Castle of Water: A Novel(12)

So Barry was not a total stranger to fish. Of the sort one finds in southwestern Illinois, anyway. Perched on the rocks above the island’s clearest little cove, however, he was a long way from the fried catfish and freshly gigged frog legs he had relished in his youth. Shirt returbaned about his head, line in hand, he gazed down at the calm pool below and squinted for a sign of anything edible. He fixed one of the artificial lures onto a hook (it reminded him of the gummy worms his mother used to put in his Easter baskets, a poor substitute for an actual night crawler), attached the float and the sinker, and, following a weak sidearm cast, watched the whole baited affair settle in the water. It seemed like a good place to fish—a sheltered semicircle of rock that created a calm patch of water, some twenty feet across and perhaps ten feet deep. He could see the white sandy bottom, rippled and duned with the soft tracks of the current; kelpy-looking things swayed in it, and corally-looking stuff at its rim formed ledges below. Dark shapes occasionally darted in the shadows, and he hoped one or more of them might have an appetite for yellow gummy worms.

The first three hours were uneventful. He smoked another cigarette, ever mindful to take an occasional scan of the horizon; he was sure somebody would be arriving soon, and he had the flare gun tucked in his waistband to welcome their landing. But neither rescue nor dinner was quick in coming. The waves rolled in steadily around the tiny cove, trade winds picked up as morning became afternoon, and the yellow gummy worm hovered beneath the surface without a nibble to its name. Crap.

Something occurred to Barry. He recalled hearing his cousins talk about fishing for catfish with a trotline during one of his visits to Macoupin County and remembered that they had suggested “stink bait” to lure them in. Old chicken livers, rotten eggs, even chunks of hot dog coated in WD-40—stuff that put some funk in the water. A funk that his little gummy worm, no matter how noble its intent, simply could not exude. It was four hours in, and although he was certain he saw fish wriggling down below, his virginal lure remained untouched. It was worth a try.

But what to use? The island didn’t seem to have worms—or any significant insects, for that matter, beyond a few gnatty little flies. And to use pieces of fish, he would have to catch one first. He had noticed, though, a scatter of peculiar-looking shells wedged in the crevices of the larger rocks. He suspected them to be clams of some sort, and in this instance, Barry was correct. They were maxima clams, a smaller cousin of the giant clam and favorite foodstuff of Polynesians for centuries, although Barry had no knowledge of that fact. Ready to try anything, he pulled in his line, set it at his feet, and went peeking between the rocks for a suitable specimen. Arm deep in such a hole, he found one and with three hard tugs pried it loose. Examining it in the sun, he saw that it was actually quite beautiful, blue tinged with nacreous swirls. He almost regretted having to smash it against the rocks, but alas, this was a survival situation. Two hard whacks and the fist-sized clam split apart like a coconut; its meat was tough, but the azure-colored lips stripped away easily enough. Barry removed the gummy worm lure and worked the barbed hook through several layers of clam meat, forming a tempting bunch with some dangle on the end. “Shit,” muttered Barry, “if these fish don’t eat this, I definitely will,” oblivious at the time to the accuracy of that statement. And he retook his perch and cast it in.

The morsel had been dancing beneath the surface for no more than ten minutes when something torpedo shaped and lithe came circling in. “Yes!” Barry exclaimed with a triumphant hiss. It was a fish all right—and a good-sized one at that. Definitely enough for two hungry people. Come on, you son of a bitch!

The paddletail snapper in question (of course Barry didn’t know its species, either) pecked, prodded, and then took a bite. The line jerked to a delightful tautness, accompanied by a flurry of silvery flopping. Oh, he had it, and hand over hand, Barry began pulling dinner in, despite its zigs and zags to the contrary.

What was the best way to cook such a fish? he asked himself. Skewer it? Bury it in coals? Then again, sashimi was good—could they just eat it raw? Barry didn’t find out. Not that day, anyway. He was on the verge of yanking the weary fish right out of the water when one of the boulders at the sandy seafloor—it had been sitting there utterly inert since he had arrived—came bursting to life. With a horrific surge of speed, its massive bulk heaved up from the depths, engulfed the poor snapper in a tangle of limbs, and with the weight of an anvil shot back down. The initial tug was so great, it nearly pulled Barry into the drink—a terrifying prospect given what he had just learned was lurking there. Weak-kneed with adrenaline, too shocked to curse, he pulled from the water the limp remainder of his line, discovering as he did so that the creature had not only stolen his supper, but also gotten away with one of his few precious hooks. Then he cursed.

When the water settled, Barry peered into the pool’s depths to search for some trace of the beast, but it was gone. He suspected one of the caverns at the bottom was its lair, where it was no doubt enjoying his sashimi dinner. Crestfallen, Barry removed the bobber and the sinker and rewound the line around the spool, wondering what to do next. Sunset wasn’t far off, and he doubted he’d be able to land a second fish. Honestly, the notion of that thing coming back up scared him to death. The idea of returning to Sophie empty-handed was also disconcerting, so he decided to pry loose a few more of the thick, blue-tinged clams and take those back instead. He found two at the pool’s edge, yanked them free of the rock, tucked them in his pants pockets, and headed back to the shelter.