| Fishing With The Little People |  |
by Stewart Sternberg |
Grandfather taught him how to use the little people as bait. He loved his the old man. In a world where adults were aloof gods, Grandfather always took time to give him special greeting or to squat down and talk to him in a voice he reserved for James alone. Smiling with large straight white teeth, the old man's blue eyes shined with a youthfulness that was belied by his rough red skin, short white hair, and pale crow's-feet.
Pulling a can of tobacco from his pocket, the old man used a pen knife to separate a brown chunk to shove into his cheek. He chewed, making a sour face.
“These woods are full of little people,” he said. “You can't find them in every wood, just in woods like these.”
Leaning back against a big cedar tree, the old man sighed contentedly as he lifted his face toward the leafy ceiling above. A large, broad shouldered man, in his early days, he had been a lumberjack in Northern Michigan. He still called himself a “Yooper”. The old man turned an eye toward his grandson, his arm rising to point a finger at the gravel bed at the bottom of the stream.
“Trout,” he said. “Do you like trout?”
James didn't know if he did or didn't, but nodded anyway.
“Your father liked trout,” said the old man, face suddenly sad. He fell into himself for a moment, icy blue eyes studying the stream. At last he smiled again. “What say we catch some fine ones to take home to your mom tonight? Would you like that?”
James nodded.
“Come here, lemme show you something useful,” said the old man.
Pushing himself off the tree with a grunt, he found a fallen birch. Rolling it over revealed several earthworms underneath. Prodding at the ground with a calloused hand, the old man made a sound to himself. At last he took his knife from his pocket and pried loose a large chip of wood.
“See? They like to live just underground. Just below the surface. They dig themselves in, using tiny branches, little stones and such to prop up the earth to keep themselves dry.”
The old man's hand moved quickly. The next thing James knew, a small person was squirming, pinched between Grandfather's thumb and forefinger. Red-face, eyes wide with horror, the little person struggled impotently to free himself.
“Ain't they funny lookin?” asked Grandfather. “Here hold it.”
He dropped the man into James' palm. James' fingers closed quickly to keep him from escaping. The man felt strange against his skin.
“I use worms when I can't find the little people,” Grandfather said. “But the little people make the best bait. I can tell when I'm eating trout caught with little people or caught with ordinary worms. Put that little guy in the box we brought.”
James opened his hand. Red-faced, hold his arm as though it hurt, the little man shifted, as though preparing to jump to freedom. James tapped the man into a waiting box, then shut the lid. Grandfather spent a few minutes nabbing more of them. When he had eight, he mumbled to himself that that should do it. Turning to the willow stick brought as a pole, he reached into the container to pull out one of the bait, a female, with long brown hair that ran past her shoulders. She struggled as Grandfather popped the hook through her hips.
“See how I do that?” asked the old man.
James took the bait, turning it between thumb and index finger. The woman wasn't moving as much now. He prodder her with a fingertip, smiling as she turned to look up at him. Making silly faces, she screamed. James gave her a light squeeze to stop her.
Grandfather took the pole, instructing James to stop playing with the bait. The boy released his hold on the woman, letting her swing over the surface of the water. Grandfather slid down the side of a cedar with a groan, then let the woman, her body now spasming, plop into the water. James sat down next to him , resting his head against Grandfather's broad shoulder.
“Perfect,” said Grandfather.
“Perfect, Papa,” agreed James.
*
James thought about that day often. As a man he moved to the city to work in construction. When he could afford the time, he would travel north of Petosky to head into the woods to camp. Sometimes he would go over the bridge into the Upper Peninsula for deer and sometimes smaller game. One time when he traveled with a friend, they had gone for bear. James never stayed at any pre-made campsite. He loathed the ones that were cultivated for city folk. People would leave civilization, bragging about how they craved getting back to nature, and then they congregated in areas with running water and electrical outlets. At night, the same people who wished to see a canopy of stars above their heads would sit back on their lawn chairs, watching televisions hooked into the satellite dishes mounted to the tops of their campers.
When James' son was old enough, his ex-wife, with enough prompting, was willing to let him go with his father on a camping trip. James , grinned broadly, but driving to her suburban home, he worried if the expectations for this trip might not have been too high. Jimmy came out of the house dragging his backpack, a thin little boy, wearing shorts that showed long legs with knobby knees. He acknowledged his father, climbing into the passenger seat, but as the car pulled from the curb, James felt his son's lack of enthusiasm, and worse, shared it.
The ride was long. Jimmy sat back for most of the trip, reading occasionally, sometimes watching the scenery as they traveled along the highway which took them up the west side of the state to Petoskey. When they passed through the forests, James took some encouragement to see the boy's eyes widen with interest.
“These woods ain't nothing,” said James. “Wait until you see where we're going. It's about another thirty minutes. We park the car and then we have to hitch into the forest until we get to a stream I know there. Place my grandfather showed me..
Parking the car off the road, James killed the SUV's engine. He stepped out. Letting himself be soothed by the sounds of the forest, the whispering breeze, the insects, the bird songs. Slipping his own backpack onto his shoulders, he turned to help Jimmy, but the boy was already struggling to distribute the weight on his back.
