basalt prodded at her back, almost painful. The river murmured softly and birds twittered and chirped. She could almost believe that the world was fair, that life was good.

  Almost.

  "No!" I've no right to feel this good. My baby is dead. If I'd only watched him more closely. If only...

  She sought deep within herself, seeking the pain, the bereavement and guilt that had consumed her for so long. She found them, but they were faint; they did not take possession as they had done--should do. She pulled her legs against her chest and rested her head on her knees. Perhaps, if she concentrated hard enough, she could bring them back.

  Oh, yeah, that makes sense. You know you should be recovering, not wallowing. Isn't that what Gran says? What everyone says, even Mom? Be honest, Anne Cecile Ogilvie. You've come to enjoy feeling sorry for yourself.

  Well, maybe not enjoy. Maybe it's just easier to hold on to the self pity and the grief so you won't have to start living again.

  Why should I want to live again? My baby is dead. His father has gone on to a new life. My own mother thinks I'm crazy.

  Besides, living hurts. It hurts so much.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a distant splashing. She stood and looked toward the river. Just downstream of her hiding place, a man was standing waist deep in the water. He held a long, whiplike fishing pole and wore chest waders. The bright red of his billed cap and plaid shirt contrasted with dark green chest waders and the tan, many-pocketed vest he wore. As he turned slightly away from her, Annie saw a net dangling down his back, its handle attached somehow to his collar.

  A fly fisherman.

  Even as she watched, the tip of the pole jerked. He had a bite. Occasionally, as a child, Annie had watched her father fish for steelhead and salmon in the streams of Oregon's Coast Range and Cascade Mountains, but she had never seen him move with the grace and sureness that this fisherman did as he played the fish until he could net it.

  She must have seen fishermen on the river before, for she'd come to the Floating Nought often in her childhood. Considering that the Henry's Fork was world famous, she imagined it would be more unusual to not see someone fishing on any given day during the season.

  Still, she watched, fascinated.

  * * * *

  Clay lifted the net free of the water and looked with admiration at the struggling trout. His first catch of the day and a real trophy winner. It was a good twelve pounds, if it was an ounce. The rainbows on its sides glittered in the morning light and its mouth worked as it fought to breathe.

  "Oh, you beauty," he said softly as he lowered it again into the water. He tucked the rod into his waders and grasped the weakly struggling fish by the gills. Carefully he worked the barbless hook free from its jaw.

  The fish grew quiet. He moved his hands to grasp its sleek, scaly sides, to hold it, lightly but firmly, in the water. His right hand stroked along the scales until it gave a convulsive jerk and tried to pull away. He continued to hold, waiting until he was sure that the trout was uninjured, then he released it. With a flip of its tail, it swam away from him.

  "Why'd you do that?"

  Clay looked around. Not ten yards away, crouched on her knees on the high basalt bank, was the woman from the green Neon.

  "Why did I do what?"

  "Turn him loose. After all the work you did to catch him, why did you?"

  "Why would I want to keep him?" Clay asked. Then he chuckled. "Oh, you thought I should take him home for dinner, didn't you?"

  "Well, isn't that why people fish?" Annie rose to her feet "Why go to all that work if you're just going to let the fish swim away? It's dumb!"

  "It's obvious that you've never fished."

  "I have too! And I hated it. I don't like to kill things!" Her voice was strained, thin, just as it had been yesterday. She was under some terrible stress, Clay was sure. What was it?

  Damn it, why should I care?

  Calling himself ten kinds of fool for a pretty face, he attached the still dangling hook to the reel and made his slow way to shore. A short distance from where she stood, where the bank was lower, he climbed out.

  He stripped off his vest and waders, wondering what she thought of his getup. At least he'd put on a pair of nylon jogging shorts over his longjohns. He didn't usually. He pulled off gray wool socks and slid his bare feet into rubber thongs he took from a large pocket at the back of his fishing vest. The cool morning air made him shiver. "Let's have some coffee, while I instruct you in the old and honorable art of fly fishing."

  "Coffee? You
have coffee?"

  "I do indeed. Let's see if we can find a sunny place to sit."

  "Follow me. There's a patch of grass that's softer than this rock." She led him through the open woods, to a sunlit, grassy depression. "It's dry. I was sitting here until I heard you."

