What Hides Within (2 page)

"I hope you can save him."

Morgan cringed. Clive knew she was too delicate for this unfortunate reality of catch-and-release fishing. He noticed her quietly pray each time she felt a tug on her line.

But every now and then, Morgan would let a fish have at her bait too long so that worm, hook and inches of line would end up halfway down the poor bass' throat. That's when Clive would be called in to save the day.

"Damn, Morgan. You got the hook buried in its stomach this time. How the hell did you manage this? Who taught you how to fish, anyway?"

"You did."

Morgan looked as though she might cry. Clive looked away, ashamed that his thoughtless rant may have added to her distress. He busied himself with the task at hand.

"I'm sorry, Cli. Just please try to get it out."

"I'll try, but I may need to cut the line."

"What will happen then?"

Clive just shook his head. He wanted to lie, to tell her what his father always told him.

Don't worry, son
, Clive recalled.
It'll either dissolve or work its way out.

All horseshit. He knew the truth too well, solidified by his experience catching fish with hook remains buried in their gullets from some other sorry fishermen who would likely tell exaggerated stories of the not-so-big ones that got away.

But he couldn't lie to Morgan. Never to Morgan. She buried her face in her hands, awaiting the final outcome.

Clive held the bass with one hand clasped loosely just under its fins. With his other hand, he plunged the pliers down its throat.

Thank God these things don't seem to have a gag reflex
, he thought.
Not like Morgan
. He chuckled quietly, his thoughts briefly detouring from the risky operation. The bewildered bass blankly stared at him. Its mouth slowly opened, bending to the will of the pliers. Clive wondered if basically the same thing had happened to him when he had his tonsils removed all those years ago.

"I can see the hook, but I can't--"

Clive strained, delicately clearing out the bait and excess fishing line. "Wait a minute. Now, if I can see how it's caught in there . . . If I can just--Fuck! It's bleeding."

"Awe," Morgan whined. Clive rolled his eyes. The fish's bleeding paled in comparison to that of Morgan's liberal heart.

The wet pliers, clamped at an awkward angle, slipped off the steel hook. With the back of his fish-free hand, Clive wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed deeply, as if the survival of ten thousand orphans depended on the outcome of his plight. A whiff of fish innards hung in Clive's nostrils, the pliers having crossed by his nose. He plunged them back into the fish's mouth.

"Hold on, little guy."

Clive gave the hook a quick and hardy yank in the direction he hoped was the reverse of its entry. The barb gave way, relinquishing its hold on flesh.

"I got it," Clive announced triumphantly. He pressed down on the bass' lower jaw and carefully slid the hook from its mouth.

He tossed the bloodied hook aside. It plopped into the water a mere four feet from him, the evidence of its carnage quickly dispersing within the gentle flow of an undercurrent. Returning to his patient, Clive continued to hold down the fish's lower mandible, exposing a row of sharp but tiny teeth.

"I can only see one little red spot."

With both hands cradling the tiny bass, Clive eased it back into the water. Although the fish was undoubtedly shocked, it swam off speedily and healthily.

"Man, that was harder than removing the funny bone in that game we used to play, Operation. Usually when they aren't going to make it, they swim off slowly or float sideways in the water. That one took off, so at least he's got a fighting chance."

"Thanks, Cli." Morgan smiled, showing her gratitude. "I'll take care of you later."

"I like the sound of that."

Clive could only guess what she had in mind, but he was fairly certain his guess was right. Having been close friends with Morgan for what Abe Lincoln would call a score, Clive and Morgan had "experimented" from time to time, never committing to anything solid or carving out a definition for what they had. On rare occasions, she was a friend with benefits and with absolutely no strings attached. He looked forward to later.

Morgan reeled in the loose line. She removed the rubber worm from her hook and set her fishing pole into a rod holder mounted to the front of her boat.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get some paddling in first before we leave here. Milford Pond can't be that big, and I still haven't seen what's at the other end."

"It's nothing special, but Lord knows, I could use the exercise. Let's go."

