Sardines or Silver Trout?
By Hayden Henderson
“…I’m telling you, there are no trout in this lake,” Duckworth says, warming his fingers with his breath.
“There’s plenty.”
“There ain’t a single goddamn one in this whole lake, Billy.”
“You sure don’t believe in much, do you?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe there was trout in this lake—”
“—There was. Largest I’ve seen.”
“That don’t mean they’ve stuck around, Billy.”
“Oh they’re here, you ol’ Duck. Sure as hell’s frozen over.”
The lake, mirroring the blue of the early morning mountains, dispels fog to the surrounding spruce. Two fine lines drawn into the still water, disappearing under the surface. A wire grill, coals red, a flask of coffee reaching hot, a can of sardines cracked, oil spitting.
Duckworth pats around his vest with his free hand.
“You want a cigarette, Billy?”
“No.”
“You sure? Tastes real good on a Monday morning.”
“I don’t want your damn cigarettes.”
“Alright now, don’t get stiff with me.”
“I’m not getting stiff. The fish can smell ‘em.”
“The fish can’t smell ‘em.”
“Trout are known for their noses.”
“That’s a bunch of nonsense.”
“Been around people too long. Must’ve evolved into it.”
“Horseshit.”
A breeze wafts the coffee and boiling sardines down the bank. They lodge their rods in the exposed roots of an evergreen. Duckworth pours himself a cup, while Billy pries back the tin of sardines and slips one out with a pocket knife. They sit in canvas chairs watching the tips of their poles and the teeter of the trees in the rising gusts. The cliffs are still blue and the morning is still somewhere east.
“You’ve heard from Loretta?” Duckworth asks, tapping out his cigarette.
“Now what are you asking that for?”
“No reason.”
“That’s a stupid reason.”
The coals turn white and the coffee loses its heat. The tin of sardines is empty and Billy is licking the oil off the lid. As Duckworth lights his third cigarette, the end of Billy’s rod flicks down, the line jutting across the glass, breaking its smooth tension.
“Fish on Billy!”
Billy springs up from his chair and takes his rod, hoisting the flying line taut. The pole creaks, arcing across the morning twilight.
“Keep it Billy! Keep it you ol’ bastard!”
“Will you shut it.”
He is focused, hands placed well, giving off line and reeling it back. He steps forward, boots submerging into the water. The fish thrashes and the fiberglass takes on the crescent of a waning moon. Duckworth stands idle. The fish is fierce and flipping, using all its weight to rip the hook free.
Morning draws across the valley. Day finds the trees on the western front and glistens on the now troubled waters. Billy is thigh deep. His fingers are pink. Brow dotted with sweat. Duckworth is at his side, net hovering above the water, his eyes searching for a streak of silver. For a moment all is quiet, the air ancient and cool.
It comes as a flash just below the surface and disappears. Billy cranks the reel and pitches back on his old hips. The trout skims past again, knocking up an icy wave. The line strings out, the tip touching the water. Billy plants his feet, calling for a last effort.
“Up!” he shouts, “Up! And Up!” He lists backwards into the water.
The fish leaps, fat with a metallic spotted belly shining in the risen sun. Duckworth extends the net forward. The fish hammers its jaw on the rim, knocking the hook loose from its throat. Silver scurries into black.
Billy pokes his head from the water, gasping.
“You get ‘em?” He pants. “Where is he, I want to see ‘em!”
Duckworth shakes his head.
“You’re kidding.”
“Sorry Billy.”
Billy’s eyes fall shut, his breath pluming white. He dives his head back under before standing up. Duckworth follows him out.
They change into dry clothes and pack up camp.
“Sorry about it Billy, I’m already sore about it.”
“No reason to be sore, you ol’ Duck. It’s a damn pretty morning.” He gestures to the gold now draped upon the peaks.
They’re hiking down the valley to the parking lot, rods buckled to their packs, bobbing with each step. They reach a crest overlooking several dozen miles of farmland, a fresh green marking the start of spring. Billy stops. He breathes it in, hard and stuttered, and lets it go, soft and clean.
“Loretta’s doing fine, you ol’ Duck. Saw her for Christmas. For the grandkid’s sake and such.” His hands are up like it is the end to a trick.
Duckworth smiles and walks on ahead.
“I figured she would be, you ol’ bastard.”
Hayden Henderson is a senior math major at UNC with a passion for creative writing. He’s spent the past two years learning the craft in his spare time, focusing on works of literary fiction.