The Fisherman

by John Langan

  “That’s good,” Dan said. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. Where would I be without my fishing buddy?”

  “Can I tell you something?” he asked, shifting forward as he did.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve been dreaming about fishing,” he said. “A lot.”

  “I dream about it, too,” I said, “although most of my reverie occurs in the middle of meetings.”

  Dan’s eyes, which had widened at the news of my dreaming, narrowed at my joke. “Right,” he said, the slightest annoyance curdling his voice. He stood from the desk and asked, “Are you going to the Svartkil?”

  I nodded. “It’s where I kick off every season. Kind of a tradition, you know?”

  “Fine, of course,” he said. “And after that? Are you going back up the Catskills?”

  “Indeed I am. There’s a couple of new streams I’m looking forward to trying out.”

  “Good,” he said. “I might want to suggest one myself—if that’s all right with you.”

  “That would be great. Where did you have in mind?”

  “Dutchman’s Creek,” he said. If this had been a movie, I guess this would have been the moment ominous music boomed on the soundtrack. As it was, there was only the din of people talking as they continued to make their way back from lunch. Dan continued, “Have you heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have. Where is it?”

  “Up around Woodstock. It runs out of the Reservoir to the Hudson.”

  “Sounds like a possibility, then. How’d you come across it?”

  “In a book.”

  As a rule, I am one of the worst people I know when it comes to sniffing out a lie. Throughout my life, my family and friends have exploited this almost limitless gullibility by playing an almost endless number of practical jokes on me, some of which would make you shake your head in pity. Right then, however, I knew Dan was lying. I can’t say how I knew, since it wasn’t as if he rubbed his hands together and shifted his eyes from side to side, but I was sure enough to say, “Really?”

  “Really,” he said, frowning at my tone.

  “Which book?” I asked, unable to figure why he would feel the need to lie about such a thing.

  “Alf Evers’s history of the Catskills,” he said. “Do you know it?”

  “No,” I admitted, “can’t say as I do.” Although I was certain Dan was lying, equally certain he’d named Alf Evers’s book because I’d told him I didn’t read much, and what did pass beneath my gaze tended to split between spy thrillers and Louis L’Amours, I couldn’t see how it made much difference where he’d found the name of this creek. Maybe he’d had it from a woman he met at a bar, and was ashamed to reveal such a source. As long as the stream was where he said it was and the fish were biting, what difference did it make? I said, “Well, then, we’ll have to add Dutchman’s Creek to our itinerary.”

  My decision, minor though it seemed to me, pleased Dan past all measure. His face brightened, and he shook his head up and down happily, saying, “Yes we will, Abe, yes we will.” Our plans made, it was back to work. We agreed to meet at the usual spot on Springvale the Saturday after next. Dan volunteered to bring coffee and donuts.

  That night, I sought out Dutchman’s Creek in my Ulster County Atlas, which took me longer than it should have, since the creek had no listing in the book’s index. This struck me as a little odd. In general, the Atlas is pretty detailed. I had to leaf through, find the pages mapping the Ashokan Reservoir, and search its borders. My finger passed over the spot where the creek flowed out of the Reservoir at least twice, but on the third try I found it. When I did, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen the creek right away. It was hard to miss, a blue thread winding its way from the Reservoir’s south shore over to the Hudson, running well north of Wiltwyck, south of Saugerties. I traced its course with my index finger, something I like to do for a place I’m going to fish. Dutchman’s Creek kinked and twisted, almost looping back on itself a couple of times. I figured this would provide the fish a host of spots to congregate. As my finger followed the creek’s perambulations, I wondered where it drew its name from. All up and down the Hudson, from Manhattan to Albany, originally had been settled by the Dutch, and you still find a fair number of towns on both sides of the river whose names show it: Peekskill, Newburgh, Fishkill. I hadn’t studied the matter, of course, but it seemed to me that, while you found a lot of places named by the Dutch, you didn’t find many named for them. In fact, aside from this creek, I couldn’t think of one. Who was the Dutchman? I wondered, closing the Atlas.

