Dead Bait 4

by Weston Ochse

  Luckily, he didn't have his usual trout rig, but the heavy-duty rig he’d been given last Christmas and it wasn't called the Ugly Stick for nothing. The line was twenty-pound test and could handle upwards of a hundred pounds if used skillfully. The tip of the rod continued to dance and jump as he could feel a long hulk, struggling far below to get free.

  Then suddenly the line went slack. Trey stopped reeling and cried out, tears filling his eyes, just as they had filled Greg’s before. Then with an insight drawn from experience he realized the fish could be attempting to surface. Wiping his eyes, he redoubled his fight, reeling the line in furious and quick. He couldn't match the speed of the fish, however, and when the beast surfaced, Greg screamed.

  Its gaping maw, at least two feet across, snapped at the air on the left side of the boat as it rose out of the water. The head of the great fish slammed into the water with a huge splash, soaking the boys and the boat as it disappeared silently back into the murk.

  Then something rammed them from beneath sending Greg flying into the water and Trey flailing to the bottom of the canoe. A tail smacked the lake surface several times on the right side of the canoe.

  Then chaos returned to order as the fish disappeared and the urgency of the moment subsided.

  Greg, treading water, began to alternately scream and gurgle as he panicked, trying to kick the fish and swim back to the boat, simultaneously.

  "Trey. Trey. Gggg-help me!"

  Trey picked himself slowly up from the cramped floor of the canoe, now covered in fish guts and soaked with the bloody mixture from his earlier cutting. The rod forgotten, he grabbed the paddle and held it towards his struggling friend. Within seconds Greg was back in the boat, hyperventilating and crying.

  "Jesus fucking Christ. Did you see the size of that thing?"

  “Did I see it? It almost ate me!" screamed back Greg.

  Trey was about to tell him how stupid that was, then stopped. It had been the biggest fish he’d ever seen. Too many times he’d swum in the deep water, the Jaws soundtrack playing in his mind. Even though no one had ever heard of a person being eaten in a freshwater lake by a shark or a fish, and even though no one had ever been chewed up by a catfish, he couldn't help but wonder.

  Trey glanced around and saw that his rod was gone. It was surely on the bottom of the lake being drug around by his own Moby Dick. He maneuvered Greg into the seat and noticed the young boy was beginning to shiver uncontrollably. Trey jerked off his shirt and replaced Greg’s with his dry one. He ordered his friend to remove his shoes and massaged his feet to get them warm. Then he worked at the boy's arms and shoulders until he could see the blood return.

  All the while, the both of them were crying, their chance at greatness, twice removed.

  "I wanna go home," said Greg, trying hard to stop crying. "I don't want to fish anymore."

  "Okay. Okay," said Trey, wanting to stay and try again. The lure of all fishermen who had just lost the big one was upon him, but he had lost his rod. There was only Greg's and there was an unwritten rule never to fish with anyone else's pole. His grandfather had said that if you caught something on someone else's rig, it wouldn't really be your own. The great fish, if it could be re-caught, would belong to Greg and that just wouldn’t do.

  Trey gazed at the sky. A storm was moving in. Hard gray clouds pushed aside the lighter gray. They probably had only fifteen minutes before it hit -- just long enough for Greg to dry off before he became soaked again. It would take twice that to make it back across the inlet to the community dock. Trey eyed the immense TNT dock and thought about taking shelter beneath it for a time. He had no idea how long the storm would last however, and Greg really needed to get home and into dry clothes.

  "Shit," said Trey, accepting his fate.

  It was then that he saw his fishing pole about five feet under the water and wrapped around one of the pilings. The Ugly Stick had snapped in two and the line appeared to be all that was holding it in place.

  "Look! There's my pole," he said pointing into the water.

  Greg turned slowly to where Trey pointed, then sat straight when he saw the unmistakable lines of the rod. "Maybe you can save the reel."

  "Sure," said Trey. Perhaps he’d found a small happiness in the tragedy. He’d thought it lost forever. No telling what his father would say or do to him when he discovered that it was missing. As he drew closer, he noticed the tip. It thrashed once, twice, then a series of hard jerks, creating bubbles that rose to the surface. "Holy Freaking Cow. Look at that! The fish. It's still on. The fish is still on the line!"

  Instead of being thrilled, Greg got a worried look on his face. "Don't go in there. Don't go into the water." Greg shook his head hard and stared into the bottom of the boat. "It just too big. Too damn big."

  Trey watched his friend for a second and then glanced back at the fishing pole. He let his eyes drift along the piling and for the first time, noticed there were bars jutting out from the sides. Like those on telephone poles, they’d been previously camouflaged by bits of seaweed and moss and fishing line.

  It was indeed a huge fish, but Jaws could never happen here. All Trey had to do was climb down, cut the line and then get his reel back. His dad was going to wonder where it was anyway, considering it was a Christmas present and Trey's favorite gift. If they went to the mountains next week, he would never be able to explain it away.

  "Naw. It's okay. The fish is gone. I know that. I'm just going to get the pole and the reel. My father would kill me if I lost the whole rig. Anyway, if he finds out it's missing, my parents will find out what we're doing today. And my parents will tell your parents and then we'll be grounded from the lake all summer."