  Clay sat tailor fashion, facing her. The patch of grass was so small that their knees almost touched. The loose sweatshirt she wore was far too big for her, making her fragility all the more obvious. In the clear morning light, the violet patches under her eyes emphasized the lily-paleness of her skin, unlined except for faint smile brackets around her mouth. She wasn't a kid, but she was far younger than his first impression. He pulled the slim stainless Thermos from the back-pocket on his vest. "No cup, I'm afraid. But I guarantee that I'm not carrying any fatal germs." He offered her the bottle. When she'd sipped and had handed it back, he found himself turning it so he could drink from the same place she had. You've been keeping your nose too sharp, Knight.

  They traded the bottle back and forth until it was empty. She went up in his estimation when she said nothing as she sipped, only made a little humming noise after each taste of the rich Sumatran blend. "Okay, tell me about fly fishing," she said, shaking her head when he offered her the last sip.

  He swallowed, took a moment to enjoy the aftertaste. "Fly fishing is a way of life. A fly fisherman would rather fish than eat, or sleep, or work."

  "Particularly work, I'll bet."

  "Well, yes," he said, chuckling. "But there are a lot of things people would rather do than work. Fly fishing isn't really something to do instead of anything. It's a way of life." He paused, trying to put his passion into words. For some reason, making her understand was important.

  "We live to fish, not fish to live, like most other fishermen. Our object is not to fry the fish, but to outwit it. If catching fish to eat was all I cared about, I could do that without driving across two states. I come here because the Henrys Fork is one of the finest fly fishing streams in the country, because it has the smartest trout."

  "Smart? Trout aren't smart."

  "Want to bet? Why I've seen--" He broke off. "Never mind. Let's say that the challenge of fishing here on the Henry's Fork is worth the trip. It's not an easy stream to fish."

  "That's all you came here for. Just to fish?" She was leaning forward now, her face more animated than he'd yet seen it.

  "Well, not the only thing, but it was my primary reason."

  "Where are you from?" she asked, before he could decide whether to tell her his primary reason.

  "Beaverton. That's near Portland."

  "I know; I lived...grew up in Portland." She paused, chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "My dad fishes, but he didn't even bring his fishing gear over here."

  "He probably fishes for steelhead, then." At her nod, Clay grinned. "Steelhead fishermen are a breed apart, just like fly fishermen are. Not all do both." He held out an energy bar in a silent question.

  Another shake of her head, the sun making bright glints of gold in her dark hair. "You were going to tell me about fly fishing."

  "Right. Well, for one thing, a lot of fly fishermen don't often keep what they catch. Take here for instance--it's strictly catch-and-release along this reach of the river. If I had kept that fish, I would have been breaking the law. But I wouldn't have, anyway. He was too big, too good a fighter for me to want to kill him. Instead, I put him back to grow bigger. Maybe give another fisherman some sport someday."

  He stretched his legs out across the depression, leaned back against a rock. When his foot brushed her leg, she shrank away from contact with him. Although he pretended not to notice, Clay admitted that her actions puzzled him. One minute she seemed young, alert and interested, and the next she was the lethargic, depressed woman he'd seen yesterday. He wondered why he was wasting his time. The fish were waiting for him.

  "I guess the main reason I fish is that it's good for the soul. There's something inherently soothing about standing in the stream, hearing only the soft sounds of the water and an occasional birdcall. It wipes away all the stresses and strains of living in a world that's moving too fast." Leaning back and staring into the cloudless sky, he said, "When I come out of the river at the end of a day's fishing, my soul feels cleansed and at peace with itself. Any problems I had when I started are in perspective and I'm mentally invigorated--ready to face the world again on my terms." He fell silent.

  Annie, too, sat without speaking. Her mind worked, though. She had listened closely to what he had said--to the unspoken feelings behind his words. And she had watched his face. Such a strong, comforting face, masculine, attractive, yet full of compassion and gentleness. In spite of herself, Annie found her gaze traveling down the thick column of his neck, measuring the unusually broad shoulders, admiring the stocky legs. She found herself wondering what it would feel like to be held, closely, protectively in his arms.

  Yeah, right. That's all you need right now. Romantic complications. Besides, he couldn't be less interested. All he seems to care about is fishing. She forced her thoughts back to what he'd told her. "A soul at peace," she said, quietly. "I would like that." She didn't believe it could happen, but she would like to find inner peace.

