Friday, June 12, 2015
The thrill of landing a bruiser Brookie made time leave, ears back and tail between its legs.
It didn’t matter who caught the fish, Clay or Thorny, so long as it made a creel its new home.
“Adjust the drag Clay, Thorny, dammit! I’ll get the net ready,” I yelled.
The sound of line-whine and reel-squeal told us this was no brook trout. It surfaced for a moment.
“Rainbow! It’s a Rainbow, Migizi!” said jubilant Clay.
Our hand nets were designed for Brookies, not lunker Rainbow Trout. I got down to water’s edge and prepared. The big fish appeared to tire easily and Clay eased it toward me. Touching my net, the trout revolted. Flipping hard, it flopped up on shore and snapped the line. Instinctively, I chucked the net and grabbed at the gyrating fish.
I was able to hold it tightly enough to toss the thing further from the water and that’s when it happened. Reality shifted me backward in time to being at the train bridge with Clay. We were age 12 and fishing. Clay caught a huge Bass and I had to land it by hand. Our laughter and victory whoops forged our spirits together likely beautiful Damascus steel.
As if a giant hand got hold of my collar, I was hauled back a little further in time. I was back in school, like in the dream I’d had at Clay’s. This time, I knew it was real, not dream, and I recognized Clay as being an instrument of peace when I was getting beaten for being a half breed. Later that day, I thanked Clay for his effort, invited him fishing, and we became buddies and brothers in school and out.
Feeling a push from behind, I flew forward in time to a couple years beyond our fishing victory at the bridge. I watched myself viciously beating Clay after luring him to a secluded area in the woods. We were encircled by mythical beasts. Black bears with Raven heads, shoulder to shoulder, stood tall like men and repeatedly chanted “sacrifice him”.
My blood, lava hot, flowed to my lungs at seeing this and I began suffocating. I collapsed in a heap beside Clay who was bruised, bloody, and sobbing. My spirit rose from my body, happy and excited to be free, and like my namesake, Eagle, started soaring higher.
“No you don’t. Get back here hon! It’s not time yet. Come on now, I mean it, return right now.”
The familiar voice of my wife, containing great medicine power, arrested my flight and drew me back into my body and I woke from the dream-vision.
Rolling from my back to my side to get up, I put my hand down on the trout. Its colorful hide was dull and dry and ants were already coming to check it out. I must have been out of commission for a good 20 minutes.
All the fishing gear, mine and Clay’s, was still topside on the bank but Clay was gone. My mind, feeling like the trout looked, cramped up like my feet often did at night. Two realities fought for control, one reviling and the other assuring.
“Load up and come home hon. It’s over, you’ve done what you could,” my wife’s voice said.
“You’re right, I did, I’m heading home sweety,” I said aloud.
I had no immediate memory of the vision or the moments immediately before going unconscious. I was getting used to the spells and didn’t bother caring.
“Yup, I’m out of here,” I said.
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