  At the threat of grounding, Greg brought his head up sharply. The lake was their life. Trey watched as the emotions sifted through intelligence, expressions dancing on his friend's face.

  Finally, Greg sighed and nodded his head slowly. "Okay, but hurry up," he said. "And be careful."

  Hurry up and be careful, thought Trey. Those were two things that shouldn't go together. He wasn't going to hurry, but he would certainly be careful.

  Trey paddled the canoe back up to the piling, the shadow of the dock placing them in darkness. The smell of decay was strongest here. He noticed the eddies of black oil and multicolored gasoline-slick mixed with trash and the brown bubbles of pollution. If the lake was Heaven, this was Hell. Trey leaned past Greg and used the short length of rope attached to the front of the boat to tie it firmly into place. He removed his tennis shoes and placed them on the seat. He stood and stared at the nasty water, not wanting to enter, but needing to get the reel.

  "Alright. Watch me, man. Everything is gonna be okay. I'm just going to get the rod and I'll be right back." Trey put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "Stay cool."

  With that, ed a foot on the metal edge of the canoe and pushed off. The water embraced him as he, feet first, sliced deeply from warm to cool water. He pushed himself back to the surface and side-armed his way over to the piling. Counting to three by thousands, hyperventilating until his lungs were full, he descended pulling himself down using the slippery spikes. The rod was deeper than he’d originally thought, probably fifteen feet.

  Through the murky water, he saw the rod and the line wrapped around the piling six or seven times. It was the heaviness of the line that had saved his reel. The tugging had stopped, but he doubted the fish was entirely gone. Maybe he still had a chance to catch it. He really didn't need to cut the line. He could deceive the fish. After all, he was human and he had the superior brain. Trey depressed the reel and let out about five feet of slack. Careful not to tug on the line still attached to the fish, he began to unwind the rod from the piling. He was almost finished when he paused and returned to the surface.

  "What the hell are you doing, Trey? I thought you were gonna cut the line."

  Trey breathed heavily across the water and grinned. "I got everything under control. When I come back up, I'm gonna hand you the rod. Hold o
nto it tight until I get back into the boat."

  "Don't do it, Trey," begged Greg, his eyes beginning to tear up again. "It's too big. It's gonna eat you. I’m telling you, the fish is too big."

  Trey laughed. "It's not gonna eat me, Greg. Don't get your panties in a wad. I got everything under control." He reached up and punched his friend in the arm. "Hey! Trust me."

  By the look in the smaller boy's eyes, Tret could tell trust was being smothered by fear. Trey cocked his head, winked hard, then, after another count of three, descended back down along the piling.

  In no time, he managed to free the rod and line from the piling. He was about to ascend to the surface when he was jerked impossibly hard. Trey surged through the water plunging deeper and deeper. He’d gone fifty feet by the time he thought to let go of the rod. Even after he released it, the incredible momentum continued as he was propelled towards the bottom.

  The pressure on his head was becoming incredible. He felt like a knife was being thrust into the center of his brain. Thankfully, some tinge of sanity within his mind kept him from screaming and releasing the precious air he needed to survive.

  Finally, his descent slowed. The bottom was somewhere near, hidden by shadows below. Trey glanced upwards and like a lighter darkness, glimpsed the faraway surface. Or what he thought was the surface. He was too deep. Deeper than he had ever been before.

  Trying hard not to panic, he began to ascend as slowly as possible because of the immense pressure being exerted upon his body. He achieved only a few feet before he felt his ascent halt. Something gripped each ankle painfully.

  Trey stared down and watched in horror as weeds wrapped around his ankle. In the almost darkness, he watched as two more moved for him like tentacles from some multi-limbed beast, encircling his wrists and pulling his arms out hard. Many more waved below, as if beckoning him deeper. The decaying corpses of a hundred fish stared back at him, as did the skulls of animals, picked clean and gleaming.

  Trey thrashed, attempting to free himself from the living weed, realizing he was quickly running out of air. As his air depleted, instead of his vision dimming, he saw the water brightening. Although he was very deep, he could now see through the water like it was near the surface and clear.

  A presence came into his vision, rising gradually from the depths beneath him. The only movements were the minute openings and closings of the mouth and the almost intelligent waving of its long whiskers. When the catfish was even with Trey’s head and staring straight into his eyes, it opened its mouth wide revealing rows of bony teeth and pulsating gills.

  Trey slammed his eyes shut. He jerked at his bonds. He refused to see what was about to eat him and felt the warmth of urine seep from his cold shriveled penis. When the first of the whiskers brushed against his face, he screamed, releasing all of his air, condemning him to death.

  He finally even lost enough strength to scream and his body reflexively went to suck in the brackish water of the lake, filling his lungs with what he could never breath. But it didn't happen that way. Trey felt a warmth along his face and neck. It flowed into his chest. A calmness filled him, stilling his panic and his need to breathe. Slowly, Trey opened his eyes to stare into the bottomless eyes of the catfish's. His fear had left him and he watched as the whiskers, dozens of them, caressed his skin. The mouth opened and closed and he couldn't help but admire the synchronization of the gills.