Father leading son, they set off into the forest. The earlier enthusiasm Jimmy had shown was quickly replaced with somber determination to keep up with his father. Going down a steep valley, then having to slog through the remains of an old logging camp, climbing over rotting logs, some of which were two to three feet high, was hard going. James helped son over the logs and through the weeds, watching the boy closely, trying to gauge his mettle. The boy followed, face red, lower lip stubbornly thrust out, fell once, falling face first into mud. James waited, letting the boy get to his feet before moving silently moving ahead.
Reaching deep forest, where there was no underbrush and the trunks of trees rose sixty feet without branches, James stopped, hands on his hips as he looked around with admiration, noticing how cool it felt here and how he could hear his own breathing.
“This is my favorite spot,” said James, trying to reassure his namesake.
“It's spooky,” said the boy. He raised his face to the trees. Small for his age, the boy had straw colored hair and a long neck that gave him a birdlike appearance.
“That's only because you've spent your life in the city, with your mother. I was raised here. My grandfather would take me into woods like these several times a year.”
“I'm afraid.”
James hated the weakness in that voice. “Don't be a little girl. You're with me. Nothing can happen to you if you're with me.”
Jimmy's face reddened and the boy became quiet. James was about to tell his son a story about his great-grandfather but stopped himself; the boy had little interest in family history. How different they were from one another. He didn't know what to say to the boy most the time. He suddenly wished he had kept to his tradition of coming up here alone. The boy had more of his mother in him than his side of the family. Yet he wanted him here. It was the way it should be.
Getting down on one knee, he instructed the boy to look up. They both stared into the greatness of the wood.
“Can you imagine how old these trees are?” asked James. “They were here before your great grandfather. They were probably here before most of this area was even settled.”
His son looked unhappy.
“This is an old place,” he said. “There's nothing here to be afraid of. We're the scariest thing here.”
He had expected that last statement to bring a smile. It didn't.
James stood, adjusted the straps of his pack, and started out again, listening as his son came after him. He thought he heard the boy choking back tears, but ignored it. They traveled for an hour or more, having to stop two more times so that Jimmy could catch his breath. When they arrived at a broad stream, James let out a shot of pleasure, squatting quickly in the grass as he leaned forward to dip his hands into the icy water. Some moments should go on forever.
Remembering the boy, he turned, finding him standing there, looking pathetically out of place.
“Do you like trout?” asked James.
Shrugging off his pack, his son looked into the water. “I don't like fish much,” he said. “Dad doesn't like fish, either.”
James faced his son. “You mean Burke?” he asked.
“Burke,” the boy corrected himself.
James didn't mind his wife's new husband. Thin, sandy hair, smooth skin, the man had an effeminate air about him that made James uneasy in his presence. He was sure the man looked down at him, remembering the disdain the man expressed with those weak brown eyes.
Shaking the water from his hands, James grinned. “You know what's good eating? Trout. There's lots of trout in that stream. Bass is good, too, I like the way they fight. But trout are just fine, and they are a smart fish, with personality. You have to respect them.”
The boy nodded. James studied his face, thinking that perhaps he might be sparking interest here. He handed Jimmy one of the fishing poles he had brought along. The child's hands, white and delicate, wrapped around the pole's butt. The boy examined it, eyes following the line as it ran up the pole. He reached for the hook. James was going to warn him not to prick himself but kept silent.
“You put the bait on that hook,” said James. “Trout will eat almost anything, I think. I've used Nightcrawlers, grasshoppers, redworm. I've used corn. I've even cut up another trout for bait. They don't care. There's only one kind of bait can make a difference. I know that one kind of bait can give trout a taste so sweet that people will cry when they taste it.”
The boy didn't appear to be listening. Instead, he was staring dreamily at the water. James watched him for a moment, trying to see himself in that delicate profile. Nothing. He tapped the boy on the shoulder to disturb his reverie, signaling that he should come over to a log resting in the high grass.
Waiting until the boy was kneeling beside him, James rolled the log back to study the soil underneath. He pushed back a small mound of little twigs which were deliberately woven together, unearthing a dry den. He managed to grab three of them; at least six others escaping through tunnels.
“These make the best bait,” he said. “Little people.”
His son's eyes opened wide, the corners of his mouth turning up. James dropped a thin old woman, with bowed legs and flowing silver hair, into his son's hand. She was screaming, face turning a dark red, eyes rolling backward. His son almost dropped her. He quickly tried handing her back to his father.
“They're little people,” said James, adding a short chuckle. “Don't be afraid, they can't hurt you.”
His son held the woman at arm's length.
James took the two people he still kept in one hand, studied them for a moment before dropping one into a bait box. He held up the remaining little person, a muscular male with a dense beard and rebellious green eyes. He turned the little man around for his son to inspect. Jimmy watched him with uneasy fascination.
“Let me show you how it's done,” said James.
Taking a pole in his free hand, he grabbed the hook, carefully inserting the point into the little man's abdomen. The man's body began jerking. Jimmy leaned forward, mouth dropping open. That was when the screaming started.
