Mattie Mitchell (12 page)

THE WIND DIED AND THE COVE
blackened in deep shadow. The
gentle motion from the tide lapped against the sloping shingle.
From where the two men lay sprawled on the beach, only the
tips of the schooner's masts were visible against the night sky.
Worcester pulled on his pipe and found only the foul, burnt taste
of ash remaining. He tapped the bowl of the briar against one
of the rocks that lined their fireplace and watched the dottle fall
among the glowing driftwood's ashes.

Mattie watched the preacher man pull a small, round, brass
land compass out of his pocket and look into the north sky.

“You told me your people always use the North Star for
guidance, Mattie. I know where north is, but I always have
trouble finding the North Star itself. It isn't very bright, is it?”

“No, Nort' Star ver' faint. You know where Big Dipper is?”
asked Mattie, and when Worcester assured him that he did indeed,
Mattie, looking up into the firmament, spoke again. “Find Nort'
Star easy with two fingers dis way.”

There are seven stars in the Big Dipper and also seven stars
in the little one, Mattie told him. Worcester had to admit he had
never counted them before. The fire crackled and the small waves
brushed against the beach. A snipe hunted somewhere high above
them. The warbling sound escaped from its folded wings and
echoed around the cove as it dived for moths. Pointing skyward,
the easy-talking woodsman explained to the educated American
how simple it was to get direction from the night heavens.
Fascinated, Worcester watched and listened and saw right away
what all of his book knowledge had never taught him.

With his long, brown fingers Mattie demonstrated to
Worcester the age-old method of finding the Dog Star. Like an
eager student, Worcester followed his every move. With the
thumb of his right hand on the lower star and with his forefinger
extended to reach the star above—Mattie called it the pointing
star—which formed the outer edge of the Big Dipper opposite its
handle, Mattie moved both fingers straight up five times, always
keeping the fingers the same distance apart.

“Now pointing finger on firs' star in Little Dipper 'andle. Dis
is Nort' Star. Never fail. My people use on land an' water. When
one dipper empty, udder one always full.” Mattie dropped his
hand and watched as Worcester raised his own hand above his
head to study this method of navigation. When he thanked Mattie
for showing him the stars, adding that many of the old ways were
still good ones, the Indian simply replied in his matter-of-fact
way.

“If old way not good way, 'ow dey get old?” Worcester, who
had no answer for such wisdom, said nothing.

They left the
Danny Boy
in the grey dawn of the following
day. The schooner swung on her hook, with lots of scoop given.
With two heavy lines running from the shore to each of her two
sides, she looked secure in the narrow cove. Seated in Mattie's
canoe, they made their way along the coast. In the stern of the
craft and paddling on the left side sat the lean Indian. Seated
in the bow and paddling on the right was the broad American
preacher.

Between the two men sat their stored accoutrements and
enough basic provisions to provide for days. A tan-coloured tent
sat atop the pile, and two fly fishing rods stretched across the
tent. Among their supplies were a double-barrelled shotgun in a
waterproof case and Mattie's long bow. Next to the latter was a
leather quiver filled with long arrows. Worcester had seen him
put the weapon aboard but had not said anything about it. He was
excited about seeing it put to use.

With each stroke and dip of the paddles, the canoe slid quickly
along the coast. They rounded a point and left the
Danny Boy
in its sheltered cove behind. When the sun finally broached the
mountains, grey clouds moved in to cover it.

“Clouds low. Rain dis day, maybe,” Mattie said softly from
the stern of the canoe.

Worcester agreed with his guide and shifted his paddle to the
left side of the canoe. Behind him, Mattie changed to the right
side. It is the way of paddlers, who know that a change is as good
as a rest. Even without the sun the day was warm. The wind here
was light, but a brisk wind threatened from the gulf. Before they
had gone far, the wind had reached them, and waves came as
if from nowhere and slapped against the side of the little craft,
causing it to roll dangerously.

They were no more than a few feet from the formidable
limestone coastline. Worcester was worried. He could see
nowhere to go for shelter. He was about to voice his concern
when the bow of the canoe suddenly turned in to the face of the
cliffs. For a moment he thought they would capsize and grabbed
both gunnels of the canoe.

“Keep paddlin', ” came a low growl from the stern.

Worcester dipped his paddle into a surge of water that was
rolling level with the gunnels. He held his breath in fear but
kept paddling as instructed. Just when he was sure they would
be thrown against the looming cliff face, the canoe gently lifted
from behind and shot through a narrow passage with amazing
speed.

And then they sped away from the scud of wind as they
entered a long, pleasant arm where the big waves of the gulf could
not reach. Worcester felt ashamed of himself for letting go of the
paddle. It was a very dangerous thing to do. He said so to Mattie,
who replied simply, “You do better nex' time.” Worcester, hoping
there would never be a next time, dug his paddle in deep as the
canoe glided down a calm, pristine water valley. There would be
many more narrow escapes for Worcester and his fearless guide,
but the American would never again let go of his paddle.

They heard the brook running into the sea long before they
saw it. It made its way into the sea through a flat, rocky, and very
shallow delta. They hauled the canoe along the foundered banks,
and at the first turn in the river the sea was gone from their view.
They paddled across deep steadies, and up rattles they pulled
their craft.

They fished and caught high-jumping Atlantic salmon in the
intertidal pools. They caught flashing steelheads, which were in
the same river and which Worcester had not fished before. As the
two men had enjoyed the bounties of the rolling ocean before,
now they relished the days and the taste of the wilderness.

