The sound and the fury

     I could not see the bottom, but I could see a long way into the motion of the water before the eye gave out, and then I saw a shadow hanging like a fat arrow stemming into the current. Mayflies skimmed in and out of the shadow of the bridge just above the surface. If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame The arrow increased without motion, then in a quick swirl the trout lipped a fly beneath the surface with that sort of gigantic delicacy of an elephant picking up a peanut. The fading vortex drifted away down stream and then I saw the arrow again, nose into the current, wavering delicately to the motion of the water above which the May flies slanted and poised. Only you and me then amid the pointing and the horror walled by the clean flame

     The trout hung, delicate and motionless among the wavering shadows. Three boys with fishing poles came onto the bridge and we leaned on the rail and looked down at the trout. They knew the fish. He was a neighborhood character.

     "They've been trying to catch that trout for twenty-five years. There's a store in Boston offers a twenty-five dollar fishing rod to anybody that can catch him."

     "Why dont you all catch him, then? Wouldn't you like to have a twenty-five dollar fishing rod?"

     "Yes," they said. They leaned on the rail, looking down at the trout. "I sure would," one said.

     "I wouldn't take the rod," the second said. "I'd take the money instead."

     "Maybe they wouldn't do that," the first said. "I bet he'd make you take the rod."

     "Then I'd sell it."

     "You couldn't get twenty-five dollars for it."

     "I'd take what I could get, then. I can catch just as many fish with this pole as I could with a twenty-five dollar one." Then they talked about what they would do with twenty-five dollars. They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an incontrovertible fact, as people will when their desires become words.

     "I'd buy a horse and wagon," the second said.

     "Yes you would," the others said.

     "I would. I know where I can buy one for twenty-five dollars. I know the man."

     "Who is it?"

     "That's all right who it is. I can buy it for twenty-five dollars."

     "Yah," the others said. "He dont know any such thing. He's just talking."

     "Do you think so?" the boy said. They continued to jeer at him, but he said nothing more. He leaned on the rail, looking down at the trout which he had already spent, and suddenly the acrimony, the conflict, was gone from their voices, as if to them too it was as though he had captured the fish and bought his horse and wagon, they too partaking of that adult trait of being convinced of anything by an assumption of silent superiority. I suppose that people, using themselves and each other so much by words, are at least consistent in attributing wisdom to a still tongue, and for a while I could feel the other two seeking swiftly for some means by which to cope with him, to rob him of his horse and wagon.

     "You couldn't get twenty-five dollars for that pole," the first said. "I bet anything you couldn't."

     "He hasn't caught that trout yet," the third said suddenly, then they both cried:

     "Yah, what'd I tell you? What's the man's name? I dare you to tell. There aint any such man."

     "Ah, shut up," the second said. "Look. Here he comes again." They leaned on the rail, motionless, identical, their poles slanting slenderly in the sunlight, also identical. The trout rose without haste, a shadow in faint wavering increase; again the little vortex faded slowly downstream. "Gee," the first one murmured.

     "We dont try to catch him anymore," he said. "We just watch Boston folks that come out and try."

     "Is he the only fish in this pool?"

     "Yes. He ran all the others out. The best place to fish around here is down at the Eddy."

     "No it aint," the second said. "It's better at Bigelow's Mill two to one." Then they argued for a while about which was the best fishing and then left off all of a sudden to watch the trout rise again and the broken swirl of water suck down a little of the sky. I asked how far it was to the nearest town. They told me.

     "But the closest car line is that way," the second said, pointing back down the road. "Where are you going?"

     "Nowhere. Just walking."

     "You from the college?"

     "Yes. Are there any factories in that town?"

     "Factories?" They looked at me.

     "No," the second said. "Not there." They looked at my clothes. "You looking for work?"

     "How about Bigelow's Mill?" the third said. "That's a factory."

     "Factory my eye. He means a sure enough factory."