by Cynthia Jones
I am now a society of one, but there used to be three of us.
We’d meet long after dark on the giant boulders along the Umpqua River. These ancient volcanic rocks are solid under my feet, old friends that guide me to the water’s edge. So deep and green here that there’s a heaviness to the sound of the water, a cavernous rumble.
We met most nights, greeted each other politely, and then searched out our chosen spots. It was often very cold, the earthy, damp smell of the river all around us. But we never felt the chill. Our kind has always been immune to bad weather and the bite of an exceedingly cold evening. But the heat, the sunlight . . . well, that’s another story. And it’s why our regular fly-fishing sessions happened at midnight. I would quite happily fish during the day if I could. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen the glint of sunlight on the swell of a river. But in my current state, I can only watch the moon trace a course across the water; the sun is not my friend. If a vampire wants to fly fish, under the cover of darkness is the only choice.
I choose my flies carefully each night with an eye to the time of year and the conditions on the river. Some of the first flies were just a bit of crimson wool and rooster feathers. That was some time around 200 A.D. But I’m not quite that old. I grew up in Scotland, fly fishing on clear running brooks and long meandering lochs. The daughter of an expert fisherman, I learned to tie intricate flies in the shape of midges and mayflies, long before I could read. Born in 1820 when the young girls of Scottish noblemen were meant to be inside—playing the harpsichord, practicing needlepoint, and reading the Bible—my father released me from my gilded little cage and decided that, since I was his only child and unfortunately a girl, he would raise me as the son he always wanted. First and foremost, I would learn to fly fish.
The first book I ever received as a gift from him was A Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle by Dame Juliana Berners. Remarkably written by a woman in 1496, it was not only a practical guide to fly fishing, but a spiritual one as well. As every true angler knows, fly fishing is more religion than sport. That book became my most important bible.
A few months before I was to be married to a man I wanted nothing to do with, my mother threw the book in the fireplace as I stood watching. Time to put these notions of childhood behind you, she said. It has been almost two hundred years since I stood and watched that book lay across the coals, the leather binding catching fire and then the pages curling into a blackened skeleton. The literal immolation of my childhood. But I hid my treasured flies away in a small beechwood box that I kept tucked away in a corner of our sheep barn. I still have those flies today, but they’re not much use here in Oregon.
On the Umpqua, my flies imitate stonefly and caddis fly nymphs and beautiful little egg roe. My fly-tying skills have grown considerably through the years, having had many seasons to capture the native insects and hone my technique. If there’s one thing that vampires have an abundance of, it’s time. Patience and long-term goals are the key to not throwing yourself into the deepest part of the river, which, I imagine, is what happened to the other members of my little club. Holy water and garlic are nonsense. You can stand and face the sun, but that’s a bit gruesome for most vampires, even those who feel there is nothing left for them in this world. You must learn to see time differently, not as a prison, but as the ultimate liberation. Time to read as much as you want, learn the joy of mastery in a thousand skills. Time to pick out the perfect fly for the night.
Putting myself in the mind of my elegant rivals somewhere beneath the surface was exactly why I didn’t see the boy at first. It’s rare that anyone is out here this time of night, and I’m always exceedingly careful to avoid people.
I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t I be out murdering poor innocent humans for their delectable blood? So many stories. Thousands of years of myths and retellings and grudges and fear about things people don’t understand. There are so many ways to get blood, and at my age I don’t need a lot to survive. It’s my age that probably made me careless in this moment, too complacent in my endless existence by the river. But the young boy definitely saw me. He stood high up on the rocks behind me.
“Hey you,” he said, trying to be heard over the rush of water.
Surprised, as I never am these days, I looked up and saw him. I know I shouldn’t have said a word. I’m quick and can disappear into the darkness quite effectively. But the truth is, being a vampire is lonely. For the most part, I’ve kept the sense of isolation at bay, always remembering my alternate reality as the teenage wife of a bulbous Scottish nobleman whose rotting teeth and penchant for corporal punishment were some of his best qualities.
