Free Light the Hidden Things by Don McQuinn Page B

it had turned and surged the other way. Crow hauled in line like a demented sailor. Twice it pulled that trick. The second time the line went dead slack. Crow groaned and assumed he’d lost. That was when the fish shot clear into the air, a berserk silver missile twisting to throw the galling hook.
    Crow stopped breathing. The hook held.
    The animal’s sheer spirit could overcome incredible obstacles, forge through days of constantly swimming upstream. Spirit and instinct could outwit or outspeed predators. Spirit even enabled the fish to suffer through foul pollutants nature had nothing to do with.
    In the end, it was the combination of savvy and equipment that won. Spirit couldn’t outlast the unforgiving flex of a graphite rod, a perfectly controlled fly line, years of accumulated knowledge. Muscle wearied. Courage alone couldn’t serve. The fish came to the net in exhausted defeat.
    Gently, Crow slipped the metal ring under his prize and lifted. The fish was so big its head extended part way up the handle. The tail drooped outside the ring on the far end.
    Sunlight struck its silver scales to a mirror gleam. Black spots glittered like crystalline insets.
    Crow told it, “They don’t get better than you, big fellow. I thank you.”
    The black and gold eye looked directly into his. The gills flared, closed. The hard-lined mouth gaped wide.
    With no perceptible movement, the fish spat the hook like a watermelon seed.
    Predator and prey continued to look at each other for an interminable moment.
    The least flick of the man’s hand and his catch would tumble into the mesh and be hoisted helplessly.
    Crow tilted the net. No more than a hair.
    Swift as a spark in the night, the fish was gone. Crow stared at the rippling water as if waking, uncertain if there had even been a splash.
    Then he grinned.
    Pastor Richard’s hand on his shoulder turned him around. The lined features were thoughtful. “That was a monster. A trophy. Not everyone would release it.”
    Crow rubbed a hand across unshaven bristles. He said, “I’m not sure I did. I wouldn’t want to have the net under him again. I don’t know which way I’d move.”
    “You did it this time. Next time’ll take care of itself.” Pastor Richards moved shoreward. Over his shoulder, he said, “You better come calm down this big mutt. He’s having a conniption.”
    Major wasn’t ready to do anything as rash as leap into the cold Fortymile. With ludicrous daintiness, he minced back and forth through the shallows, barking huge celebration of Crow’s safe return. Despite concern for his own comfort, however, Major had no qualms about slathering Crow with his wet, muddy self.
    Crow took it with a practiced gruffness that had no visible effect on the dog and entertained the Pastor. When the confrontation calmed, he told Crow, “I think I’m ready to eat. What say we head back to civilization?”
    “You sure Lupine fits?”
    “Close enough. Not so sophisticated you and I won’t impress everyone with our Nimrod prowess, though. Bragging about hunting and fishing’s Lupine’s major indoor entertainment.” He paused, then, “You hunt much?”
    “Not at all.” Crow shook his head while he prepared his gear. “Do some target shooting. Rarely.”
    "Same here. No hunting, I mean. Sort of gave up on it long ago.” Together they started up the steep bank. Pastor Richards continued, “I quit one day when the man I was with said we hunt and kill because we love the things we hunt and killing them gives us possession. It happens I was holding a ringneck pheasant in my hands. Colors and patterns like something dropped straight from heaven. What that man said suddenly sounded so unspeakably self-delusional it sickened me. What makes anyone think that killing a thing you love makes it yours?”
    Crow’s words ripped, cruel as a saw. “Some would say that sometimes that's the only love that's left.”
    Pastor Richards stopped, whirled, and looked directly into