Dawn came, a gold and crimson cloudless silence across the water. Artie munched heartily on an egg McMuffin where he sat on the grassy bank, a thousand feet downstream from the high gray turbine outlets of the Spavinaw Lake Dam. He'd left home at midnight Friday, walked or hitchhiked to the McDonald's in Spavinaw where he hitched a final ride out here. He was early.
Noodling was legal in the area below the dam for three days following the closure of the spillway gates, whenever the Corps of Engineers wanted to inspect the structural integrity of the dam. The Oklahoma Fish and Wildlife Department encouraged citizens to wade in and help themselves to the bass, crappie and catfish that became marooned. The prize money was a promotion of radio station KHIC, and they sponsored the contest.
The water level was rapidly shrinking now that the spillways had been shut for seventy-two hours, remaining higher in the channel downstream where Artie was. He knew he'd need a bit deeper water in which to sink the stone. Deeper water equaled biggest fish. Not for him the puddle-hopping from sand bar to sand bar that other folks would do later, closer to the dam. However, the water couldn't be too deep. With a large, fighting flathead on your arm after you'd rammed your hand through its gill? In high water? A person could drown.
He knew that experienced noodlers built rock shelters in low water this time of year to entice catfish into building nests in them. He'd make do with the partially submerged cottonwood stump he'd already spotted in the river channel.
The equipment required for noodling was nothing complicated. Gaffs, spears, bows and arrows and dip nets were illegal throughout the year for the purpose of noodling, which was defined by law as "hands only," and were against the contest rules too. Artie couldn't afford fancy diving gloves so he'd brought a pair of Deborah's rubber gloves, which offered some protection. He was wearing some decent hipwaders he'd found at a garage sale and purchased for four bucks. In spite of the dry spring the water was nippy this time of year. The waders were a practical precaution.
A partner might have been handy, but Artie didn't want to share the prize money. He'd need witnesses, too, but he'd checked with KHIC yesterday and been informed they'd be bringing their remote broadcasting van in about half an hour.
Offshore a huge red and white bobber swayed on the water. He'd tied it with kite string through the nail hole of a sturdy metal yardstick. He figured a few more inches, when he could see the yardstick, then he'd find out if the stone could call a fish.
Mockingbirds and blue jays began to cackle at the rising sun. He'd watched a raccoon slip in the water hunting crawdads. No skunks, thank goodness, they were too aggressive.
Artie finished eating, and studied the channel. This was good water, dark green and rich with life. Not polluted, at least no visible pollution. No appreciable acid rain here yet. But there was a lot of activity, schools of fish were trapped or becoming fearful sensing the river was changing. Splashes popped and eddied everywhere, marring the peacefulness of the hour. It would be hot today, he realized, on this, The Best Day Of His Life.
A tremendous splash instantly drew his attention upstream toward the buttresses of the dam. A spray of water was only now dashing down on the thinning river, as if whatever had made it had fallen from the opaline sky.
"A big one!" he whispered. A flathead? He'd assumed they'd nest by the cottonwood, and being bottom-feeders they didn't surface often. But the catfish prize paid the most. There was no sign of the yardstick, yet following his intuition Artie decided to go for it now. Charlie never had mentioned how long this might take, and the radio people were due any minute.
He stood up, looping the suspenders of the asparagus-green waders over his shoulders and cinching them tight. He didn't want to freeze his ass off in the pursuit of a college education if it wasn't necessary. He pulled the rubber gloves out of his jeans pockets and put them on. He flipped his longish brown hair out of his tense face, jamming it behind his ear fretfully. Heart pounding, he bent over for the shoebox and tossed the lid away. He grasped for the stone awkwardly, fingers fumbling for it inside the unfamiliar gloves--now he had it, real good.
Artie marched into the swirling water and gradually moved out in the channel beyond his bobber marker. He glanced around, feeling foolish. Nobody was here; hocus-pocus time.
For a moment he held the smooth shape of the stone in his palm like a rare, mysterious jewel, then dipped it hesitantly just beneath the surface. Wet, the milkiness of it vanished into a melancholy brown. He plunged his whole arm in, wetting the sleeve of his old flannel shirt up to the armpit. He was shocked by the freezing temperature of the water crashing against his chest as he felt for the riverbed; brrr! Groping, he located the murky bottom and released the stone somewhere to the left in what felt like thick mud.
He straightened up shivering, babbling the chant, "Noodleyou noodleme--" blah, blah, blah. A paste of watery silt dripped off the cold rubber of the glove.
He was sinking in the mud. Irritably he thrashed his arms above the water trying to dislodge his feet. Too suddenly he was free, lurching sideways, a slow dumb stumble downstream. Hope I didn't step on the stone! As he regained his precarious balance, water foaming at the top of the hipwaders, he saw it.
"Wow, oh, wow!" he said, unaware it was a resounding cheer. Charlie isn't kidding around! There was a flashing throb of light arching up from the river bottom, a silent tickticktick of beckoning, bluish lightning. Artie watched the strobing, charmed and exhilarated. It must be the fire the stone had absorbed, he reasoned. Fire regurgitating in the alien environment of water by command of touch, call of chant. An actual, physical manifestation of an ancient Indian rite! For a few dreamy seconds Artie pondered a notion of the money he might rake in if he were on tv right now--but, this was Charlie's magic, not his, he couldn't steal it or preserve it...
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