Trout Quintet

by Steve Raymond

  It was over as swiftly as it began. Talk about a one-night stand! This was more like a one-minute stand, maybe even less. All things considered, Sam thought he greatly preferred the way humans did it. That thought brought a sudden feeling of terrible guilt, as if Sam had just cheated on his wife. Of course he hadn’t—not exactly, anyway—and under the circumstances there hadn’t been much choice. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

  The female trout soon made it clear she didn’t want Sam hanging around any longer, which didn’t ease his guilt. But he took the hint, left her to bury the eggs and guard the redd, and started back downstream. Only then did he realize he didn’t even know her name, or if she had one. The whole experience seemed cold, brief, and impersonal.

  Maybe, he thought, there was a reason for that. Neither he nor his nameless mate would ever know any of their offspring; they would both be long gone before the first alevins pushed their way up from the gravel. It was entirely possible Sam could someday end up swimming among his own offspring and they would not know him, nor he them. Perhaps nature had purposely contrived this brief, impersonal means of mating to eliminate any chance for emotional attachment between parents and offspring.

  If so, Sam thought, it was damned effective.

  As he began trying to make his way downstream against the horde still heading in the opposite direction, Sam realized he was completely exhausted. As a human, he’d done his share of hard, physical work, but he couldn’t remember ever having felt so completely drained of stamina and strength. He had the current with him now, but surprisingly discovered this made his descent even more difficult; he had to face upstream most of the time to keep oxygenated water flowing through his gills, and that was a constant struggle in his weakened state. Facing upstream also meant he couldn’t he see where he was going, so he kept bumping into other trout, or they kept bumping into him. Some of the blows were hard and left him shaken and disoriented.

  Despite the ordeal, he took satisfaction in knowing he had served his biological purpose. He had fulfilled his trout body’s mating instinct and now he was back in control, once again in charge of his own destiny.

  Or at least he thought so.

  After a long, difficult descent, he reached the tributary’s mouth and returned to the slightly warmer water of the Amalak. For days and nights, he continued downstream, hoping to reach the familiar waters of his home. He stopped often to rest in sheltered pockets or quiet eddies where he tried vainly to restore his energy. His body felt bruised all over, as if he’d just been in an exceptionally rough football game, and when he looked at himself he was shocked by what he saw. He was impossibly thin, his once-bright skin was dark and wrinkled, and his fins were ragged and torn. He’d never seriously considered that he might be one of the trout that did not survive spawning; now he wondered.

  Weary beyond imagination, his flagging spirits soared when at last he recognized familiar water, and he was overjoyed when the undercut bank that had been his home finally came into view. Wanting nothing more than to return to his sanctuary and rest, he nosed his way cautiously into the gloomy recesses beneath the cut bank.

  An indistinct shape blocked his way. Then it moved, and Sam recognized another trout, one that had moved in during his absence. He remembered how easily he had evicted the original occupant of the cut bank and saw the interloper was about the same size, substantially smaller than he was. But he also saw the other trout was thick, muscular, bright, and in prime shape, while it was all Sam could do just to hold himself upright. Nevertheless, he lunged forward to try to push the smaller trout away, but the interloper easily evaded his rush, then turned and slammed into Sam with stunning force. The impact sent him reeling, out of the safety of his old home and into the main current, which quickly carried him downstream away from his home pool.

  Sam had thought he was back in control; now he realized the river was calling the shots and he was too weak to resist. There was no choice but to go with the flow, which took him even farther downstream, eventually depositing him in an unfamiliar, slow-moving pool. Here Sam managed to recover his equilibrium and begin searching frantically for new shelter. Every spot he found was already occupied by trout, all either larger or in better condition than he was, adding to the deep humiliation he felt from his encounter with the smaller trout that had taken his home.

  It was growing late and the light was failing rapidly when he came to a small pocket where the river had eaten away the soil beneath most of the roots of a cedar that still managed to cling precariously to the bank. The tree’s feathery limbs reached down almost to the water, providing a modicum of shelter, and Sam settled into the pocket to rest and try to recover.

