Calliope Page 3

  “You are high, my friend. You’re already on vacation.”

  Mason smiled, thinking. “It would be easier if she moved out,” he said. “I’m hoping she’ll do it soon.”

  “Shit!” Eric said, smiling. “It would be easier if she swallowed. You know damn good and well!”

  Mason laughed. There was more truth in that statement than he realized. Another guy might’ve gotten angry at the comment, but Mason needed to hear it. “Yes,” he said, smiling. “It would definitely be better if she swallowed. It would be better if she did anything.”

  ~

  The farther away from Elk Ridge they drove, the better Mason started to feel. At least he’d resigned himself to the divorce. He’d made the decision already, and now it was only a matter of executing it.

  Just take your things, Geneveeve. Take them all and get the hell out of the house. I don’t want you around anymore.

  Eric parked the Chevy at a small gravel parking lot. A sign said, No Bait. Artificial Only. They got out of the truck and grabbed the gear from the back. It was nine o’clock in the morning, already warm. They strapped their fishing belts around their waists.

  “There’s no real big fish in this thing, is there?” Mason asked.

  “Not really,” Eric said. “Something about it, though. It just called. And like I said, we can always go to Blackfoot later. We have the whole day.”

  “Why don’t we just go there now?”

  “Because I haven’t fished this in a long time. I wanted to show it to you. It’s shallow, but there are some deep pools. You can fish it all the way across if you’re willing to walk it.

  “Did you have a good breakfast?” Eric asked.

  “What are you, my mother?”

  “Got smokes?”

  “Fresh pack. Got ‘em this morning before you came by. Writer’s privileges. Are you a milk commercial or something? Got anything? Who’s high now?”

  “Just making sure you’re taken care of, Cuz. Don’t take it so fucking personally.”

  “Check. Check. All the supplies are in order, captain. Smokes, tackle, beverage. Shit, I should have grabbed some water!”

  “How’s about a soda?”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Truck bed. In the cooler.”

  Mason looked and found a 7-Up in the cooler. “Hot damn, a 7-Up! I love 7-Up.”

  “Those are Laura’s. Are you a fucking pansy or something? Uncolas are for sissies.”

  Mason burst into a fit of giggles. “Jesus, stop already! I’m gonna hurt something inside.”

  “You just need to start fishing. Let’s go.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  Black Canyon wasn’t like any river Mason had been to before. It was a river in stages, like steps. A giant could walk it easily. Crisp, clear water ran from left to right, dipped a foot—sometimes two—into a pool, and so on for as far as he could see. Mosquitoes and gnats circled in the air around his head. It smelled like wet, marshy ground and fresh water. With some luck, he might be able to pull in some decent brook trout. But the view was worth the visit alone. Moss-covered boulders lined each side of the river. They’d have to make their way through the rocks, farther north, and work their way downstream. A tall bluff took up the other side of the river, making for an early sunset should they decide to stay.

  Eric didn’t waste any time. He never did. With sunglasses on, he moved out and into the shallow water. A shimmering gold spinner arced through the air, catching glimpses of the sun when he cast.

  “First cast!” Eric exclaimed, reeling. His fishing pole jerked slightly, line taut, in the water.

  “You haven’t got a goddamn fish already!” Mason said in disbelief.

  Eric tugged and brought out a small, shimmering trout bigger than Mason expected. He shook his head and walked farther downstream.

  “That’s an easy pound, Cuz!” Eric called.

  “We’ll just end up at Blackfoot later,” Mason said.

  He fixed a Mepps spinner to the end of his line and cast it across the river, watching the silver shimmer plop into the water. He reeled and thought he felt a tug for a second, but missed it. A nice pool lay to his right in front of a large boulder.

  Clouds covered the sun. A breeze stirred the air, coming from the north. Mason felt another tug at the line and hooked it, reeling in a trout slightly smaller than Eric’s rainbow.

  “They’re biting good today!” he called.

  Eric turned and nodded.