I looked up at the boy, the bright light of a gibbous moon falling over us, and said, “Hello.” He waved to me then. I was surprised he could hear me. My voice, such a rarely used instrument of late, sounded so strange to me.
He retreated and I thought maybe he would leave me alone, but then he scampered down along the side of the boulders as only children and goats can do. Before I could think too much about whether or not I should be interacting with someone, he was right there in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure how old he was. At my age, it had long ago become nearly impossible for me to place someone in the scheme of their years. I, myself, had been only a few weeks past eighteen when my age was halted. To him, I imagined I looked like some pale, teenage girl at the river’s edge: my auburn hair pulled back into a tight braid, my skin luminous but not monstrous as often depicted. And let’s be clear, my canine teeth are sharper than a normal human, but I don’t have fangs. There is nothing about my appearance, especially at night, that invokes alarm.
“I’m fishing,” I said quietly.
“Why are you out here in the middle of the night?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
He kicked some stones at his feet, some hesitation as though I might get him in trouble.
“It’s quiet,” he said finally. “Except for the river, but I don’t mind that sound.”
The steady churn and glug of the river never stopped.
“I feel the same way. Which is why I like to fish this time of night. No one to bother me,” I said, eyeing him. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
I never knew what day of the week it was or even the month. Time had lost its tether long ago.
“I won’t bother you,” he said. “Can I watch for a few minutes?”
I looked around, wondering if one of his parents would suddenly appear above us. It would be best to send him on his way or I could simply take my things and go. I didn’t need the kind of trouble that came with angry parents.
“I’ll only stay a little while,” he said. “I promise.”
I must be moonsick, as they would say when I was his age, my mind no longer as sound as it used to be because, against my better judgment, I said, “Okay, but don’t touch anything.”
He grinned and a brightness came into his face. I remember that feeling when I was a child. The smallest turn of events bringing such joy, the little victories never wasted. I thought that time would never end; children never do. And then my parents informed me of my impending marriage shortly after I was sixteen. My mother insisted it was a good match and my father wouldn’t look me in the eyes. All my pleading ignored, I was married to a man almost thirty years my senior. My greenheart willow fishing rods would not be accompanying me to my new home, a loss I still try not to think about.
The boy knelt down to look at the box of flies laid out by my feet.
“Did you make these?”
“Yes.” I said, getting ready to cast my line back into the water.
“They look like real bugs.”
“That’s the whole point.”
“How do you get these on your fishing pole?”
“How is it that you live in walking distance to the river, but you’ve never fished?”
“I just moved here. My mom and I moved in with my grandparents. My grandpa said he’ll teach me how to fish, but he works a lot.” He knelt down and ran his fingers over some of the flies. “What kind of fish do you catch?”
“Mainly steelhead and salmon. And I said no touching.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t like fish; it doesn’t taste good.”
“I don’t eat them,” I said. “I catch and release.”
“You just let them go?”
“I just let them go.”
I started to false cast to get my line moving again.
“Why don’t you just use a regular fishing pole?”
I was concentrating and just ignored him, thinking he would quiet down. I should have known better, but I haven’t spent much time around children.
“Why do you have to keep tossing it around that way? Doesn’t your arm get tired?”
I kept my eyes on my line. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, thinking about it. “Maybe.”
I stopped finally, a bit exasperated, and said, “Would you like to try?”
“Sure,” he said with genuine excitement.
He stepped up next to me and I gave him the rod, helping him draw out a few feet of line.
“You’re going to start slow and then pick up speed,” I said, remembering my father teaching me so long ago. Just imagine you need to toss a cup of hot tea behind your back, he would say, make sure that the tea stays in the cup in front of you, so hold it out carefully but then you need to pick up some speed so it will get well past you as you toss it back.
