The Fisherman

by John Langan

It’s hard to hold onto any tragedies that aren’t your own for very long. That’s something I learned after Marie died. In the short term, folks can show compassion like you wouldn’t believe; wait a couple of weeks, though, a couple of months at the outside, and see how well their sympathy holds.

The lightning’s course had peeled and grooved out a line in the bark from top to bottom that Pa would stand and run his fingers over. “You know,” he’d say every time, “the ancient Greeks used to bury anyone struck by lightning apart from the rest. They knew such people’d had a tremendous experience—a sacred experience—but they weren’t sure if it was good or bad.”

Lottie, who met him a couple of times in passing, said his face looked like he was trying to solve a difficult math problem that was beyond him.

Pete Seeger used to sing it once in a while. I think he recorded it, too. The song’s written from the point of view of Jeffries’s sweetheart, and portrays her as torn between two men, Jeffries, who’s cast as a kind of schoolgirl crush, and the undertaker, who’s presented as the girl’s true love. She wants to do right by Jeffries, but she can’t deny her feelings. Finally, she tells him, tells him everything, as the title says, and that’s that. Tragedy.

“You think this is one of those spots?” Clara says, waving her hand at the camp, taking it in and dismissing it with the same gesture. “There are stories about this part of the country,” Rainer says. “There is Irving and his Sketch Book, with old Rip Van Winkle meeting the strange little men in the mountains.” “That tripe?” Clara says. “The man stole those stories from German sources. They have nothing to do with this place.”

The symbol Rainer cuts into each shaft resembles a cross, or an x, a pair of lines bisecting one another—except for the third line, which loops around the other two in an arabesque that looks too elaborate for the casual flick of the wrist Rainer uses to produce it. It’s hard to tell where this line begins and where it ends.

That third line seems to pass behind the other two; there seems to be a tremendous depth concealed there, and Jacob is aware of himself floating over this depth, high, high over it— Italo shoves him and says, “Pay attention. He said not to look at it.”

Helen utters a word that Jacob has never heard before. It might be “Apep,” but she says it too quickly for him to be sure.

Rainer appears to recognize the name. He says, “Nonsense. He would not dare.” “You have asked,” Helen says, “and I have answered. Would you prefer another name? Tiamat? Jormungand? Leviathan?”

The Secret Words of Osiris, that is the prize of the collection. It is very old.

Rainer scowls. He doesn’t like having his story rushed. He says, “Because the man wants to catch one of the Great Powers.” “What Great Power?” Italo says. “Do you mean a devil?” “No,” Rainer says. “This is something else. The old Egyptians spoke about it as a great serpent with a head of flint, a thing of darkness and chaos.” Seeing the looks the other men give him, Rainer sighs and says, “It is what Scripture calls Leviathan.”

“So the young man fishes for Leviathan,” Andrea says, “and this book tells him how. Why? What does he expect if he catches it?”

“The Fisherman is not without his strengths,” Rainer says, “but he is not a full Schwarzkunstler.” “A what?” Italo says. “Uno strégone,” Rainer says.

“This place—you have to understand, it’s like a metaphor that’s real, a myth that’s true.”

Much of my narrative of that morning, I left unchanged. As my pa used to say, If you have to concoct a lie, be sure to mix in as much of the truth as you can.

The Last of the Hand Made Dams: The Story of the Ashokan Reservoir (1989) and the 2002 documentary, Deep Water: The True Story of the Ashokan Reservoir, by Tobe Carey, Bobbie Dupree, and Artie Traum. Alf Evers’ The Catskills: From Wilderness to Woodstock (1972) is a treasure-trove of information about the Catskill region.