The two paddled side-by-side across murky water and against a picturesque background. It was an early Sunday evening on a randomly hot, late-September day. The sun was still high, casting its savage radiation upon the mostly uncovered pond. Dense heat scared away bites, not the ideal time or place for fishing. Still, Clive was surprised that the pond seemed reserved solely for him and Morgan. No other fisherman, boater, or adventurer was in sight. With the days getting shorter fast, the summer had reached its end for most, but Clive refused to relinquish his happiness to the cold of the dying year.

As they made their way to the farthest reaches of the pond, the shorelines were laced with trees. Houses turned into cabins. Lawns became forests. And the water grew darker.

Here and there, a thick, oily film covered the water's surface. Green lily pads made way for dead, cobweb-encrusted branches. Their many appendages jutted out like daggers from beneath the surface, threatening to tear at anyone who drew near.

Clive peered into the water. He could no longer see his reflection. The sun had escaped their company, taking refuge behind the trees. Twilight had come earlier to this part of the lake. The water seemed frozen in place. Clive might have thought he could plant his palm firmly against it without breaching the surface, a solid ebony tabletop, had the sporadic skidding water bug and the slow wake of his kayak not revealed its liquid texture through the tiniest of ripples.

"Well? We're here."

"Is this the end of Milford Pond?" Morgan asked.

"Basically. It tails off into a narrow stream down that way, goes under Wood Road, and ends up God knows where."

"Under the road?" she asked, sounding eager. "There's a bridge?"

"If you can call it that. It's more like an overpass."

"Show me."

"Alright, but it's going to get narrow, and there's a lot of branches. It shouldn't be too much trouble with our kayaks, though."

Clive swatted a mosquito he caught suckling on his forearm. His body was bare, aside from a bathing suit and life jacket. Morgan wore similar beach apparel, a one-piece with frills that made her slender physique look frumpy.

"Is your bug spray still working?" Clive asked. "There will probably be tons of bugs, too."

"I think so. I don't feel any bites or itchiness. I'll probably be covered with them tomorrow, but oh well. We've come all this way. Might as well complete our journey now."

"Then follow me."

Clive led Morgan slowly around various obstacles, all inhibiting deeper entry into the forest. But their barricade went unheeded. Clive maneuvered his kayak alongside, and sometimes directly over, fallen branches and immovable rocks. The trip was slow going, their movements deliberate and methodical. They had little margin for error. The slightest misstep would run them aground or snag them in a thicket.

At last, they came to the bridge, which, as Clive suggested, looked more like an overpass from their vantage point. Although made of wood, it was so covered in grime and bereft of sunlight that it resembled gray clay, similar in color to the concrete used by the highway department. The overhead portion of the bridge was no more than a row of planks strewn together. Clive doubted it could support a bicycle, never mind any motorized vehicle. But he knew not where the dirt road above him led or why anyone would have occasion to travel it, its practical usage and decaying features forgotten by the society concentrated outside its recess.

To say the road was sparsely traveled would be an exercise in understatement. Thus, the bridge, although man-made, appeared untouched by the hands and feet of humanity in the long years since its creation. Its decaying wood surface, splintered support beams, and rotted cross braces were left undisturbed except by time and the elements.

Clive stared under the bridge to view the travel conditions beyond it. What he beheld thereunder was as magnificent as it was unnerving. His mouth dropped open in awe of the animalistic artistry that hindered his view. In the cool, damp darkness, an intricate mass of webbing sheathed the bridge's undercarriage like a drape woven in silk by the most skilled of weavers. Its beautiful yet ominous patterns served as a warning to weary travelers who dared attempt passage.
This is no place for humankind
.

"I don't like the looks of that," Morgan said, floating up beside Clive. "I've never seen anything quite like it. Thousands of spiders must have made that nest, yet I don't even see one. It's creepy when you think about it."

"Well, this is as far as I've made it. I've never been to the other side."

"I don't think
anyone's
ever been to the other side. You can't seriously be considering going through there?"

"It's just a little spider web," Clive replied, carefree as usual. "How bad can it be?"

"That thing is anything but little, Cli. Maybe we should turn around. Besides, it's getting late."

"Nonsense. Watch."