The boy pulled the rod quickly back and forth.
“Not so fast,” I said, trying not to worry about my precious fly rod. “It’s not a whip.”
I leaned over him and put my hands over his. “Slow it down a little at first, and then pull back quickly.” He made slow chopping motions, the line spooling out.
“Let’s try it to some poetry,” I said. “Sometimes that helps me. Maybe Yeats will do the trick.”
I held my hands firmly across his and with the tip of the rod toward the river. I started to pull back slowly. “I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head,” I picked up speed. “And cut and peeled a hazel wand, and hooked a berry to a thread.” We paused a moment and then let the weighted line cast forward. “And when white moths were on the wing, and moth-like stars were flickering out,” we pulled back again, a single breath and then forward, “I dropped the berry in a stream,” I helped him send the line casting back out and let it drift a few seconds, “And caught a little silver trout.”
After a few minutes, the boy said, “But we haven’t caught anything.”
I laughed, unable to remember the last time I laughed out loud.
“It takes a lot longer than that. Fishing is mainly long periods of waiting,” I said, watching him try it on his own and fumble with the line. “And sometimes I don’t catch anything at all.”
After a bit of a tangle, he handed it back to me. I cast out again to show him, the familiar pull of muscles in my shoulder and arm tugging into action, trying to get the arc of my line just right, feeling like there is always room for improvement, some refinement of my skill, which I guess is what keeps me from throwing myself into the misty cobalt depths.
“Seems kind of silly,” he said. “What’s the point?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“I suppose it helps the fire in my head sometimes.”
He looked at me, the dark obscuring his features a bit, but his eyes fixed.
“Sometimes I feel like that,” he said. “My mom fights a lot with my grandparents. There’s a lot of yelling.”
I kept my line moving, trying to let him say his piece.
“I didn’t want to move here,” he went on. “We’re far away from my dad. My mom kept saying how great it would be, but it’s not that great.”
He looked out at the water.
“It’s so loud in the house,” he said. “I like the river. It’s like you can’t hear anything else.”
“I like it too.”
I could see the sky start its slow turn, the change in light imperceptible to anyone but a vampire. The last morning I spent at home, my father woke me up early, only a hint of light beckoning at the horizon. My rod was waiting for me just outside the front door. I followed him along the trampled grassy path so familiar to me that I could have walked it with my eyes closed. Clouds were coming in with the sun, the weather always bearing down with rain or wind in those Scottish valleys, but the small brook was bright with the first winking of the sun. We didn’t say a word, but chose our flies and started casting. There was nothing left to say, but this language still made sense to us.
“You should go home soon,” I said to the boy. “Your family will worry about you.”
He nodded. “Thanks for letting me fish with you.”
“You should see if your grandpa will teach you, or just ask for a rod and teach yourself. That way, you’ll always have some place to get away.”
“Maybe I’ll come fish with you,” he said.
“That would be nice,” I replied. But I knew that after that night, I would move myself to some other spot much farther up the river, or perhaps some other river altogether. It wouldn’t be sensible to see the boy again or whomever he might bring with him.
“Be careful getting over the rocks in the dark,” I said.
“I will,” he climbed up and over the side and when he reached the top, he paused for a moment and waved to me. I waved back and watched him walk away until I couldn’t see him anymore. I reeled in my line and made sure my flies were in order.
I stood at the river’s edge, keeping an eye on the progress of the light, hoping the boy would make it home safely, my own home, my father, and that winding loch-fed river so many years behind me. I still remembered the churn of that brook, the feel of the stones under my bare feet, the sun on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and listened to the steady thrum of the Umpqua, its bold heart pressing through these rocks for thousands of years. The alchemy of rivers always calling me.
Cynthia Jones is a writer who loves inhabiting many different worlds and characters. She grew up in Los Angeles, spent her summers fly fishing in Oregon, and now lives in Santa Cruz, California, with her husband and two children.