“You know that’s just cruel, Lise,” Brent said, watching her work the hook out of the fish’s mouth with a pair of pliers.
“What? The fish gets to live,” Lisa replied. The smallmouth bass flipped its tail weakly; she bent over and gently reintroduced it to the shallow stream. Its gills expanded once, twice, and it darted off.
Brent watched it swim out of the blazing sun, into the shadows under the train bridge. The sky was clear and blue, with only a single cloud hovering around the side of the mountain—likely just morning river fog that would burn off before long.
He shook his head. “If you’re going to hook something, you better eat it. Otherwise you’re just torturing fish.”
Lisa snorted. “And every deer you shoot just flops over dead instantly?”
“Well it’s not like I’m shooting them with a BB gun,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re gonna fish or hunt or whatever, it should be for eating. Besides, I don’t see you ever complaining about venison jerky.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She bent over her tackle box.
The sun beat down on Brent’s wide-brimmed hat; his fishing vest suddenly felt uncomfortably warm. Shade might be a good idea. He hooked the end of his line to his rod. “I’m gonna head upstream a bit, get out of the sun.”
Lisa stopped rummaging through lures and looked up, frowning. “You know I’m only kidding.”
“I know, I know, to each their own,” Brent replied. He laughed. “You gonna stay put?”
“Yeah,” she said. “If I come up your way, I’ll yell.”
“Yell quietly and don’t scare the fish,” he said. She laughed in return, and went back to the tackle box.
Brent walked. The shady path wound its way along the stream, threading the narrow space between the water and the steep slope of the mountain. He soon lost sight of his fishing partner.
He felt cooler, but something still seemed wrong. He stopped, looking uphill into the thick forest, then across the stream. He heard water, birds, insects, even the far-off rustling of a squirrel. Nothing unusual.
He shook his head. Probably getting a cold. Early to bed tonight.
He had never been this far upstream before, but he felt himself lured along by the thrill of discovery. Minutes later, he came upon a particularly shadowy stretch of water, where the tree branches overhung most of the stream along with the bank. A ray of light shone down through a lone gap in the thick tree cover, illuminating a spot miraculously free of branches and underbrush.
The fishing hole looked almost too good to be true. The water was calm and dark, with the telltale ripples of an underwater tree trunk about a third of the way out from the bank. He set up his rig with the sharp end of the hook embedded in the soft lure—there was no telling what kind of weedy bottom might be waiting to snag his line—and gently cast upstream from the log. The current would slowly carry the lure right past the submerged trunk, where hungry fish might be hiding.
“Catch and release,” he muttered under his breath with a snort. “How about catch and eat, ay there, fish? Are you a big one or…”
A powerful shiver swept across his body. The rod fell from his hands, tipping forward into the stream. He couldn’t move. With a lurching sensation, he felt himself being pulled; the ground began to move away like he was levitating, but he couldn’t tilt his head to see what or who was doing the pulling.
On the ground below, his rod and reel suddenly jerked forward into the water. Fish! he thought.
For a moment, he forgot his predicament. I bet it’s a keeper, he thought, wistfully.
Then everything went purple and white and he felt a sudden acceleration, as if he were in some kind of rocket elevator. Long moments went by, then everything stopped.
His vision cleared. His limbs stayed frozen, but he found he could move his head. He was in a room with strange metallic pipes and panels and glowing lights across the walls. Like a…spaceship, he thought. There’s no way…
Then he saw the two large gray humanoids. They were making noises with what looked like mouths, and their beady black eyes looked first at him, then at each other.
“That’s a big one!” said Tch’quev in his native H’wtonian language.
“Biggest one so far!” Whf’drr replied. “That’s the best spot along that whole stream!” The whole conversation sounded like a slide whistle mixed with clattering pebbles to Brent.
“Lots of good shade and cover,” Tch’quev said. “They like to hide, and it helps them keep cool.”
“So, what do you think?” Whf’drr said.
Tch’quev performed the H’wtonian equivalent of pursing his lips. “I don’t know… we could let it go, you know.”
Whf’drr shook his head. “I’d rather not. Feels like you’re just torturing them.”
Tch’quev nodded. “Oh, I agree. You should eat what you catch.”
Brent looked back and forth at the two beings. He was oblivious to their words, but felt very much like a fish on a hook.
Tch’quev walked to the door. “Battered or crumbed?” he asked.
“Crumbed,” Whf’drr said. “It’s crunchier.”
He picked up a metal instrument with a sharp-looking end. It began to vibrate. It’s a lot of work, but fresh-caught’s more sustainable. And besides, he thought, catch-and-release just seems cruel.
