StanleyWheeler

A Clash of Titans

Flashes of silver in the afternoon sun—the duct tape, which held together one of the black, high-top shoes he wore—attracted the eye to the slow, stiff gait that carried him over the path along the reservoir. The pale sand and fine gravel on the road-like path crackled beneath each step. He walked a short way around the trail carrying the metal tackle box which had weathered to the color of bleached-salmon meat. The other hand grasped a bundle of fishing poles. He selected a wide spot upon the bank between two stands of trees. The location whispered a promise of a catch of something beyond the abundant moss which scarred the surface here and there like weathered green scabs.

He stepped down to the water’s edge, his keen eye scanning the deep green water. It had been the work of but a few minutes to grab one of the fishing poles and to attach a lure from within the tackle box. He sensed that his efforts would be rewarded. While sons and grandchildren roamed far down the bank to test their luck at various locations, he planted himself in this spot like an oak—he would prosper or fail there.

Little fish followed the lure through the translucent green water as the sun’s rays reflected upon tiny wave-tips as from a thousand fragments of broken mirror. The fish followed, but refused to take the lure. He landed some moss. Eventually he switched poles and lures. He did this two more times. The man. The poles. The sun. The water. The moss. The little fish no longer pursued the lure. The moss tentacles about the lure mocked his efforts. Finally, he took up the last pole. He was testing the instruments to choose which to take on the pack trip planned for the following day. He also selected a new lure. He had never used this lure before. With its fish-like appearance; red tint; flat, elongated nose; and bright hooks, the strange lure flashed in the sun like an ancient talisman.

Meanwhile, the younger fishermen had discovered a grain of truth in the words of Sir Walter Scott who wrote in Waverly, “[O]f all diversions which ingenuity ever devised for the relief of idleness, fishing is the worst qualified to amuse a man who is at once indolent and impatient.” They terminated their bootless efforts and hooked their lines to their poles. The woman with them called the children to leave their swimming and to climb the bank so that they could return home.

When the younger men, the woman, and the children reached the fisherman, he stood upon the bank, the fishing pole bent like Hercules’ bow before the arrow’s release, one hand peculiarly twisted in a hold upon the reel.

“Is it a fish or snag?” one of the sons asked.

“I had a fish. He took it and spit it out into a snag.”

“Are you sure?” the younger man asked again as the end of the angler’s pole began to quiver like a frigid four-year old.

“I’m not sure. This pole doesn’t have a crank, I couldn’t reel it in.”

The younger men examined the pole. A broken shaft extended an inch from the body of the reel. The older man’s fingers clamped the shaft in a desperate grip.

“I cast in and the fish hit right away. I didn’t notice the reel was broken until after I cast. I can’t reel it in.”

One son, like Hephaestus forging a sword, rummaged among the other poles and removed acrank from one of the reels. While the angler held the pole and the line, keeping it taut with the pole bowed in submission, the son removed the broken shaft and screwed the new crank into place.

No longer a mere man desperately clinging to a broken rod, the angler transformed into a hero of Greek myth with weapon in hand, prepared for battle. The brief tremble which had earlier passed through the pole had convinced him that a fish still held the lure. The hero moved along the bank, drawing back upon the pole in an attempt to drag the underwater foe from the stronghold into which it had fled. This way and that upon the bank the hero moved, testing the line, challenging the foe. The line, stretched to its limit, glistened in the rays of the lowering sun like the shaft of a silver spear. No angle, no position, no amount of force which did not threaten break the line changed the status. The hero. The pole. The line. The unseen foe.

“It may be a snag,” he said.

“It looks like a snag,” one son said.

“I think it’s a snag,” agreed the other.

Admitting that the fisherman’s opponent could be nothing more than a snag slathered dirty slush upon the sultry dream of what might be. Hope became tarnished with dismay. The heroic glaze which had graced the angler only moments ago began to dim. The story which pressed to be recited and retold around dinner tables and campfires about the first cast with the broken pole and the mysterious lure to catch a fine fish commenced to fade. The promise of a fish story, like the sun at the end of the reservoir, began to dip below the horizon. The hero must diminish once more into the man with the stiff gait and duct-taped high tops. Perseus had fallen and could not get up. Gandalf had been stymied at the Doors of Durin. There would be no joy in Mudville.

The dream-quenchers who gathered like sharks about the angler, repeating the new mantra of the snag, had not reckoned upon the mermaid, that gift of the gods to help mortal men in their time of distress.

Resigned to defeat, or at least appearing to succumb to the repeated mantra, the angler said, “Who wants to swim out and get my lure?”

“I’ll do it,” the woman said.

She began to shed rings, accessories and shoes like a bare knuckles boxer preparing to enter the ring. She stepped into the flood. The dark green water swallowed her pale legs, and enveloped her black shorts. The wave rose to cover her black top, leaving exposed only her shoulders and the dark hair gathered atop her head in a black tower. The moss in the water brushed her legs, raising thoughts of underwater monsters, snakes, or worse. She gritted her teeth and thrust those thoughts away.

“Pull it straight up,” the angler directed as she reached for the silver thread which bound the angler to his dream--to his destiny.

She found the line and followed it beneath the surface, submerging herself in the dark green underworld. With the line in hand, she pulled it out, away from the bank. The line went slack.

What had prompted Poseidon to loose the Kraken from its lair, we will never know.

She didn’t notice what happened to the line next. Images of sea beasts and unspeakable denizens of the depths flashed through her mind when the thrashing tail of the Kraken whipped between her knees.

“Ah! It’s not a snag!” she screamed as her head broke through the dark surface. “It’s a fish! I felt its tail between my legs. I think I peed a little!”

Adrenaline continued to rush through her body as she chose flight, swimming away to escape the battle between hero and titan.

The angler reeled and pulled. The tenuous silver thread binding him to destiny moved back and forth upon the water, but always it moved closer to shore. Fighting and thrashing, the Kraken struggled against the hero’s might but it could not resist the conspiracy of the gods to crown the hero with victory. With a final lift of pole and line, the angler brought his catch to the bank.

Another messenger of the gods appeared. Stripped to the waist, his long blond hair bouncing in time with his hasty steps, the newcomer proclaimed the Kraken a defeated titan.

“I heard the commotion. When I heard her say she peed a little, I had to come see the excitement for myself,” the messenger laughed.

Not with Medusa’s head, but with the brave-yet-frightened mermaid, the hero vanquished the Kraken. The messenger of the gods produced a scale with which to weight the trophy—it was a big, big fish. The mantra makers silenced. The weird lure. The broken reel. The Kraken pulled from its cave. Accolades to the hero.

The hero had no need to boast, but carrying the spoils of battle on the way back to the pickup he stopped to ask every angler along the bank how they were doing—while the huge bass dangled from his hand above the duct tape upon his shoe like slain Hector behind Achilles’ chariot. The myrmidons carried the poles and the worn tackle box in his wake.