  I had an answer to that question two months later, while Dan and I sat at the counter of Herman’s Diner on Route 28, just west of Wiltwyck. Dan had wanted to stop there for a cup of coffee and breakfast on the way up to the creek, which he did from time to time. I prefer to eat before I leave the house or, if I’m hungry, to order my egg and cheese sandwich to go. On the occasions Dan wanted to stop for breakfast, he liked to sit down and study the menu, order a plate of something he hadn’t had before, the Greek omelet, the walnut pancakes. Had he done so too often, I suspect it would have become an issue. However, his requests that we sacrifice a half-hour at this or that diner were few and far enough between for me to say to myself, What the hell. It’s been a while since I had any walnut pancakes, and maybe a side of sausage would be nice with them. Besides, I guessed from my own history that Dan wasn’t eating as well as he should have been, so I figured at least he’d have one decent meal today.

  This morning, there was no rush for us to arrive streamside. For the better part of the last week, the sky had been crowded with gray clouds that dumped so much rain on us I swear you needed gills to walk around outside. The rain had tapered off late the night before, but the clouds had not yet departed the sky, and I reckoned any stream we wanted to fish was going to be swollen and fast-running, dim with mud and debris. There are those fishermen who’ll tell you that, after the kind of downpour we’d had, you might as well wait a day or two till you cast your line, but I’m among the “a bad day of fishing is still better than a good day of just about anything else” crowd. I was then, anyway, which was why we had driven out west of Wiltwyck on Route 28 at the usual pre-dawn time, Dutchman’s Creek our destination. On the way, we’d stopped at Herman’s Diner.

  Herman’s was off to the right-hand side of the road, the last building in a sequence that included a combination gas station/car wash, a furniture warehouse, and an ice cream stand. The diner sat at the center of an otherwise empty lot, one of those silver boxcars that you associate with the nineteen-fifties. It’s empty now, out of business for the last several years, which I can’t understand, because, while Herman’s was small, most times I went in, it was jumping. You never saw Herman. In fact, I’m not sure there was a Herman any more. There were Caitlin and Liz, who worked the counter and the single row of booths, and there was Howard, who did the lion’s share of the cooking, helped out by a pair of Mexican cousins named Esteban and Pedro. What I like about the place, what had kept me coming back after I first discovered it the second summer I fished, even more than the food, was the décor. The diner’s inside had been done up in early fisherman. There were rods and nets hung on the walls among what must have been thousands of snapshots of guys with fish. There were a few of those fish, too, stuffed and mounted in places of pride. As you walked in, a bulletin board tacked full of fishing cartoons greeted you, some of them freshly clipped from the paper, others yellow and brittle with age. The one I liked best was several years old, and showed a pair of man-sized cartoon salmon standing beside a stream, one smoking a cigar, the other holding a beer. Both fish have lines out and in the water, which is full of tiny people, dozens of them heading upstream, arms against their sides, faces pointed straight ahead. That was all: no witty caption, only that simple reversal that tickled my funny bone. Every time I strolled into that diner, I chuckled, and despite what happened later that day, thinking about that drawing now brings a smile to
my face. Dan didn’t find it especially amusing.

  The strangest thing in the diner, and it’s worth remarking if for no other reason than that I studied it each time I ate there, was a large oil painting that hung above and to the left of the order window as you sat at the counter. This painting was so old, so begrimed with the smoke of a thousand omelets and hamburgers, that only by diligent and careful study could you begin to develop an idea of its subject. The canvas was such a mess of masses of shades and shadows that I half-suspected it was some kind of giant Rorschach Test. Where it hung wasn’t especially well-lit, which didn’t help matters any. You could make out a long, curving, black blotch of something hovering in the middle of the picture over a pale patch, with a wavy white line in the upper right-hand corner. You might think I would’ve looked at the painting, seen that I couldn’t make head or tail of it, and let that be that. But there was something about it, this quality, that I don’t know if I have the words for. The picture fascinated me; I guess because it was so close to showing you what it was, so close to revealing its meaning. Maybe it was a big Rorschach Test. I saw a different scene each time I sat down at the counter. Once, it must have been the first time I stopped at Herman’s, I saw a bird swooping down out of the sky, a crow, maybe. Another time, I thought it might be a bat. Then, since the rest of the diner was done up in fishing memorabilia, I decided the painting must be a fishing scene. Throughout these deliberations, I received absolutely no help from the diner’s staff, who told me they weren’t sure where the painting had come from. Howard had an idea it had been purchased from an inn somewhere in New England—out Mystic way, he seemed to recall—but didn’t know any more than that, except that nobody could tell what the hell it showed. Liz and Caitlin refused to be drawn into discussing it, despite my best efforts.

