He
sat silently, as always, in the hard chair beside his bed,
looking out the window. As always, his gaze swept past the
manicured grounds, the strolling figures, the fence. A half-mile
away, snaking through a meadow of wind-tossed grass and
clover, was a ribbon of water. It was a bright morning and
the surface glistened like a jagged string of diamonds.
It was a small stream and without much cover but he judged
that some of the bank would be undercut, providing dark
sanctuary for a trout or two. He had never fished that stream,
as he had never fished thousands of others, and never would.
But he had certainly tried to fish them all. Since he was
a boy at his father’s side, he had spent much of his
long life, rod and reel in hand, wading dark rivers, crawling
through underbrush and creeping along banks. Each new pool
he approached was bright with promise. Each set of rapids
chattered a new adventure. He’d thought it would never
end.
But it had.
A year or two ago (time’s passage was imprecise these
days) he’d gotten sick and couldn’t leave his
room. Thugs had broken in and hit him again and again and
again, stealing all he had as he watched helplessly. And
worse than the loss of his life savings, worse than the
beating, was the senseless destruction of his favorite fishing
rod.
They had snapped it as casually as a twig. This was the
rod he had built himself, spending painstaking hours wrapping
thread around the guides, shaping and gluing the cork rings
for the butt. It was a rod built to mold his grip,
carefully crafted to be an extension of his arm;
a rod sensitive enough to telegraph the tentative tap of
an inquisitive trout, strong enough to welcome the challenge
of a surging salmon.
When they left, their destruction complete, his spirit had
joined the debris on the floor.
Hours or days later, someone found him and he was taken
to the hospital. He had stayed there a long time and they
had ultimately sent him here, to the nursing home. Through
it all, he had not spoken. They all assumed he was somewhat
senile, or still traumatized. But he was just old, and tired
and had nothing left to say.
Though deeply saddened by his loss, he had few regrets about
his life. He occasionally felt a pang when he thought of
never marrying but no woman he’d ever met would accept
his lifestyle of working the fall and winter months and
then quitting to go fishing when the ice broke. He missed
his favorite fishing spots like he did the faces of long-departed
friends but he drew solace from having known them for a
little while.
His only true regret was never finding the River.
He wasn’t sure how old he was when he first dreamed
of the River, perhaps his early teens, maybe younger, but
the dream never varied.
He would be walking, in the near-dark of pre-dawn, through
a field damp with dew. Ahead loomed a line of willows, their
branches dusting the ground. As he neared them, he could
hear the hushed murmur of moving water; to his ears, a whispered
invitation.
In his dream, even the first time, he thrilled with a sense
of expectation, and, most strangely, recognition. When he
saw the first deep pool eddying around a fallen willow,
he knew it as well as he knew himself. He’d fished
it before, a hundred times, a thousand times. In the dream,
he never caught a fish but he knew that great, hook-jawed
trout inhabited every hole. And he fished for them patiently,
totally at peace with himself, in harmony with the River.
When he awoke from the dream the first time, he searched
his memory but could recall no stretch of water like the
one in the dream. He could not shake the feeling of recognition
and described the River to his father, thinking that perhaps
he had taken him once as a child. His father had listened
carefully but could not recall it. Eventually he nearly
forgot about it. But in the decades to follow, he had the
same dream many times, infrequently at first, much more
often of late.
Somewhere along the way, he began to think of the dream
as a precognitive one. He was certain that someday he would
find the River. As he explored new water over the years
he would approach it expectantly, hoping to spot the familiar
line of willows, straining his ears for the particular music
of the River.
Now, he knew it was not to be. He sighed and rose stiffly
from his chair, shuffling uncertainly back to his bed. He
eased himself down, wondering if the Boy would visit today.
He enjoyed listening to him.
The Boy started working at the Home fairly recently. All
the ambulatory residents were in the common room that day
for some sort of party. Two nurse’s aides were hanging
a large banner and the string broke in the middle. They
tied it, tried to re-hang it and the knot broke.
A cluster of residents gathered around to offer advice.
He found himself moving through the group toward the aides.
He gestured for the string and with surprised looks, they
handed it to him. Hesitantly at first, then swiftly, as
memory returned to his fingers, he wrapped each broken end
around the other 5 times, pushed one tag end up, the other
down, then gently pulled them together. A small, perfect,
and very strong knot was the result. The aides thanked him.
He nodded and returned to his chair.
A moment or two later, a young man dressed in white approached
him. Smiling, he said in a rather high-pitched, sing-song
voice; “Hello Mr. Wilborne. The other aides told me
your name. Mine’s Danny O’Hare, I started today.”
The old man did not respond.
“That was a nice Blood Knot you tied over there. I
always have trouble with that one. You must have done a
lot of fishing.”
The old man nodded.
“I heard you don’t like to talk but maybe I
could bend your ear sometime. Next to actually fishing,
I love to talk about it.”
He’d waved and moved off. Several times he had come
to talk about fishing. Once he had brought a spool of monofilament
line and the old man had shown him a few knots. He liked
listening to the Boy’s tales of fish landed and fish
lost and suspected the Boy enjoyed his silent companionship
as much.
Morning slid into afternoon as the old man dozed and waited.
It must be the Boy’s day off. Suppertime came and
went. He had very little appetite. He watched the little
stream through his window until twilight shaded into night.
He was suddenly very tired and prepared for bed. Sleep came
almost immediately.
A voice was calling his name.
From far away and then closer.
Gentle, but insistent hands prodded him into wakefulness.
He left his sleep reluctantly.
The room was dark and a figure leaned over him. It sounded
like the Boy, saying in his musical voice, “Wake up
Sam. Let’s go fishing. It’s going to be a beautiful
day.”
He didn’t question the Boy. He arose, feeling better
than he had in years. He followed the Boy through the dimly-lit
halls and down the stairs. The night nurse didn’t
even spare them a glance.
The pre-dawn air was cool and bracing. The ground felt light
and spongy under his feet. The Boy was far ahead, turning
and beckoning him to follow. They were walking through a
field wet with dew. He didn’t recall passing through
the fence. He turned once and the lights from the Home seemed
impossibly far away. When he turned back, the Boy was nowhere
to be seen.
“Danny!” he called, surprised at the sound of
his own voice.
From a line of trees ahead, he thought he heard an answering
call; rising, then falling into a faint, familiar murmuring.
He quickened his pace, his heart beating rapidly as awareness
dawned.
The trees, outlined against the sky, were unmistakably willows.
He ran, shedding years with every stride, the sound of wind
in his ears, bringing with it the welcoming greeting of
the River. He’d found it!
And there, leaning against the trunk of the fallen willow,
was his rod, whole and gleaming in the first glimmer of
dawn.
The old man silently gave thanks to the Boy and prepared
to fish, at peace with himself, in harmony with the River.
When Danny O’Hare arrived at work that morning, he
was shocked and saddened to hear of Mr. Wilborne’s
death. As he was cleaning out the old man’s closet,
he came upon a beautiful handmade fishing rod, rudely broken.
He examined the break and thought that with some work, it
could be fixed almost as good as new.
He was new to his work and unused to death. He thought about
how he would miss the old man and fought the sting of tears.
He wanted so much to tell him of the dream he had last night
and to describe to him the River.