Clive grabbed the blade at one end of his paddle. With the blade at the other end, he slashed through the cobweb wall before him. The sticky substance instantly enwrapped the blade. Clive swished it back and forth in the water to wash off the arachnid leavings. He repeated the process, slowly drifting forward as he hacked a path across.

Clive sensed Morgan's tension, but he dismissed it as paranoia. What had she to fear? Did she think he would awaken some unholy creature hidden in the darkest corners beneath the bridge?
Don't trolls live under bridges?
he wondered, chuckling to himself. He didn't believe in trolls. There were no monsters under that bridge. Just webs. Lots and lots of webs.

"Clive, don't you think we should head back now? We want to be able to load up the kayaks while it's still light out."

Clive turned his head, flashing Morgan a reassuring smile, momentarily taking his eyes off his forward progress. "See? I'm almost through," he called back to her. All the while, his boat drifted slowly forward.

He turned back around just in time to see his head being cocooned by what felt like thick, sticky gauze. It reminded him of cotton candy, and he was quickly mummified by it. One thing was certain, though: the large amount of webbing that entered his mouth certainly didn't taste like cotton candy.

Clive flailed wildly, dropping his paddle into the water and severing the strands connecting the webbing on his face to the webbing on the walls and ceiling. The kayak began to tip, and in his panic, Clive dumped himself into the stream. He disappeared under its black surface.

"Clive?" Morgan called.

From beneath the surface, Clive could hear her anxious voice through his silk snares. He did not come up for air. A few more seconds passed. His air supply grew short.

"Clive!" Morgan shouted.

"Bleh!"

Clive's head shot above water, coughing and spitting. His life jacket on loosely, its shoulder straps floated up near his ears. He clawed at his face, desperately trying to remove every last strand of spider web. Finally, he stood up.

"Well, that sucked." Clive laughed awkwardly, moderately embarrassed, but somewhat amused. "I guess the water isn't very deep here." He stood waist-deep in filthy swamp.

"Jesus, Cli," Morgan said. "You had me worried."

"It's just spider webs. I think I washed them all off."

Clive paused. His right ear felt blocked, like he just marched in front of a blaring trumpet without wearing earplugs. He shoved his index finger inside to clear out the excess water. It was no use. His ear remained clogged. He tilted his head to the side and pounded above his left ear with his palm. Still, no luck.

"Oh great. I got water in my ear."

"Serves you right. I told you not to go through there. Anyway, it'll come out by itself. For now, please get back into your kayak. Who knows what lives in this water?"

"Yeah, there could be snakes and leaches."

Clive laughed nervously, trying to play off his newfound discomfort brought on by Morgan's suggestion of hidden enemies circling his submerged testicles. The thought hadn't occurred to him before, and it didn't make him feel too cheery about his current predicament. Representing toughness, he grabbed his paddle and hopped back into his kayak.

Normalcy returned. Clive felt okay, and by the sound of Morgan's long sigh, she was beginning to feel okay, too. The world was as it was supposed to be. Clive turned his boat around, and he and Morgan began their trek back to the boat dock, leaving the darkening woods with ample sun remaining in the more commonly traversed, less shaded parts of the pond.

Every now and then, Clive would break stride, pausing only long enough to plunge his pinky finger into his ear, hoping to dislodge the persistent water nuisance. Once on land, he shook his head violently like a head banger at a death metal concert. Still the water refused to flow free from his auditory canal.

Clive and Morgan packed up their kayaks and headed back to their homes. Clive had forgotten Morgan's promise. He was too preoccupied with his waterlogged ear to give a damn. Once home, he went about his nightly rituals, cleaned up, and readied himself for bed. All the while, his ear remained blocked. Frustrated, he went to sleep, fully expecting the water to seep out of his ear overnight.

Alexia couldn't stop giggling. "I wonder where you could be."

A clown smile canvassed her face. She didn't know where her little brother was hiding, but she was wise enough to know how to find him. She quieted both her voice and her movement, slinking through the forest like a cat stalking a bird. At only thirteen, she followed Timothy's muddy footprints like a seasoned tracker. And when she saw the fallen tree, she knew she was getting close. She paused to listen.