  That morning, when Dan and I sat down at the counter and ordered our coffees, with no help from anyone else I saw a fish in the black blotch at the painting’s center, something long, serpentine, a pike, say. The fish had been hooked, and was twisting as it fought its fate. The more I looked at the painting as I sat there drinking my coffee, the more sure I was that, at long last and after much cogitation, I had solved its mystery. In my solution, I saw a good omen for the day of fishing ahead. I was seized by the momentary impulse to tell somebody my discovery, share my success, but Dan had just stood to visit the facilities, and the rest of the diner was empty. By the time Dan returned, the impulse had released me.

  As I glanced around the diner, looking for someone to decode the painting to, I noticed the air outside, which had been lightening with the first traces of a weak dawn, dimming; the first drops of rain spattered the windows a moment later. I didn’t groan, but I felt like it. I’ll fish in the rain—Hell, I’d fish in the snow—but that doesn’t mean I especially care to. I suppose a light drizzle isn’t so bad, but the kind of rain that was crackling on the diner’s roof, the hard, driving kind that soaks you through in under a minute and then keeps on going, that is not my idea of fun. Maybe it would turn out to be a passing squall. But by the time Liz set my corned beef hash and scrambled eggs down in front of me, if anything, the rain had strengthened into a wall of water.

  While we were sitting over our breakfasts, Howard emerged from the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee and chat with us. I’d seen him do this from time to time: I’m pretty sure that he owned the diner, and I think this was his version of customer relations. I’d had a brief conversation with him two or three years prior, though I wasn’t sure he remembered. We hadn’t done more than exchange pleasantries about the weather, which was warm and sunny, and how the fish were biting, which they were. After that, he’d nodded whenever he saw me, but I noticed that he nodded at pretty much everyone who walked into the diner. He was a tall fellow, Howard, with long arms that ended in oversized hands. His face was what my ma would have called unhandsome. It wasn’t that he was ugly, exactly, more sort of homely. He had a lantern jaw that made him look as if he were perpetually holding something in his mouth that was too hot to swallow. His skin was pale and had that worn look you see on someone who’s been a steady smoker for most of their life. His voice was low and rumbling, and from conversations I’d overheard him having with other guys, I knew he was reasonably sharp, enough so for me to wonder what he was doing cooking in a diner. I never did find out the answer to that one.

  Anyway, Howard stood there, the chunky white coffee cup swallowed in one of his enormous hands, the dingy white chef’s hat he favored tilted back on his head, and wished us both a good morning. When we returned the greeting, he went on, “Some weather we’ve been having.”

  Dan grunted from his cup. I said, “You can say that again. Streams’ll be running pretty high, I imagine.”

  “Lot of flooding,” Howard said. “Pretty bad in places. You fellows planning on fishing?”

  “We are,” I said.

  Howard grimaced. “Can’t say it’s the day for it. Where you headed?”

  “Dutchman’s Creek,” I answered. On impulse, I added, “Ever hear of it?”

  Probably, I could count on one hand the number of times something I’ve said has caused a person to turn pale. Most of those cases would hail from my childhood, when I told one or both of my folks a particularly worrisome piece of news: that I had stepped on a nail in the basement; that kind of thing. Well, add that Saturday morning in early June to the list. Howard’s pale skin went paler, as if you’d poured a glass of milk over a bowl of oatmeal. His eyed widened, and his mouth opened, as if whatever he kept in there couldn’t believe its ears, either. He raised his coffee cup to his mouth, finished its contents, and went for a refill. I looked at Dan, who was staring straight ahead as he chewed a mouthful of Belgian waffle, his face formed to an expression I couldn’t get a purchase on.