Worcester had always figured himself to be a good fly
fisherman. He was good at catching trout, but he was embarrassed
with the pitiful results of his salmon catch in comparison to
Mattie's. The man not only knew where the salmon were lying,
he was always able not only to “rise” one of the fish, but promptly
hook one. He pointed out to Worcester where to find the fish, but
try as he might, the American could not get the hang of Atlantic
salmon fly fishing.

They were at the end of a long, deep pool one late evening
casting for salmon. A salmon would jump out of the water at
regular intervals and glisten as it turned to re-enter the water with
a noisy splash.

Worcester tried his best to ward off the hordes of blackflies.
They always seemed to hunt him more than they did his
companion. He was having no success with his fishing and it put
him in a foul mood. He called out to Mattie, who was just now
removing the hook from his second salmon.

“Mattie, are you sure there are salmon behind these rocks? I
have seen no sign of them there and I have changed flies several
times without any luck whatsoever.”

Mattie laid his own rod down, walked over to Worcester, and
asked him for his rod. After studying the water for a minute or so,
he made a long, slow cast. The line swung high and curved in a
graceful arc that seemed to defy the wind, then gently landed the
hook behind the same rock with which the American was trying
his luck. A dark swirl of water appeared behind the hook. Mattie
pulled quickly, but it came back empty.

“Dat one smart salmon,” he said. “I try nex' one, maybe.”

He cast his line toward another rock behind which he had
told Worcester several salmon were waiting. The line presented
the hook as before, and on the very next cast the same dark swirl
of water appeared behind the moving fly. This time Mattie's pole
snapped back with a rapid motion of his wrist, there was a sudden
buzzing sound from the reel, a salmon jumped for freedom, the
tiny reel gears clicked, the rod bent from tip to middle, and the
play began. Mattie landed his fish, cast a few more times behind
each of the two rocks, and raised two more salmon. He handed
the rod back to Worcester.

“I catch one salmon fer you, show you t'ree more. Now your
turn again.”

With that he started to walk back to his own fishing spot.
Worcester couldn't understand what he was doing wrong. He
pleaded with Mattie.

Mattie turned and said, “You cast ver' good line. You don't
watch hook. Your eye mus' never leave hook. Watch fer willum.
Den pull quick.”

Worcester didn't have any idea what a “willum” was and
didn't know why he had to keep his eye on the hook. In his usual
patient way, Mattie Mitchell explained to the preacher the secret
of fly fishing for the wily Atlantic salmon. The salmon came in
out of the ocean to these swift rivers to spawn, he said, not to
feed. He had gutted many of them late in the season. Their bellies
were always empty, even though the water surface was alive with
many kinds of insects. Why they didn't feed, he wasn't sure, nor
did he care. He just knew what he saw.

When the fish rose for the hook, it wasn't for food. He told
Worcester that when he saw the “willum,” or swirl, directly
behind his trailing hook, the salmon already had the hook in its
mouth. That was the instant to set the hook. The fish would spit
the metal out of its mouth quicker than it had taken it. Worcester
admitted to Mattie that he had always waited for a bite as if he
were fishing for trout. Mattie told him again, “No willum, no
salmon. Feel him take, too late.”

Worcester never took his eye from the hook again. His salmon
fishing improved, but he could never match the skill of Mattie
Mitchell. Worcester always believed that Mattie had another
secret to fishing, and, like all fishermen, kept it to himself.

FOR THIS EXPEDITION THEY HAD TAKEN
one black cooking
pot, a much smaller pot for tea, and an iron frying pan. Worcester
cooked the red salmon over an open fire near the water where it
had been caught. Mattie cut the steelhead down the back, opened
up its thick sides with several lateral cuts, and placed the fillets
flesh down on flat rocks close to the fire. When the salmon had
sizzled to a golden brown and the trout started to emit sweet-smelling steam out of every cut, both men began eating. They
exchanged pieces of fish. Worcester loved the naturally cooked
trout best. But Mattie Mitchell wanted something more. He
wanted meat.

On they moved up the river, which narrowed, widened, and
ran deep and shallow, until they came to a place where the river
was almost lost in low boglands. They quietly paddled through
a place with tall green grasses. Two or more small streams
meandered out of the grasses and joined the bigger river. Mattie
guided the canoe into one of the narrowest of these leads. A bend
appeared, and beyond it the tributary seemed to widen into a
circular pond. The long-stemmed grasses grew everywhere here.

Worcester felt Mattie shift his paddle, and in the next instant
the boat turned and slid in among the tall goose grass. They were
now parallel to the slow stream. Worcester was surprised to feel
a firm, gravelly bottom at the end of his paddle. He turned to ask
a question but heard “No turn, no talk.”

For a long time they waited, for what Worcester had no idea.
Once, he felt a slight movement and heard a faint rustle from the
back of the canoe. He did not turn around. Their heads barely
topped the grass. Worcester thought the blossoming grass ends
would grow into wild rice, but he wasn't sure and dared not ask.

The stream beside them appeared still and black like a mirror.
There was nothing to see of the water save for the slight bend
just ahead of them. Presently, two small objects at the bend in
the water came into the American's view. At first he thought it
was something that had been floating there before and he hadn't
noticed. But then another object appeared from below the water.
As he watched, three more heads broke the surface, and then
all five muskrat swam toward them, with a tiny, V-shaped wake
following them.