Swain Clatchee Goes Fishing
by Charles C. Cole
My “town” is so small that, on a state map, it’s listed as an unorganized territory. It’s at least a four-hour drive from anything healthcare-related. By that, I mean walk-in clinics (which are good at x-rays and foreign object removals) or small regional hospitals (which act as a helicopter hand-off point to the big medical centers in Portland).
So, for the most part, unless we know we’re dying, when it comes to discomfort, we tend to suck it up. Even if we know we’re dying. If you live where we live, with all our fresh air and independence and “governmentlessness,” it makes sense that we pay for it with a shorter lifespan.
I knew an old guy who accidentally cut off his leg at the sawmill. He survived and lathed his own wooden replacement. Another fellow chainsawed a monster tree in his yard. Didn’t know his proud toddler son had turned up to watch his hero dad. The boy was later buried ten feet away from his sandbox - because nobody was around to say, “That’s against code.”
There were a few jokesters among us who had a habit of scaring one another, bad. Maybe because they weren’t the handsomest or funniest or smartest or bravest, these grown men had assigned themselves the role of class clowns.
One day, Levi LaCroix went visiting his buddy Tommy Dix. Tommy was one of those class clowns. Tommy made up for being a shock jock by being the first person who would lend you his four-wheeler or tractor.
When Levi was walking around to Tommy’s barn-cum-garage, he heard a loud metal racket. “Tommy!” yelled Levi.
“Levi! Hurry. It hurts. Get it off.” There was Levi, chest up, sticking out from under his pickup, which had apparently rocked off its jacks, pinning the rest of him. Levi dove into action, senseless though it may have been: he grabbed the front of the vehicle and strained. “I got you, buddy.” The front lifted like a wet bale of hay, no heavier.
Tommy pulled himself out and up. Though the hood was down, the engine block was hanging from chains high above. “Cracked head. I told you. You should see your face.”
Levi gently set the car frame back down. “You spooked me but good,” he said. “Something jumped right out of me. I felt it. I’m scared.”
“Go on with you. You’re okay,” said Tommy, taken aback by the unexpectedly serious reaction. “Let me get a refreshing cold brew. Hell, you can have two; you earned it.”
Levi collapsed onto Tommy’s well-worn wooden workbench, grabbing at his chest with both hands.
Typical of a lot of jokesters, Tommy didn’t like being on the receiving end of tomfoolery. “Cut it out now. I apologize. You got me back. It ain’t funny.”
Levi was deadly serious when he said: “I think my soul got plum scared right out of my body. I’m not kidding. I feel dizzy. We need Swain Clatchee.”
Swain was a spiritual acolyte in these parts. While he wasn’t ordained, he had the manner and bearing of an old minister, which might have been amusing to a stranger, coming from such a handsome young man.
“I’ll call him. You hold on.”
* * *
Swain: “You sure he doesn’t need Doc Buckle?”
Tommy: “There ain’t a scratch on him. He thinks his soul’s come loose. If you could say a few words, offer some reassurance.”
Swain: “And you’ll rethink the impact of your pranksterism?”
Tommy: “This isn’t about me, but sure.”
Swain knocked on the closed barn door. “Enter fast,” said Tommy. “And close the door. We don’t want to let something out.”
Levi was still sitting on the bench, arms crossed and rocking. “You came. Should I get on my knees? Do you have to rebaptize me?”
Swain looked about. He took a flyrod and tossed the line across a cleared section of the barn floor. “Close.” He pulled the line back and tossed it again. “There. We’re good.”
“You hooked it?” asked Tommy.
“Isn’t it floating over my head?” asked Levi.
“It’s tied to you by a silver thread. You just stretched it out, is all. It’s as scared as you are. It just needed encouragement. I didn’t so much hook it as it allowed itself to be hooked. Now quiet.” Swain mumbled some prayers as he reeled back the line. At one point the fishhook caught on the floor, but Swain jiggled it free.
When he had the line wound up, Swain knelt and mimed picking up an invisible object about the size of a softball. Tommy and Levi stared, believing yet seeing nothing.
Swain stood behind Levi. “Stay until you are called home,” said Swain to the precious nothing. “Your mission here is not yet done. Keep watch until Levi’s time to return is nigh. Guide him, and help Tommy’s soul guide Tommy.”
Swain tapped the top of Levi’s head and then stroked his hands down over his shoulders. He repeated the gesture a second and third time. “It’s done.”
“I didn’t see anything,” said Tommy.
“Are you surprised?” asked Swain. “When you believe, when you need God in your life, you will not be disappointed.”
“I feel better,” said Levi, sounding more relieved than surprised. “That was a close one.”
“Gentlemen,” said Swain, “I do a Sunday morning prayer circle with some of our neighbors, less than half an hour. Nothing fancy. Just a way to remember we’re not alone and our lives have more purpose than we know.”
“We’ll think on it,” said Levi. “Won’t we, Tommy?”
Tommy nodded.
Did Levi almost lose is soul that day? Not for me to say. Was Tommy less of a prankster from that day forward. Yes, noticeably. Did the boys ever make it to the prayer circle? No. Were they more respectful toward Swain when they saw him at social events? Absolutely. I don’t know what Swain saw, but I know he believed, without hesitation. And he was happy to help.
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