  Howard poured a generous helping of sugar into his refill, and, without stirring it, turned back to us. His voice calm, his face still pale, he said, “Dutchman’s Creek, huh?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Not many folks know about the creek anymore. How’d you hear about it?”

  “My friend here read about it,” I said.

  “Is that so?” Howard asked Dan.

  “Yeah,” Dan said, chewing his waffle.

  “Where would that have been?”

  “Alf Evers’s book on the Catskills.” He did not look at Howard.

  “That’s a good book,” Howard said, and I noticed Dan’s back stiffen. “Good history. I don’t recall anything about the creek in it.”

  “It’s in the chapter on the Reservoir,” Dan said.

  “Ah—that’s where it would be, wouldn’t it? I must’ve forgot,” Howard said, the tone of his voice telling us there was no way he’d done any such thing. “I’ll have to have another read of old Alf’s book. It’s got some good stories in it. Since my memory obviously isn’t what it used to be, maybe you can tell me what else Alf says about the creek. Does he tell how it got its name?”

  “No,” Dan said, finishing his waffle. “He doesn’t mention that.”

  “What about the fellows who died there. Does he mention them?”

  Dan’s head jerked up. “No.”

  “Hmmm,” Howard said, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. “I guess Alf Evers wasn’t as thorough as I thought.”

  “Died?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Howard said. “Been a few folks met their maker up at the creek. Seems the banks are steeper than they look, and the soil’s pretty loose. On top of that, the creek’s deep and fast-moving. All of which means it’s easier than you’d think to take a tumble into the water and not come up again.”

  “How many have drowned?” I asked.

  “Half-dozen, seven or eight, easy,” Howard said, “and I’m just talking about in the time I’ve been here,” he gestured to the diner with his mug, “say, in the last twenty years or so. I don’t know what the exact total is beyond that, but I understand from some of the old-timers that the creek’s taken enough m
en to put much bigger streams to shame. Mostly out-of-towners, folks from down the City come up here for the weekend. The locals tend to know better than to try the creek, though every now and then some high school kid’ll decide to prove how brave he is to his friends or some girl and go tempting the waters. When he does—well, the creek isn’t all that discriminating. It’ll take whatever’s on the plate, if you know what I mean. The old-timers say the creek’s hungry, and from what I’ve heard, I’d agree.”

  “How did it get its name?” Dan asked.

  “Beg pardon?” Howard said.

  “You asked if we knew how Dutchman’s Creek got its name,” Dan said, “so I assume you do. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Howard said. “It’s quite the story. Some’d call it local legend, but there’s more to it than that. It is long…longer than you’d think.”

  “I’m curious,” Dan said. “I’m sure Abe is, too. Aren’t you?”

  I was—curious enough, anyway. Howard’s warning had made me wonder what all the fuss was about. I was curious as well about the currents I felt flowing between him and Dan. Not outright hostility, exactly: it was more like Dan was afraid Howard was going to reveal something he wanted kept hidden, and Howard was annoyed at Dan for whatever that secret was. At the same time, we had come up here to fish. A glance back over my shoulder, though, showed the rain continuing. I sighed. “I suppose so,” I said. “I’m always happy to hear a good story, legend though it may be. But we don’t want to keep you.”

  “I guess Esteban and Pedro can manage for a few more minutes. Besides, it’s not as if we’re all that busy.” He nodded at the diner, but for us, still empty. Caitlin and Liz sat together at a booth, Caitlin smoking, Liz reading the paper. “Strange, for a Saturday. Even with the rain, there’s usually some folks come in for breakfast.” He shrugged. “Almost like I’m supposed to tell it to you fellows, isn’t it?” The tone of his voice was casual, but I was suddenly aware of a tremendous, heavy urgency behind it, as if the story he had promised were heaving itself towards us. For a moment, I was possessed by the almost irresistible urge to flee him and his tale, to throw whatever money was in my pocket onto the counter and run out into the downpour. Then he said, “Understand, I can’t vouch for any of this,” and I was caught.