  The night was cold, and when daylight came Sam remembered past days when the morning-warmed river had pleasantly transmitted its heat to his body. He waited for it to happen again, and felt the water slowly warming, but the heat didn’t seem to reach him; there wasn’t enough flesh left on his emaciated body to absorb and hold the warmth.

  He was desperately hungry. It was early spring and the stream lacked the abundance of food it would bring forth later, but Sam tried hard to capture his share of what little there was. He found his reactions and vision were not as keen as before, and it took twice as much time and effort to reach a swimming nymph or hatching fly.

  This was not good. His only hope of recovery was to eat hearty, gain weight, and restore his strength.

  With infinite slowness, the season progressed, the days lengthened, mayflies began hatching in abundance, and caddisflies and stoneflies soon followed. Driven by relentless hunger, Sam chased recklessly after all of them, still handicapped by sluggish reactions and blurred vision. Between hatches he searched in weeds and gravel for scuds, snails, and crayfish, but no matter how much he ate it never satisfied the open pit of hunger he felt inside.

  The returning hatches also brought the return of fishermen, and Sam soon saw all his old friends. He thought Frank looked a little grayer and maybe a little stooped, but he could still cast a nice line. He also was treated to another sight of Miles Anthony’s scrawny legs, and again resisted the impulse to bite him. Then he saw Owen Fenner, always distinctive because he had virtually no shadow. Sam wished desperately he could cry out and ask their help to relieve his impoverished, weakened state.

  Doctor Hobbs was back too. Sam knew that even before he saw him; he heard Hobbs’s annoying holler from upstream when he hooked some poor trout. With Hobbs on the prowl, Sam knew he would have to be careful in his frantic search for food or he might fall victim to one of the deadly dentist’s perfect flies.

  Then one morning, the ants came. The big, black, winged carpenter ants were first to begin falling to the surface, and as the sun climbed higher they were joined by smaller ants, some half or less the size of the big carpenters. As the day became truly warm these were followed by a virtual blizzard of tiny black ants, falling like cinders from a forest fire.

  As he had done a year previously, Sam began cruising just under the surface, his mouth gaping open, ingesting ants of all sizes, dead or alive. All day he foraged in the flotsam of fallen ants, losing all caution as he fed on the great banquet nature had set for him and other trout. For the first time since his spawning migration, Sam felt his shrunken stomach start to fill. He also felt his hopes rising; perhaps this was the beginning of recovery, a slow climb back to his former strength and weight that perhaps would allow him one day to return to his old home and drive away the interloper.

  By late afternoon the ants stopped falling, but their carcasses still littered the surface and Sam continued cruising the pool, swallowing ants until he thought his stomach might burst. He took another mouthful, and yet another, then felt suddenly as if something had seized his lower jaw. He knew instantly he had been hooked. A second later, even above the music of the river, he heard the obscene, triumphant shout of Doctor Hobbs, the most terrifying sound he’d ever heard. In his lack of caution, Sam had greedily taken one of Hobbs’ perfect
imitations, floating undetected among the wreckage of the naturals.

  His first instinct was to jump, but in his weakened condition the best he could do was broach awkwardly on the surface. Then he tried to run downstream, riding the strength of the current, but he gained no more than twenty feet before the heavy drag of Doctor Hobbs’s expensive, top-of-the-line reel forced him to a halt. With the meager strength he had left he tried to resist as his foe began to force him back upstream, but soon lost half the little distance he had gained. Desperately, Sam turned and sought the shelter of his new home. With all his strength he struggled toward the overhanging limbs, hoping to snag Doctor Hobbs’ leader on one of them. But Hobbs, now dimly visible on the riverbank, saw what he was trying to do and turned him back easily with a swift movement of his rod.