  Her name isn’t Geneveeve. It’s Lucifer, and she wants to build robot babies to do her bidding.

  Mason actually smiled, still high from the joint. He was glad he agreed to this.

  You’re not a writer. Those tales are meaningless. If you like, you can study the tomes of ancient lands, their histories, and theologies.

  “Oh God,” Mason said, aloud, answering the voice. “Please. Let me come with you.”

  Eric continued to fish. He’d caught his third already and smiled over at Mason. “Three!” he cried.

  Christ, they were biting good! And what was happening to him suddenly?

  You just need to write another book, he thought.

  For a minute, he thought he was drunk. The symptoms were similar. He felt dislocated from the earth, out of sorts. He threw his line out again, reeled, but felt nothing.

  He was feverish and put a hand to his head. “That voice isn’t familiar,” he said.

  He was terrified for a moment. Maybe it was the heat, the shimmering, blinding reflections off the cold water. He was losing the vision, translocation, something . . . He wasn’t in control, not of anything, his own arms, and legs. Or was that only realization? He knew how it felt to be so disconnected from the world.

  “Jesus Christ, get a hold of yourself,” he said.

  “Something the matter?” Eric was closer, looking at him.

  “How many have you caught?” Mason asked.

  “Three. One was two pounds. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  Mason shook his head and held up a hand. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Eric continued to look at Mason, then resumed fishing.

  Maybe you can help teach some of our younger ones to read. It would be good for them. You could bring some of your own books with you.

  “Christ. What the hell’s happening to me?” He sat down on one of the jutting boulders.

  Please leave me alone right now, he thought. Just been hitting the sauce too much lately. Got to slow down. I’m not for you, Geneveeve, my dear. I’m for someone, something else now.

  See, you know where you belong.

  He felt split down the middle because it seemed he belonged in two different places suddenly.

  Actually, you belong to only one place, and it’s not the world you’re from.

  He was becoming unraveled. The voice was male, mature, and it wasn’t the beckoning call of seduction. It was something else. It was persuasive without sounding like a salesman. It couldn’t possibly need him, could it?

  Mason’s head cleared, and he stood up, trying to enjoy the summer day, the excursion alone. He was already there.

  “Are you all right?”

  Eric stood a few feet away. Mason hadn’t noticed his cousin approaching through the water. “Jesus, I’ve caught four fish already,” Eric said. “You haven’t even thrown a line out yet. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m hearing voices.” Mason was surprised how easily this came out. He wanted to laugh.

  Eric looked at him seriously, then smiled. “Quit fucking around,” he said. “Let’s fish.”

  “I am fishing. I had a rougher night than I thought. I’m hearing shit.”

  “You spend too much time inside, that’s why. You need some sun. Get out in the world and breathe some fresh air for once. Get away from those books for a while. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’m just saying . . .”

  “Stick to the voices in your own head. They seem to be telling me the same things.”

  “No more weed for you.”

  Mason shook his head.

  “Need to eat more,” Eric said.

  “Just shut up, will ya? I can’t tell who the fuck is talking all of a sudden!”

  Eric looked at him again; this time he did look concerned. “Jesus, are you going crazy on me?”

  Mason suddenly felt rejuvenated. Yes, Black Canyon was a good place to be, feeling the way he was. He’d get some beer later. Something was calling. He didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be worse than Geneveeve. Nothing could be worse than having to continue that battle.

  You mean, Lucifer.

  “Aye-aye, captain,” he said. “I feel a lot better suddenly. Let’s just fish and enjoy the day.”

  “You’re the soon-to-be-divorced writer,” Eric said. “Just don’t go crazy on me.”

  “Throw me in the river if I do,” Mason said.

  He caught three more fish in the time Eric landed five.

  “That’s eight to four!” Eric called, an hour later

  “Go ring one off the post!” Mason called back. Fishing, at times, related to hockey talk. ‘Ringing one off the post’ meant getting a bite, but failing to reel one in.

