Free Spencer's Mountain by Jr. Earl Hamner Page B

take the good and the bad in this world. We better do some work, Eunice, or that preacher’s goen to walk in here and find us gabben our heads off.”
    ***
    As the late evening sun shifted into the west it cast a pool of light into a particularly fruitful fishing hole on theRockfish River. It illuminated for a moment an empty whiskey bottle, an enormous string of sizable bass and two drunken men.
    â€œThere was something I stopped here to ask you,” Mr. Goodson said. “I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.” He baited his hook and cast with an elaborate gesture, but the bait fell into the water directly in front of him while he searched with unsteady eyes across the river where the bait should have gone.
    â€œMaybe you just stopped to do some fishen,” suggested Clay. He lay in the grass squinting up at the falling sun, his hands crossed over his belly. His hook had long since been swept downstream and into an overhanging willow tree where it was hopelessly entangled.
    â€œI can’t remember why I stopped at all,” said Mr. Goodson, and he started to sit back in the grass. When he was halfway down there came a sudden whirring from his reel, a big fish from the sound of it.
    â€œJesus Christ!” shouted Clay.
    â€œThat’s it!” said Mr. Goodson.
    â€œGrab that fishen pole, man,” shouted Clay. “You have done snagged yourself a sea monster.”
    â€œThat’s what I stopped to ask. Which way is New Dominion?”
    â€œThe hell with New Dominion,” cried Clay. “Bring in that fish, son.”
    The entire length of cord had unwound from the reel and the rod was bent in a taut oval and the line was tearing through the water so fast it made a sizzling sound. There was so much tension on the line that the rod was beginning to slide gradually into the river.
    Mr. Goodson caught up with the reel at the river’s edge. When he held the rod securely he gave a slight jerk to set the hook in the mouth of whatever behemoth had taken his bait. Slowly, torturously, he began to reel in. Beside him, Clay interrupted his prayer only to shout some unintelligible direction for landing the fish.
    Neither of them was ever to know what was at the other end of the line. With a stinging zip the line snapped and the bent rod snapped straight.
    â€œGreat Jumpin’ Jesus!” shouted Clay. “Damn to hell that black-souled fish and Jonah’s black-bellied whale!”
    Mr. Goodson blinked.
    â€œYou shouldn’t talk that way in front of me,” he said.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause I am a minister of God,” Mr. Goodson said. “I may even be your minister.”
    â€œI ain’t got no minister except the sun of the sky and the dirt of the earth,” said Clay.
    â€œI am the new minister of New Dominion,” insisted Mr. Goodson.
    â€œYou’re lyen,” said Clay.
    â€œNo sir,” said Mr. Goodson and hiccoughed.
    Clay began to laugh. Almost immediately his laughter got out of hand and the great gulping
wah wah wah
sounds that were coming out of him were too strong to take standing up. He fell to the ground in a paroxysm of gleeful suffering, rolling over and over in the weeds, the mud and the pebbles along the side of the river. It was only when he rolled into the river itself, immersing himself completely, that the sound of his spasm of laughter fell still.
    The sheepish grin on the minister’s face turned to a look of concern as Clay disappeared beneath the water. But as quickly as he went down Clay was on the surface again. Making a great splash and cry he paddled about in the river and when he had refreshed himself he headed in to the shore. He crawled out onto the bank and lay there for a moment to catch his breath.
    Mr. Goodson staggered down to where Clay lay inhaling and exhaling vigorously. He bent unsteadily over Clay and inquired, “You didn’t see anything of that fish I lost down