  After that it was all over. Sam’s will to resist was as strong as ever but there was no energy left to match his will, and at last he rolled over on his side. Doctor Hobbs kept reeling in until Sam was lying helpless at his feet. “Well, you’re an ugly old spawner, aren’t you?” Hobbs said aloud. “But you’ll help my roses grow.”

  So the rumor was true! Sam now knew why Doctor Hobbs never released a fish. He also knew he was destined for a grave in the doctor’s rose garden. There was nothing he could do about it; he lay quivering on the riverside gravel, his left eye pressed against the rocks, his right eye peering up at the blurry image of Doctor Hobbs reaching for a large rock. He watched as the Doctor raised the rock high over his head with a mighty swing, and started to bring it down.

  Sam’s last glimmering thought was that he wished a trout could close its eyes.

  Someone was shaking him. Sam opened his eyes, then quickly closed them in the harsh glare of afternoon light.

  Wait a minute. He had closed his eyes. What could that mean?

  He tried opening them again, slowly this time, and looked up into the familiar smiling face of his wife. “You were having a dream,” she said. “Or maybe a nightmare.”

  Yes, Sam thought. Maybe a nightmare.

  He looked around the room. His rod rack still stood in the corner, there were the two familiar mounted fly plates on the wall, the usual clutter around the vise on his fly-tying table. He was in his den, sprawled in the recliner. His mouth was dry and his voice a hoarse croak as he asked his wife why she woke him up.

  “It’s getting late,” she said. “You need to get ready.”

  “Ready? For what?”

  “For your appointment. Don’t tell me you forgot! It’s almost three o’clock. Doctor Hobbs is waiting.”

  NO-FLY ZONE

  “ALL RISE,” said the bailiff, and everyone stood.

  A door opened behind the bench and the judge, a small, gray, compact woman, appeared in a flowing black robe that made her look like a giant bat. She ascended to the bench, took her seat, and folded billowing black wings around herself.

  “Department Two of the Superior Court of Monroe County is now in session,” the bailiff announced in a monotone. “The Honorable Judge Mary Catherine Winship presiding. Please be seated.”

  Everyone sat.

  The judge had a sharp face that had failed to benefit from at least two obvious facelifts. She gazed out on the courtroom with eyes that resembled black olives with the pits removed. She was the spitting image of Miss Isabel Naster, my fifth-grade teacher, whom I’d hated with a passion, but she had always treated me fairly in court.

  “Good morning,” she said, although only because she thought it was expected of her. “The clerk will call the case.”

  The clerk, a pudgy woman of uncertain age, stood and read from a paper: “Monroe County Case No. 31504, the People vs. Garrett Vernon.”

  Garrett Vernon stirred in the chair next to mine as he heard his name. The court had ruled he was indigent—meaning he had no money for a lawyer—and since I was one of the county’s three public defenders and it was my turn in the rotation, he had become my client.

  Most of my clients were people you wouldn’t want to meet. Most were people I didn’t want to meet—shoplifters, drunks, hookers, pimps, druggies, purse snatchers, car prowlers, wife beaters and other assorted penny-ante hoods—but representing such people was my job.

  Garrett Vernon, however, was different. He was a meek, quiet, middle-aged little man, now pale from weeks of incarceration, and he exuded an air of vulnerability that made me feel sorry for him. Unlike nearly all my other clients, he also had no criminal history, not even a parking ticket. He also was clearly bewildered by what was happening to him. He was the first person in Monroe County—in fact, the first person in the entire state—to be charged with a crime under a new law, and now the entire weight of the criminal justice system was trying to grind him under its heel. The prosecution had even refused my offer to discuss a plea deal; they wanted to make a public example of Garrett Vernon and needed a conviction to do it.

  After years as a public defender I thought I’d become too cynical to care about such things, but the prosecution’s attitude in this case made me realize I hadn’t. It made me mad instead. It also made me determined to do whatever I could to get Vernon off. That’s why I’d advised him to enter a plea of not guilty by reason of temporary insanity, even though I knew he was as guilty as sin, like all my other clients. Insanity plea notwithstanding, I didn’t think he had a prayer of escaping the charge against him.