“Stop it, Jimmy!”
The screams continued, tainting the sanctity of the wood.
The pole fell to the ground as James reached out to grip Jimmy by the shoulders to shake him hard. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to bend him over and wail away. The boy's mouth snapped shut as he looked in horror at his father.
“What's wrong with you?” asked James. “Stop that nonsense.”
The boy looked down, tears running freely over round cheeks.
“Here, look here,” said James, reaching over to pick up the line with the little person dangling from it. He held the man before his son's face.
Still alive, but with the magic running out of him, the little man would be useless if he wasn't put in the water soon.
“They're just little people,” said James. “They're just little bits of nothing. They don't know anything. They're part of nature. They have no more self awareness than a stone. You understand?”
The boy's eyes turned on him with cold accusation. Anger boiled through James in return.
“Lemme see the one you got in your hand,” he said.
The boy had clearly forgotten the old woman. With dread, the Jimmy raised his closed fist to his face, slowly uncurling his fingers. The little old woman lay there unmoving, neck broken and head twisted horribly to one side.
“Look at that,” said James. “Look what you did. You ruined her. Okay, throw her away. We'll get you another.”
The boy didn't move.
“Throw her away,” James commanded. The boy did as his father asked, afterward wiping his hands several times against the front of his shirt. His face was white and there was snot in his nose. His lips were moist.
“We'll find us some more,” said James. “There's a trick to it. But first we got to use the one we have on the hook. He'll be useless in a minute or two, its sinful to waste him once he's been baited.”
James took up the pole again, holding it aloft, and gesturing to his son to move closer to the stream with him. He rook the rod, casting the line. The little man hit the water with a tiny splash. James tried not to look at his son, thinking that once the boy saw the fish, it would be different. Once the boy baited his own hook , caught his own trout, then the silliness of the past few minutes would be forgotten. He needed to be patient with him; he was only ten years old and had spent too much of his life with a woman who talked too much and a man named Burke.
The trout took the bait. Smiling with pleasure, James summoned his son to his side, placing an arm around the boy. Letting his son hold the pole, James worked the reel, whispering gentle instruction. The trout landed on the shore, mouth opening and closing, body whipping from side to side. Jimmy grinned, gingerly reaching a finger out to stroke the thing's scales.
“Watch this,” said James. “Once you bring it in you have to stop it from suffering. Lifting his foot, he came down hard, crushing the fish's head beneath a heel. Another crushing blow followed.
“See that?” he asked. “See that?”
James picked up the fish to retrieve the fish. His fingers tugged at the hook and a small arm landed on the back of his hand. He flicked it off him. Sticking a finger into the gill slits of the fish, he offered the trophy to Jimmy. The boy stepped back rapidly, shaking his head from side to side.
Looking at him with disgust, thick eyebrows slipping together, jaw tightening, he reached out to take his son by the wrist. He slapped the fish into his son's hand, instructing him to keep it there.
The boy stood with the fish wet in his pink little hands, looking down at it blankly.
A single tear ran the length of Jimmy's cheek, dangling from his chin before dropping forward into the grass. James snatched the fish back. Without looking again at his son, he took the knife to expertly gut the fish. He wrapped it in a cloth and after dipping it in the stream, set it down on the grass beside him.
“I'm going to fish,” said James. “You go play. Stay close; don't wander too far. When I'm done here, we'll head back. No use staying longer than we have to.”
He pulled the last little person from the bag. A young women with thick black hair, rich brown skin. Holding her between his fingertips, he examined her. She watched him without trying to communicate.
“Just a bit of nothing,” James said. He heard his son moving away, stepping through the weeds and wildflowers.
James sullenly tossed the woman toward the stream, watching her little body tumble in the air. She landed with a splash to drift along the surface of the stream. A trout took her in one bite.
Putting his fish in a sack, he stood up. He walked to where he found the little people, retrieved his backpack, and shrugged it on. His son's backpack was on the ground, carelessly abandoned by a tree. He picked it up and walked along the stream in the direction that he knew his son had gone.
He found the boy sitting cross-legged on the ground, stabbing at the earth with a stick.
“I don't want to fish anymore today,” said James. “Let's get you home. We leave now, we can get on the road before it's dark. I should be able to have you back where you belong by midnight.”
The boy stood, taking his backpack from his father's hand. Without looking at one another, they started back through the quiet wood. James looked at the boy with loathing, only to then turn the loathing in on himself.
“I won't tell,” said the boy.
James paused. His son looked up at him. “I won't tell,” the boy said again, this time with urgency.
“You would have liked your great grandfather,” said James. “Everyone did. He was a good man. I thought maybe by bringing you here, I could share him with you.”
Jimmy's face darkened with confusion.
“It's alright. I made a mistake. I'm sorry. Let me get you home where you belong. Don't worry about any of this, we shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have showed you anything. Don't know why I did. Maybe next month we can do something else.”
There wouldn't be a next month, thought James.
They said nothing to one another for the remainder of the trip.
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