John Langan - The Fisherman

Dont call me Abraham: call me Abe. Though its what my ma named me, Ive never liked Abraham. Its a name that sounds so full of itself, so Biblical, soI believe patriarchal is the word Im after. One thing I am not, nor do I want to be, is a patriarch. There was a time I thought Id like at least one child, but these days, the sight of them makes my skin crawl.

Some years ago, never mind how many, I started to fish. Ive been fishing for a long time, now, and as you might guess, I know a story or two. Thats what fishermen are, right? Storytellers. Some Ive lived; some Ive had from the mouths of others. Most of them are funny; they bring a smile to your face and sometimes a laugh, which are no small things. A bit of laughter can be the bridge that lets you cross out of a bad time, believe you me. Some of my stories are what Id call strange. I know only a few of these, but they make you scratch your head and maybe give you a little shiver, which can be a pleasure in its own way.

But theres one story well, its downright awful, almost too much to be spoken. It happened going on ten years ago, on the first Saturday in June, and by the time night had fallen, Id lost a good friend, most of my sanity, and damn near my life. Id come whisker-close to losing more than all that, too. It stopped me fishing for the better part of a decade, and although Ive returned to it once again, theres no power on earth, or under it, could bring me back to the Catskill Mountains, to Dutchmans Creek, the place a man I should have listened to called Der Platz das Fischer.

You can find the creek on your map if you look closely. Go to the eastern tip of the Ashokan Reservoir, up by Woodstock, and backtrack along the south shore. It may take you a couple of tries. Youll see a blue thread snaking its way from near the Reservoir over to the Hudson, running north of Wiltwyck. That was where it all happened, though what it all was I still cant wrap my head around. I can tell you only what I heard, and what I saw. I know Dutchmans Creek runs deep, much deeper than it could or should, and I dont like to think what its full of. Ive walked the woods around it to a place you wont find on your map, on any map youd buy in the gas station or sporting-goods store. Ive stood on the shore of an ocean whose waves were as black as the ink trailing from the tip of this pen. Ive watched a woman with skin pale as moonlight open her mouth, and open it, and open it, into a cavern set with rows of serrated teeth that would have been at home in a sharks jaws. Ive held an old knife out in front of me in one, madly trembling hand, while a trio of refugees from a nightmare drew ever-closer.

Im running ahead of myself, though. Theres other things youll need to hear about first, like Dan Drescher, poor, poor Dan, who went with me up to the Catskills that morning. Youll need to hear Howards story, which makes far more sense to me now than it did when first he delivered it to me in Hermans Diner. Youll need to hear about fishing, too. Everythingll have to be in its proper place. If theres one thing I cant abide, its a poorly put-together story. A story doesnt have to be fitted like some kind of pre-fabricated house no, its got to go its own way but it does have to flow. Even a tale as coal-black as this one has its course.

You may ask why Im taking such care. Some things are so bad that just to have been near them taints you, leaves a spot of badness in your soul like a bare patch in the forest where nothing will grow. Do you suppose a story can carry away such badness? It seems a bit much to hope for, doesnt it? Maybe its true for the little wrongs, you know, the kind of minor frustrations that youre able to turn into funny stories at parties. For what happened at the Creek, though, I doubt theres such a transformation waiting. Theres only transmission.

And theres more to it than that. Theres the tale Dan and I heard in Hermans Diner. Since Howard told what happened to Lottie Schmidt and her family, some ninety years past, Ive been unable to shake it. You could say his words stuck with me, which would be the understatement of the year. I can recall that tale word for word, as could Howard from the minister who told it to him. Without a doubt, part of the reason for the vividness of my memory is the way that Howards story seems to explain a good deal of what happened to Dan and me later that same day. That tale about the building of the Reservoir and who and what was covered by its waters, prowls my brain. Even had we heeded Howards advice and avoided the creek that day Hell, had we turned around and headed back home as fast as I could drive, which is what we should have done Im convinced what we heard would still have branded itself on my memory. Can a story haunt you? Possess you? There are times I think recounting the events of that Saturday in June is just an excuse for those more distant events to make their way out into the world once more.

Again, though, Im running ahead of myself. There will be a time and a place for everything, including the story of Lottie Schmidt, her father, Rainer, and the man he called Der Fischer. Lets back it all up. Lets begin with a few words about my lifes great passion well, what I used to think of as my lifes great passion: a few words about fishing.

It wasnt something Id learned as a child. My pa took me once or twice, but he wasnt much good at it himself, so he concentrated on teaching me the things he knew, like baseball, and the guitar. One day, it must have been twenty-five, thirty years after pa and I had spent our final Saturday morning subjecting a bucketful of worms to protracted drowning, I woke up and thought, Id like to go fishing. Scratch that. I woke up and thought, I need to go fishing. I needed it the deep-down way you need that tall glass of water with the ice cubes clinking around in it at three oclock on a blistering July afternoon. Why I needed fishing, of all things, I dont know and cant say. Granted, I was at a bit of a rough patch. My wife had just died, and us married not two years, and I was living the clichs you watch in made-for-TV movies and listen to in country songs. Mostly, this meant drinking too much, and since pa wasnt much with the liquor, either, this meant drinking badly, half a bottle of Scotch followed by half a bottle of wine, followed by extended sessions of holding onto the toilet as the bathroom did a merry dance around me. My job had gone all to hell, too I was a systems analyst over at IBM in Poughkeepsie although I was fortunate in having a manager who put me in for extended sick leave, instead of firing my ass, which is what I deserved. This was back when IBM was a decent place to work. The company approved three months with pay, if you can believe it. Almost the entire first month I spent looking up out of the bottoms of more bottles than I could count. I ate when I thought about it, which wasnt too often, and my meals were basically a steady stream of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches interrupted by the occasional burger and fries. The second month was pretty much the same as the first, except for visits from my brother and my late wifes parents, none of which went well enough to bother relating. All of us were suffering. Marie had been something else, like no other girl. We felt her loss the way youd feel it if someone reached into the back of your mouth with a pair of pliers and tore out one of your molars; it was an open wound that ached all the way through you. The same way you couldnt stop testing that spot where your tooth used to be, probing it with your tongue until you felt the jolt of pain, none of us could help poking around our memories until we made everything start hurting all over again. By the time the third month was half done, I was sitting in my underwear on the couch with the TV on, sipping from whatever was closest to hand. I had learned a little, you see.