  The hours went by and the clouds gathered, moving in, making it cooler and shadier. They walked another half mile down the river. The breeze came in sporadic gusts now, cooler against the heat of the day.

  Mason felt another tug at his line. It felt bigger than the ones he’d caught earlier. When he tried to set his feet, he slipped on the rocks, and fell into the river, submerging himself completely. The fish spat out the lure. Mason stumbled, rose out of the water, soaking wet from head to toe. He laughed at himself. It was refreshingly brisk considering the warmth of the day.

  “Good God, m
an,” he said to himself. “Are you in control?”

  Mason didn’t feel in control, but somehow, the dip revived him. For the first time that day, he’d managed to come back to himself. So much so, silence permeated his thoughts, the sound of the river.

  He looked around, at the bluff on the other side. The clouds darkened, threatening rain. The sun lay buried under a leaden sky. As he looked, he saw Black Canyon, yet . . . he saw something else as well.

  This wasn’t Black Canyon. This wasn’t Black Canyon at all.

  It’s the side you never get to see. The side you never forgot since the day you were born. Not just the other side of the mountain, if you catch my meaning, Mason Loveless.

  He shook his head, not believing it.

  Looking upstream, Eric was still fishing. Something strange, surreal about today, Mason thought. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it seemed as if he’d been dreaming since he’d woken up. Divorce was too real, too brutal for him to accept right now. Despite the strangeness, the fish they’d caught already, there was something otherworldly going on both inside and outside of him.

  When Mason looked behind him, Eric was letting a five-pound brown back into the water. Black Canyon was disreputable for sizable fish. The fishing was always good, it seemed, but the fish themselves were undersized, not nearly as large as what he and Eric were reeling in. Could bigger fish have been released into Black Canyon? With the voices in his head, the idea he was somewhere else, and the sizable fish they were catching, dizziness washed over him. He swooned, and it wasn’t because he was high.

  Mason caught another trout, the pole virtually jerking out of his hands. He reeled in a three-pound brown, unhooked it, and let it go.

  How was this possible, he wondered?

  It’s all a dream, he thought. A dream I’ll start writing about because all I do is write trash anyway. I’m the demon. I keep forgetting that. Geneveeve and I are both demons on opposite sides of the spectrum.

  It was very uncomplicated. Black Canyon didn’t look the same, yet he couldn’t figure out why it looked any different. The clouds? It had nothing to do with simply being farther downstream, did it?

  Then he saw it . . . the telephone poles on the road to his left had disappeared. He couldn’t hear the road (if there was one), other vehicles, or a single bird. The silence was almost deafening. He looked upstream again and noticed Eric had disappeared as well. Mason tried to ignore it and cast out again.

  You just want it that badly, he thought. You’ve wanted a vacation more than anything, to make your imagination real if you can—to build it since it can’t come true in the real world.

  Another sudden, violent jerk almost pulled the fishing pole out of his hands. A fish much larger than three-pounds glimmered under the surface of the water.

  “Holy shit,” Mason said, eyes wide. He’d never hooked a fish bigger than three pounds before.

  He tugged, paused, and began to reel. He kept the pole steady, keeping it up with tension on the line. His feet slipped on the rocks, and he almost fell into the river again. He looked behind him. Eric was nowhere in sight.

  Imagine this all the time.

  “I’m not listening to you,” he said. “Daddy says you’re just in my imagination, and that I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to.”

  He heard laughter in his head.

  Mason reeled in the fish, fighting hard, and managed to bring it close enough to grab, but it was slippery, elusive. He succeeded in grabbing it under the gills with two fingers and lifted it out of the water. A rainbow, six to seven pounds easily. The fish jerked and flapped, dangling from his fingers. Where the hell was Eric?

  Mason held the fish for a second or two longer, savoring the moment. This was, undoubtedly, one of the best fishing days he’d ever had in his life. He unhooked the spinner from the trout’s lip and dropped it back into the water.

  “Goddamn boy, you’re smiling,” he said.