  Judge Winship ordered the bailiff, a deputy sheriff grown too fat for street duty, to bring in the jury. Five women and seven men filed nervously into the jury box and took their seats. Most were past retirement age and had been unable to think of excuses to keep from serving on a jury. They were all that remained after Nicholas Danning, the prosecutor, used all his peremptory challenges to dismiss any potential jurors who said they liked fishing. Even after that, we managed to end up with a jury including four men who admitted they liked to fish, although I had to firmly resist my client’s insistence that we challenge one on grounds he was a bait fisherman. One of the four survivors, Juror No. 11, even said he liked fly fishing.

  After a perfunctory greeting, the judge told the jurors the trial would begin with opening statements. “But let me caution you that these statements are not evidence,” she said. “After their opening statement each side will begin presenting testimony and evidence, and this is what you must consider in making a decision whether the defendant is guilty or innocent. Do you understand?”

  The jurors nodded.

  Satisfied, Judge Winship looked over at Danning and motioned for him to proceed.

  Danning was a bald man with a receding chin, a long nose, and an ill-fitting suit. I’d faced him in court probably a hundred times and so far had exactly two victories to my credit, both cases that had been tossed out because of sloppy police work. It was hardly an enviable record, but I rationalized it by reminding myself that all my clients were guilty anyway, which made it hard for the defense to win.

  Danning moved to the front of the jury box. He had a habit of bobbing his head while he spoke, which made him look something like a huge, scrawny chicken, but I knew from long experience that he was very good at his job.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Nicholas Danning and I am the chief deputy criminal prosecutor for Monroe County,” he began, head bobbing. “It’s my job to explain the case against the defendant”—he gestured toward my client—“and then introduce the testimony and evidence against him. It’s your job to weigh that testimony and evidence and reach a conclusion about his guilt, and I want to thank you for your willingness to do that job. Serving as a juror is a sacred duty of American citizenship, and our justice system simply could not function without you.” I noticed the jurors’ heads were bobbing up and down in subconscious rhythm with Danning’s.

  “This case is particularly important, because in a sense we will all be making history,” Danning continued. “That’s because this is the very first case to be tried in Monroe County—indeed, in the whole state—under the new Water Resources Protection Ac
t. You may recall that Congress in its wisdom three years ago passed the federal version of this act, which declared that all water resources—rivers and lakes—on federal property should be reserved for domestic water supply, hydroelectric generation, agricultural irrigation, or commercial shipping traffic, and remain forever closed to all forms of recreation, including fishing, boating, swimming, water skiing, and so on. Last year our state legislature followed suit, approving a law with nearly identical language.

  “You may also recall that both of these laws, the federal and the state versions, were controversial. Some people believe it was unfair and unnecessary for the government to eliminate recreation on publicly owned waters. You may even feel that way yourself. But our elected representatives approved both versions of the law, and since we are a nation of laws, it is our duty to obey the law. And enforce it.

  “Now it is my duty to prosecute the first person accused of breaking this law. The defendant is charged with violating the State Water Resources Protection Act in that on Monday, May 19th, of this year, he did illegally engage in fishing at Youngstown Lake, a body of state-owned water in Monroe County and reserved under the state act for domestic water supply, hydroelectric generation, and irrigation, and that he did so willfully and with knowledge that he was in violation of the act.

  “You will hear testimony from two Monroe County sheriff’s deputies that they were on patrol at Youngstown Lake the evening of May 19th when they observed the defendant sneaking through the woods to the lakeshore. He was wearing what appeared to be a fishing vest and carrying what appeared to be a fly-fishing rod. As the deputies watched, he began casting out onto the lake. They even watched while he caught a fish. One of the deputies taped all this with a night-vision video camera, and you will be able to view the tape here in court. You will also have the opportunity to examine the rod seized by the deputies from the defendant, the fishing vest he was wearing, even the fly he used to catch the fish.