Growing Up Along the Mullet
A short story by Bill Schroeder
Copyright © 2011 by Bill Schroeder
Cover illustration by Terri Field
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reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written
permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations
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Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2011
ISBN
Water echoed through the concrete culvert as the Mullet River rushed through it. An impulsive moment for the river, a careless instant, under the false privacy of the covered country road, where it turned into a roaring beast, a place where all the danger and mystery a child could imagine flowed.
And it did - life as a child centered around the Mullet River. It wound lazily around our house, beconing, seeming tame and harmless. Its only threats here being an occasional leech if someone dared to wade in its muddy banks or a harmless catfish lured onto a baited hook.
Every new season brought forth adventures as limitless as a child’s imagination. The river overwhelmed, captivated and gave birth to childhood dreams. Summer was always my favorite. The Mullet River would sleep under the ice all winter long. Then, slowly at first, it would blink its eyes with the first spring thaw, waking, until finally, it awoke with ravenous spring. It became so alive in the summer, rushing along its banks, crashing upon the rocks peeking above the rapids, and then stood perfectly still, watching you by the fishing hole. It was alive, its voice beckoned all of us, and we could not help but follow. It was summer and I was twelve.
With new life pulsing through the river, all the children who lived nearby looked forward with anticipation to our favorite pastime. Struggling with the awkward inner tubes, we finally arrived at the fishing hole, the place we started all our journeys down the river. This time, strangely, we hesitated before we plunged in. I looked deeply at the fishing hole. The water was calm. If you looked long enough, only at the water it would seem to stop and you would have to blink once or twice before it began flowing again.
Scattered about were large rocks and dead tree limbs peeking just above the water, remnants of the dam we had built in the springtime. Remanents of first the first time the dam had actually worked - for a while. That wasn’t it. It was something else. Something was definitely different, and the others seemed to feel it too.
Splash! The first of us had thrown our tubes into the water and were splashing in after them. I glanced again, quickly, thinking I would recognize it. Like a fleeting shadow, it escaped.
Somewhere, I knew that wasn’t it and wondered if our dam had somehow changed the fishing hole forever.
“Come-on!” the other children pleaded, and with the cold water against me, the last thoughts of the fishing holes’ strangeness faded.
Our tubes drifted slowly, winding with the river. We splashed and dunked each other, laughing with all the innocence of children. Here, the river was a child too, and here the river laughed innocently with us. Deeply, naturally, as it always had.
Soon, the river straightened. We all braced in anticipation. The rapids were close!
At first the sound was distant, then louder and louder until it deafened out any sounds that challenged it. In years past, scared and overcome by the rivers power, we would cling to our tubes and to each other. Odd, I wasn’t paralyzed this time. Looking up, I saw the others standing tall, their voices almost audible. My hand instinctively clenched the tube for a moment, lightly, almost reminiscing. I let go.
The river crashed and pushed against us, struggling to be free of its natural course. Water sprayed into our eyes, its taste clung inside our mouths. The tubes raced forward. We bounced against the rocks, and flew into the air as the river capsized us.
Here the river had rebelled against us as it always had. This was the first time we had rebelled against it. We caught up to our tubes shouting stories at each other about conquering the rapids. We cheered our adolescent victory together and laughed at the tamed rapids. This time the shadow lingered an instant more, I caught a glimpse, a devilish grin and the river laughing back at us, watching, as we struggled to get aboard our capsized tubes.
Willows that had twisted and turned as they grew draped across the Mullet. A warm breeze whispered along the riverbank, rustling the willows feathery branches. Dead Elms littered the riverbanks on both sides. Last year, like all other years, we had stopped to build forts from the dead logs. The forts were amazing and had everything anyone could want – there was no need to have more, one could live in one of these masterpieces for all their lives.
I spotted one just ahead. It slouched near a pier we had docked at in years past. It looked deformed and ugly. Where were the masterpieces we had built? The pier was close. If we wanted to build any forts we had to dock now. Again, hesitation, I looked again at the forts. Visions of fun melted away into the reality of work, and so we drifted on, and here I heard the river sigh, almost hurt, as if something had been lost. Strange how it had never seemed like work before.
The glare of the hot sun was eclipsed by the shadow of the bridge. Here, the water was dark and polluted. An old and forgotten dump lay just up the riverbank, time and erosion slowly extending its boundaries down to the river. We docked and went exploring. Tall strong pines had long ago taken over as caretakers of the dump letting us in while hiding its treasures from others. In years past it seemed as though everything had been thrown away by accident. After all, who could throw away things of such value? Objects that sparked imagination and emotion – or did they? Distant, hard to remember the exact object. If only we could find it, so we could feel that again…
We searched, but found the dump’s treasures missing. A few trinkets still remained, but someone had certainly pillaged our dump. We left; angrily cursing the thief who had stolen the dump’s guarded treasures.
Before we reached the tubes, I looked back at the dump. The pine trees stood strong and at attention. Why had they let other’s steal our treasures? Again, a fleeting shadow, the sound of rushing water a faint whisper through the pines - no one had pillaged the dump. I nodded to them and whispered back that I knew.
The river had grown silent, and the air seemed to stand still. It would not last long though. We drifted for a while, until we could faintly hear the echoes of rushing water. There was a natural pier ahead. Beyond that the river narrowed and quickened as it squeezed into the culvert. We had never tubed beyond the pier, then again, we had never taken a journey like this one.
We could see the dark cement mouth of the culvert inviting us in. Our tubes picked up speed. I looked back to catch a glimpse of the pier, the culvert began to draw us in. Blackness soon engulfed us. Shrieks of fear, delight and false confidence echoed against the slippery concrete walls. Quickly, we raced through the darkness of the culvert at an incredible speed, towards something unknown.
Our speed made the culvert’s walls blur, hypnotizing me. Glimpses of our journey flashed inside my mind; how strange the fishing hole looked, the tamed rapids, the crumbling forts of years past, and the dump that had hidden the treasures it used to reveal. On this trip, more than fun and laughter had rushed past with the river.
A flash of light shattered the culverts darkness. Our inner tubes splashed into the river, leaving the culvert behind, and with it a part of all of us that we had somehow shed on our voyage down the river. None of us had every actually seen this side of the river before. We saw twice as many dead trees lining the riverbank, and a huge fishing hole just beyond the bend. I listened and heard the roar of rapids, louder than any I ever heard before. I listened more carefully... There was an echo of rushing water. It was very distant, but it was there. Another culvert I thought. The shadow was gone and the river answered… and another and another.
The End