Unearthed story 2021

 

3/14/21

 

Here follows a story I unearthed when I was cleaning our ignored files here about a month or so ago. I have no recollection of writing it. I did later write a story based upon this idea. I am putting it down here because…. I don’t know. Somebody somewhere typed it for me which is unbelievable. Thanks to that party. I’ll get it over with now:

 

                                                                                          April 4, 1984

Dear Sirs,

               Unlike most fish stories this tale is not concerned with the exceptional feats of fishing prowess; even though it is about “The one that got away”. No, this saga takes root in the dismal failure that often attends my fishing expeditions.

               My brother and I Had been trolling unsuccessfully along the Northwest shoreline of Pelican Lake (by Orr) most of a hot August day in 1968.

Being nature lovers, we decided to stop on one of the many islands for a natural break. My brother decided to cool off by stretching out on a slab of granite sloping downward into the clear waters. Meanwhile, I decided to answer a call of a more urgent nature in the woods. My meditation was crudely interrupted buy a terrifyingly urgent shriek from my brother. Fumbling with my fly, I crashed through the brush barley in time to see my brother’s head slip below the surface. I poured into the water and floundered towards the turbulence that had replaced him. Luckily, I found him immediately. I crooked my elbow under his chin and, planting my feet on the rugged bottom, lugged him up onto the island.

               With a slowly dawning sense of horror, I realized that I had pulled more than my brother out of the lake. Coiled tightly around his lower trunk and legs was a hideous creature unlike anything I’d ever seen.

               “Get it off me!” he sputtered and instantly we began pounding and prying and slowly uncoiling that slippery abomination.

               Once freed, we immediately stood up and gaped down at the grotesque things that was pitching and flopping in the dust at our feet. How can I describe what we beheld in those few seconds? What we witnessed that hot afternoon inn’68, my brother would later that day explain to me, was a feral pike-child. Similar to those medieval tales of children raise by wolves or, like the more familiar Tarzan of the Apes; this child, as an infant, had been lost through some unfortunate boating or winter mishap, or as we later agreed, probably abandoned by some unwanting mother. Fortunately he had come under the nurturing care of some maternal pike.

               I’d guess he was 10 or 11 years old and had adapted to his assumed environment remarkably well. His head was sharp, pointed and what little glimpse I had of his eyes revealed them to be spread apart and, nearly on the sides of his head. His unusually circular eyes were flattened in appearance and unblinking. His nose was long and pointed; I presume it enabled him to take in oxygen snorkel-like while remaining submerged. The child’s mouth was a slash across his jaw and snapping inside, sparkling rows of pointed triangular teeth. I also noted with a sense of revulsion a nasty scar under his chin where, obviously, some past angler had evidently attempted to pass a stringer through it to bag this catch. His arms appeared nearly webbed to his body and his legs, toes and fingers seemed to be webbed together as well. Also, I saw an amazing amount of flexibility in his spine (Which jutted out dorsal fin-style from his narrow back.) and his knees which seemed capable of flexing forwards to some degree.

               Well, the entire incident could not have lasted more than a few seconds. He pitched himself wildly on the ground for a short while and then, effortlessly, arched himself through the air and into the lake, knifing the surface with barely a ripple.

               “We’ll be famous I!” I exclaimed. I was pretty excited. “We’ll be on the cover of Field and Stream and on TV. We’ll…” But my brother’s grim expression cut me off. He said, “Only rags like they sell at the check-out counter would publish this story and only the kind of nerds that read them would believe it. Besides, we’ll look like a souple of jerks ourselves. Furthermore, what if someone does believe it? How would you like the idea of some master fisherman coming up here intending to bag the ultimate trophy for his mantle? Or, more cruelly, how about some self-serving sociologist safariing up here to ensnare the supreme specimen – proving for all posterity that a feral pike-child cannot survive the transition from his lake to the sixth grade?”

               I recalled how we watched him disappear that day. He swam with a graceful, fluid, undulating motion – the elegant movements of a creature entirely within in its own medium. He moved with effortless ease, apparently oblivious to what had just transpired. We saw him dart forward and snap a good sized, unsuspecting perch. That day we both swore to secrecy..

               So, why tell the story now? There are a number of reasons. That pike-child is no kid anymore. He’s a swift and powerful feral pike-man --- cunning and formidable, in command of his destiny and no prey for even the greatest of fishermen…or the most zealous of researchers, for that matter.

               Also, this fish story contest gives me the forum to share this incredible experience with a great number of people. Perhaps his story can be an inspiration to those who ae searching for grace and dignity in their own lives; searching for their medium.

               Although the only proof of this encounter is the gnarled and pitted Harley Davidson belt buckle my brother had on that day -- the shining object that lured the pike-child in the first place – I no longer have reservations about being labeled a jerk for telling this tale. Whether it’s believed or doubted will not change the effect those events had upon me. You see, I learned that the best secrets are the ones you just can’t seem to communicate to others anyhow.

                                                                                                         Sincerely,

 

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Here is another one we found that day. I never forgot this one but never sought it either. I though of it when I went across Montana on my motorcycle, on US 2, in 2019.

 

                                                                                    U.S. 2

               That road stretched out long and thin and as straight as guitar string. Sometimes he felt that if it were stretched one mile longer it would snap, and blow them all to kingdom come.

               He mopped his soggy brow with a shaky hand and squinted through the glare at the horizon. There it was all right, the grain elevator heralding the next town. What was it? Malta? Joplin? Havre? Or Glasgow? He couldn’t concentrate right now.

               But those infernal grain elevators. Man, it was crazy how you could see things, like them, for such distances out here. They reminded him of the monolith in that stupid science fiction movie. Standing erect against that endless sky. Those suckers blow up, he thought, they go off like an A-bomb.

               He was feeling explosive himself. He hadn’t been alone with a woman for quite a while. And certainly not for such a long duration.

               Over two and half hours ago he picked her up outside of Circle. She mumbled something about Glacier and tossed her backpack on top of his sample case in the backseat.

               He studied her out of the corner of his eye. Her chin up, studying the horizon herself, she looked so…so cool; in spite of the heat rushing through the open windows like blast furnaces.

               He had to make a move. True, their conversation had trailed off but, maybe she was lost in thought like himself. And hadn’t she smiled sweetly at him back in Wolf Point when he filled up with gas? No, it was more than sweetly, it was…invitingly. He reached out and placed a sweaty palm firmly on her tan knee. It was so…so cool.

               He glanced at the rearview ear through a cloudy eye. His face was stinging, smarting. Man, it was crazy how you could see things, like someone standing along the roadside, for such distances out here. It reminded him of the monolith in that stupid science fiction movie.

 

               Alternate ending I just came up with:

               She looked at her self in the mirror. No harm done, then moved it into the rearview position again. Could she still see him standing way back there? Man, it was like those freaky grain elevators you can see forever. No, it was still him. She could see him still brushing himself off. She reached around and dragged up her backpack. She pulled out a joint. She floored it.