  Trey hung in the water, held fast by the weeds, staring into the huge maw of a fish that he had wanted to catch. The need to breathe had departed him and he wondered if he had drowned. He wondered if he was dead.

  Perhaps.

  The voice was in his head and filled him with the fullness of love. It was the same feeling as when Shelby had told him she loved him for the first time. Every part of his body had been consumed by the heavy electric feeling of happiness. If this was death, he wanted more of it.

  Love is a wonderful thing. It is life.

  Yes it is, he felt himself thinking. It transcends death. Makes life good living, as his grandfather had said.

  He realized, without panic and as if it was utterly sane, that the fish was speaking to him.

  Am I dead? he asked.

  Perhaps, came the same reply.

  How am I breathing?

  You are not.

  Then I am dead. Although he said it, the thought held no terror for him.

  Perhaps.

  Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep saying perhaps?

  The choice is yours.

  The answer confused Trey. Maybe the fish was mad for his attempts to catch him. Even with the love pervading his body, he laughed at the insanity of the concept. How could a fish be mad? How could it have feelings? Still--

  Are you angry?

  No. It is the way of the world.

  To hunt you, to kill you? That doesn't make you mad.

  It is the way.

  Then what is the choice you speak of?

  Would you die for me?

  For you?

  Trey was sure he didn't understand the question. Die for a fish? For a catfish? Why should he give his life up for a -- but then it wasn't just a fish, was it? Could a fish do this? Trey remembered what Greg had said about the Catfish Gods. It was stupid, but he was alive, not breathing. Only a God could make that happen. He didn't know what to say. Trey thought of Billy Picket. Had he been asked the question? Had he answered wrong?

  I don't understand.

  Would you die for me?

  Trey stared hard at the fish hovering in the water before him, caressing tender whiskers along his cheeks. It was easily a hundred pounds. Maybe double that. Its eyes were bottomless black pools that held a strange warmth. He could not deny the majesty of the beast. It was magnificent. It would be perfect above the mantle of any fireplace, eclipsing the largest swordfish. It would make a bass of any size appear to be a pathetic wannabe minnow.

  Trey knew his answer was important, but he knew, as well, that the fish understood his every thought.

  Why should I die for you? I don't understand. He stole himself for death, but pleaded desperately for an answer.

  Because I would die for you.

  The answer surprised him. A fish like this, powerful, magical -- a Catfish God -- would die for him? Truly, he was nothing special. Sure, Trey felt himself important, but in the greater universe, he was nothing. What would make this catfish die for him? He knew his mother would die for him. He knew his father would as well. And his grandfather, the old man wouldn't hesitate. Till this day, as he was kneeling before the casket, Trey had never told anyone that he had begged God to take him instead --to let his grandfather live again. If he died now -- if he was to perish down in the depths of Chickamauga Reservoir -- maybe then he could see his grandfather again. Maybe he could make him some more martinis as the old man lorded over the world. Maybe he would see him smile.

  Trey stared deep into the eyes of the fish, alien, but also curiously human, searching for the answer. There, among the blackness, he saw the same look that Shelby, his mother, his father, his grandfather, even Greg, on occasion, had given him.

  Instead of drowning, instead of feeling the quick burning warmth of a lungful of watery death, he felt the warmth of love. Unconditional and pure, it was there for him, just for being alive. Would grandfather want him to die for him? He pictured the old man's tall John Wayne features and knew the answer.

  Yes. I would die for you.

  Then you understand. Go in peace and live long.

  The firm grip of the weeds suddenly released him and Trey felt himself floating towards the surface. He watched the imperious figure of the Catfish God until it had become one with the shadowy depths. It wasn't until his head bobbed to the surface that his body contracted and jackknifed. He automatically relented and allowed his body to breathe in the sweetness of the putrid, yet life-giving air of the dock.

  "Trey. Trey. Trey," came the jubilant shouts.

  Glancing up, he saw Greg, cheeks p
uffy and hair matted as if the storm had come and gone. His eyes were as red as his hair and his voice held the hoarseness of a widow.

  "Trey. I thought you were dead," said the boy, tears renewing their slalom through his freckles. "It's been hours."

  "Hours?" asked Trey absently as he levered himself into the boat. He examined the sky and saw that the sun was setting.

  "I couldn't leave. I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to have to tell people. I didn’t want to--"

  Trey stared at his friend openly with a fondness that hadn't been there before. Greg noticed it and his eyes widened. Then his face went serious and he wiped his cheeks.

  "I thought you were dead. How?"

  Trey shook his head. "I have no idea, man. All I know right now is that I love you for waiting."

  "Yech," Greg said, poking his tongue between his lips but still smiling. "You gay or something?"

  Trey looked off toward the community dock and began to paddle. "Naw, just happy to be here."

  His grandpa used to say that.

  “What are you going to tell your parents about your fishing pole?” Greg asked.

  “I’ll think of something.” Maybe give them a fish story. Maybe tell them about a God. Or maybe even, he’d just let them know how much he loved them, and how sorry he was for not being where he was supposed to have been. Whatever he said, it was all going to be all right.