by Craig Lesley
Glimpsing my own reflection in motel mirrors, I sometimes recognize Kalim's expression, and I know that day I must remain especially vigilant. Now or soon, something rushes toward me. Keep alert, Kalim warns me. Stay on guard.
But when I dwell on those nightmare snags bumping along the dark current, I hear Jake say, "Don't go thinking negatory thoughts, nephew." And I realize I'm focusing only on the loss of that year. The time was magical, too.
When I'm on the road and chance into an old-fashioned sporting goods store, perhaps I smell coffee perking in the back room, catch the intoxicating ferrule cement as the owner rewraps a customer's favorite fly rod. While I ratchet the fly display case round and round, searching for some local, hand-tied special that's guaranteed to fool the lunkers, I listen to the customers bragging and telling improbable tales. None match the yarns of the back-room boys, but each storyteller has his own particular charm. If I feel especially comfortable, I'll reveal that Jake was my uncle, and they'll set aside their work long enough to swap a few stories. Everyone has a Jake tale and most remember him from the guide conventions.
At his funeral, the minister asked how do you say good-bye to a legend, and I suppose the answer is you don't. I can't, anyway, and I expect to be around to tell the story much later, when some of the wide-eyed youngsters from those Labor Day Polaroid shots grow up and ask about that grinning man who crowds the photo and shares his trophy fish.
After a little coaxing, I can usually get the locals to reveal a decent stretch of water off the beaten path where I can walk in and enjoy the quiet. I'll study the river a long time, imagining the people who fish it and realizing this river means as much to them as the Lost does to my family.
As I tie one of the local specials onto my leader, I can picture Jake standing at my shoulder, offering instructions. Downstream, my father and the old man fish the bright water.
I fish through the twilight. Venus appears on the horizon.
I locate the Sky Fisherman.
According to Billyum, old Indian legends claim the stars are campfires at the centers of villages. Around these campfires, the storytellers gather. Their words spark fires, warming the people until the sun rises. One by one, the fires dim and the storytellers slumber until the next night.
After Jake's death, I discovered a new light beside the Sky Fisherman, a blue-white star that shimmers like spring water. I expect he has built a campfire and is swapping yarns with my father and grandfather. Old feuds are forgotten. The smells of fish, biscuits, and whiskey mingle with the old man's pipe smoke. Harold approaches the campfire, toting a Bible in one hand, fly rod in the other. His bow tie remains impeccable and he has a string of glorious fish. Before he can shuck off his hip boots, the teasing begins.
I ache for their companionship. Still, despite the longing, I smile as I remember those friends, both white and Indian, who lined the riverbank and the high basalt cliffs, standing vigil for five days while waiting for Jake's gleaming light to reappear on the Lost.
From his campfire, Jake must have looked down each night, studying those sentries, smelling the good human scents of coffee, baked goods, and wet wool drift skyward. And when they spoke, he caught his name. Already, the storytellers were practicing.
Jake throws another log on the fire. He waits for the back-room boys, Billyum, Juniper, my mother. Even Franklin has a place. The last is mine.
Now I am finished casting. No twilight remains. Quick clouds of breath rise toward the night sky. I disturb the river with my hand. Reflected stars dance.
Thrusting my head back, I gaze at the countless stars. I stare and stare and stare until my balance falls away. Tasting water, I begin swimming toward the firelights.
* * *
KATHERYN STAVRAKIS
Craig Lesley is a lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest. He was born in The Dalles and now lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and two daughters. His academic credits include an M.A. in English from the University of Kansas and an M.F.A. from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. He has spent much of his life exploring the outdoors, including an eight-year stint with the Deschutes River Guide Service in Oregon.
Front jacket illustration and design: Wendell Minor
A Marc Jaffe Book
Houghton Mifflin Company
222 Berkeley Street
Boston, Massachusetts 02116
* * *