  The clouds were darker than before with an even cooler breeze. Was it the bugs? The bugs had disappeared as well. He wasn’t waving and swatting at pesky gnats and mosquitoes as he’d been earlier. Out of the corner of his eye, a short, green, gangly creature disappeared behind a rock on the other side of the river. It wasn’t an animal. He was home, yet never so far from home in his life. How was that possible?

  Are you ready to take that responsibility?

  “I’ve been ready my whole life,” he said.

  You’ll have to leave everything. Your wife. Your career. Everything. You don’t belong to it anymore.

  Tears came into Mason’s eyes. The voice was so distinct, it sounded right next to his ear, and he’d never believed such truer words before.

  He shook his head and laughed. Despite how crazy it seemed, something truly magical was happening. He had no choice but to accept it, the winning lottery ticket, the best-selling novel making it through all the right channels.

  “Apparently, I’ve never belonged to it anyway.”

  A lean, dark figure in his mind’s eye nodded. He couldn’t see its face.

  Very well. We’ve been waiting long enough.

  A surge of emotion moved through him. Since Eric had picked him up, a sort of surrealism took place inside. Impossible notions and fantasies bombarded his thoughts.

  He forgot about everything, his life, who he was, and Geneveeve. Something magical waited for him here. Something was calling. All he had to do was accept it.

  What about Eric, he wanted to ask? But answering him, his cousin stood next to him as if materializing out of thin air.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the bigger man said.

  Mason had difficulty reading his cousin’s expression under the fishing hat and the sunglasses.

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “You wouldn’t, either.”

  “What do you mean?” Mason asked.

  “I just caught a seven-pound cutthroat, and probably a seven-pound brown.” Eric was beaming. “How about you?” he asked.

  He laughed and nodded. “You wouldn’t believe it, either,” he said.

  Eric laughed. “About the same?” he said.

  “Something like that.”

  ~

  They took a break after the eventful morning and ate some hoagies Eric had brought. The sky was still leaden; the wind slowed.

  No telephone poles.

  Revelry filled Mason’s ears. In the same impossible light, a vision came to life with vibrant color. Thick, stout tables lined a straw floor. Barrels of grog and wine took up an area behind a long counter. Revelers in bear-skinned tunics, long, matted hair, and dirty breeches clashed tankards together. Heavy dark foam slopped through the air and to the floor. A feast? Festival? A victory? Perhaps simply a night of good cheer. Ah! People of the forest! Those of the land of toiling! His kind of people, the ones he always wrote about. If only he could have a place in all of this.

  Briefly, Mason saw Eric, not in the fishing outfit of today’s contemporary standards, but in some medieval garb. Eric’s hair was longer, richer, redder; he was like the others here. Could it be . . ?

  Mason chuckled. The hilt of a broadsword was visible behind Eric’s long black cloak. It was Eric, yet it wasn’t. The man was taller, more stout and rugged.

  Mason wanted to tell his cousin about his imaginings and hallucinations, but Eric already thought he was going crazy as it was.

  He sat in the cab of the truck, eating. The food replenished, energized him. Eric sat beside him behind the wheel.

  Neither said a word.

  ~

  Afterward, they fished again for a while. It was early afternoon, and Mason found Eric sitting on a rock, smoking a cigarette with his fishing pole propped beside him. The man seemed lost in thought. So much so, he didn’t even notice Mason when he approached.

  “How’d ya do?”

  Eric jumped, making Mason grin. He took a long drag and blew out smoke. “Jesus, didn’t your mother teach you not to sneak up on people?”

  Mason chuckled. “What’s got you so wound up?”

  Eric let out a long breath. He took a drag from the cigarette. “Nothing,” he said. “Just tired.”

  “Didn’t you have any luck?”

  Eric shook his head. “It’s strange,” he said. “I’ve never had this kind of luck up here before. I caught a brown at least five pounds. Another brook, plus a rainbow, all over five pounds. I never caught fish outta here that big before. I never caught fish outta here even close to that.”