  Clay looked at her from under lowered lids, seeing sorrow written in her eyes and pulling her mouth down at the corners. Was that the cause of her contradictory behavior, of her appearance of ill health? She wasn't the middle-aged woman he'd first thought, and she certainly wasn't naturally gloomy and sad. He'd bet on that, having seen glimpses of something youthful and bright, quickly hidden but unmistakable. He sat up, abruptly.

  "Would you like to learn?"

  "Learn what?"

  "How to fly fish." He half reached out a hand, but at her involuntary retreat, pulled it back. "You'd be surprised at how many of your troubles stay on the bank when you climb into that river."

  "What if I can't leave my troubles behind me?" she countered.

  "Everyone can, once in a while. You just have to find something that keeps your mind occupied--or peacefully blank."

  Her expression changed into one of terrible yearning. "I can't just walk away and forget everything I've done." Hopelessness was plain in her voice and on her face. "I know I can't. I've tried!" She shook her head. Flyaway strands of gleaming hair again caught the sunlight, glinting bronze and fiery orange on rich brown.

  "I think you can. You know, once, in a fly shop, I saw a placard. It said something like 'God does not subtract from man's allotted time the hours spent in fishing.' It's like that, you know. When you're out on the river, it's as if you're outside of time. All the burdens, worries, anger, and sorrow that you usually carry around with you are gone. It's just you, the water, and the fish."

  "The water..." she half-whispered. "It was water that took..."

  A shout interrupted her. She rose to her knees and looked beyond him. Waved. "Look, I've got to go. They're probably worried about me. I snuck out before dawn."

  "I'll be here tomorrow. Same time, same place." He watched her stride away, picking her way carefully across the uneven ground. Fragile and unhealthy she might be, but she'd once been in pretty good shape. She moved like an athlete--an out-of-shape athlete.

  * * * *

  Her dad was waiting for her on the path, halfway between the river and the fence along the highway. "You had us all wondering where the devil you'd got to."

  "I came out here to...to watch the sunrise and fell asleep." And to get away from the family's overwhelming cheerfulness. "I really didn't think anyone would worry about me."

  "Your mom did. Next time, tell someone where you are, okay?" He took her hand. "Look, kiddo, I know you're a big girl and can take care of yourself, but you ought to remember how Thea worries about you."

  "I just needed to be alone for a while. I'm not used to so much noise and confusion." She tried to pull her hand loose. Even Dad, who'd always seemed to understand her better than anyone, was acting as if she were not to be trusted to take
care of herself. "I didn't know that I had to check in with the whole family before I went for a walk!"

  "It's always been the rule in this family," he said in a mild voice, "that children have to tell their parents where they're going."

  "I am not a child!" She jerked free of his clasp and ran ahead, over the style, across the highway, and up the gently sloping path, not stopping until she was out of breath. Panting, she kept going, as fast as she could, earning cramps in her calves and incipient shin splints. By the time she reached the cookshack, she was regretting her childish reaction to her father's mild reproof. Even so, she resented the way everyone assumed she wasn't capable of taking care of herself. I'm twenty-six years old, for Pete's sake. Surely they can give me credit for a little self-sufficiency.

  From somewhere in her mind, she heard her grandmother's voice. Self indulgence, that's what it is.

  Chapter Five

  Still smarting from her father's reproof, Annie burst through the cookshack door and slammed it shut behind her. She stood just inside the dining room and caught her breath. The breakfast mess had been cleared away, but her mother, Gran, Hetty, and Aunt Joss were sitting with coffee at the table closest to the kitchen.

  "Darling, where have you been?" her mother asked.

  "We would have appreciated your telling someone where you were going," her grandmother said, in a neutral tone.

  Aunt Joss's face was set in its usual expression of mild disapproval.

  Hetty merely said, "The coffee's hot." Her expression was as carefully neutral as Gran's.

  Too full of resentment to respond to any of them, Annie went to the kitchen and got herself a cup. She stood beside the large coffee maker with it in her hand, staring out through the window. Four of her nephews were flying a Frisbee on the broad stretch of lawn which sloped down to the road. Joey's short, bare legs flashed in the sunlight as he chased, shrieking, after the red disk. The older boys cheered when he caught it, then applauded when he flew it back in Norman's direction.