“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
“Are you getting all this?” asked the stranger after the lingering pause and he straightened his legs. The cat leapt down and padded off after her own business.
“Yes, thank you,” answered the young man promptly, glad that the silence was broken at last and anxious to shift the topic a bit. “So the beginning was when George and Belle had Harry?” the host ventured, still scribbling.
“You missed it by a bit. This story began when Wang Fu Kong, George, committed himself to the journey to a new world, then the trek into the wilderness, and when he finally surrendered to the harsh beauty and rewarding wonder of the natural world in which he found himself.”
“Wait. Are you saying little Harry and his son, or daughter, or whatever, all the way down to Fred Livingson, whenever he lived, is all the same story? So, no one person had an individual beginning or end? That doesn't sound quite fair or right somehow.”
The guest stood up and walked to the door. He looked out into haze of the growing Texas day and the harvested hay fields across the pond, then he thought aloud, “You know, that's an interesting point... like 'What is the tree to the forest?' or, 'Is the story of the river in the melting ice and snow of the mountain?' or...”
“Well, yeah, or 'the chicken and the egg',” added the young man, “But how can you say: 'It begins here!' and not here, or here, or here?” Then he groaned in exasperation at his infirm grasp of what the stranger was getting at.
“The simplest way to answer that is to remind you that humans have the unique capacity to dream and to choose, which stands them in contrast to the rest of the life on this planet. Yet even with that great birthright, so few people develop the ability or make the attempt to swerve even a bit from the whims of the winds of fate or of cause and effect.” He paused, assessed the effect of this last on the young man and continued. “So when on that rare occasion someone commits to a decision made of his own understanding and aspiration, acts on that commitment, and affects the lives of others in a positive way which would not have occurred otherwise... That is a beginning.”
“And it doesn't seem to be ending...” muttered the host not so silently while sharpening his pencil for another round.
“It ends; its life however is mapped, not measured,” offered the guest, “Shall we proceed with your map?” The stranger sat down, and picked up the tale again with a conversation between George and White Feathers.
“The canoe offers a sleek profile to the water and moves swiftly with little drift...” White Feathers was again propounding his preferences for the canoe, a traditional lake vessel, as opposed to George's penchant for the shallow fishing boats he grew up piloting for his great-uncle.
“Yet the flat bottomed shallow boat allows you to get further up the inlets and even into the marshes where the lazy old fish live,” countered George assertively.
“The canoe will do as well and is easier to get off the sand and gravel shoulders with which the Tahoe protects those fish,” replied White Feathers without enthusiasm.
They had iterated this and other practiced debates of a similar nature for the last few years with no movement from either toward anything resembling a compromise. Uncharacteristically for them, as each in their own right were reputed as the most tactful at negotiation and compromise of any in the territory. Yet when they were together they seemed as intractable as twin boulders in a stream.
“I have only to lacquer the hull and fit the yuloh, sorry, the oar and oarlock and it will be ready for the tournament,” announced George.
“I will be looking forward to not paddling this year so I can catch all the fish,” smiled White Feathers who in spite of his preferences in vessels was obviously proud of his niece's husband for his industry and skill in building the odd craft. Not to mention that he really would be able to do most of the fishing this time around, which likely pleased him nearly as much. To this George harbored a quiet satisfaction. He had cultivated this relationship with the old man for years and enjoyed very much being able to bring him the pleasures that should be afforded so venerable a person.
“I am hoping you are able to catch many, but hopefully something a bit larger than the bait fish you often come back with,” needled George tongue in cheek, not glancing at White Feathers to see his reaction.
“Bait fish! That Salmon we ate for dinner last Sunday was a bait fish? What would you be a catching with that, I'm wondering?” mused White Feathers in kind.
Their conversation was interrupted for George by an insistent chatter in his ears. His great-grandfather, great-Uncle, and grandfather, as well as the voices of Lizette, Nittca, Umqua, and the others were all arguing about the arrival of 'a...stranger, a fisherman, a scoundrel, a thief...' the epithets were confused and undetermined. They had just become aware of the approach of a foreigner whose intentions boded ill for George and his family. At last it was his grandfather's voice which won out and he continued alone without interruption.
Wang Lung was reminded of a story, which to him seemed apt and instructional, 'There was an old hermit who lived deep in the mountains. He had few possessions and his home was a humble hut. One day a vagabond, a once good man, now fallen upon difficult times, happened near the valley in which he saw the old hermit digging in the side of the mountain, apparently building a tunnel. He thought to himself, 'I shall come again to this rag tag shack while the old man is out and take whatever is of worth. For everyone knew hermits guarded some secret treasures kept hidden, for why else would they live so far from civilized people. The next day while the hermit was again away, the vagabond stole into his hut and there found silver plates and a golden candlestick. As he bundled these treasures into his knapsack, the hermit returned. Seeing the vagabond in a desperate state, he offered the thief new clothes and shoes and invited him to sit for a meal. Taken aback by the hermit's sincere humanity, the thief exclaimed, “I have stolen your silver and your gold, and yet you offer me food and clothes. You indeed are a crazy old man.” “Not at all” was the hermit's reply. “I have a home and gardens of food, the few possessions I have still I'll gladly give you, as you seem to be in greater need than I.” With that the thief fell down at the hermit's feet and repented his loathsome ambition of robbery, swearing to never again to take what he did not earn.'
This same tale was being related to Belle also, and her great-great-grandmama interjected sweetly, 'I know this story,' she continued, 'The reformed thief was still bemused by the old man's daily occupation of digging, so he asked, “Why do you dig a tunnel through the great mountain, old man?” The hermit said, “The road through the pass is treacherous and my son fell to his death from the precipitous cliffs when returning with supplies from the city. So I am building a tunnel in order that no other father must mourn the loss of a child on account of the mountains.” This explanation so overwhelmed the guest that he made an oath right then to assist the old hermit in the construction of the tunnel, and so atone for his foolish life. It came about that the old hermit died a few years later, the tunnel was only halfway through the great mountain, meantime, he and the reformed thief had grown close as family. After burying his dear friend, the man continued the tunnel until, seven years later, it was finally complete. And as travelers passed through on their way, they would remark upon the dedication of spirit shown by the man, and used him as an example to their children to always finish what they started, and other morals so lacking in society.'
Their tale was told, and its effect had the desired result, that the household would act in concert in the face of this unexpected event. George and Belle translated the precepts into action and made hasty preparations for the imminent arrival of their guest. White Feathers sat quietly as George apologized for having forgotten until now the arrival of a guest. He invited White Feathers to join them for supper, to help welcome the newcomer. The old man had become inured to George's odd explanations and hijinks over the years. He even sorta looked forward to them now.
As foreseen, along the village road came a carriage, notable only in the burgeoning trunks and equipment lashed to the roof and rear. The driver slowed the horses as he passed the store and halted the team in front of the Inn several doors up. Out from the back sprang a curiously dressed man. A British businessman, a scotsmen at that, who might appear overdressed when side by side with a villager of the Sierras. He smiled broadly and looked about him in a manner that suggested calculated appraisal rather than simple admiration.
Samuel Allcock was a good father, a generous boss, a formidable businessman---shrewd in deal-making---and he loved fishing. Which was well, as his factories produced some of the finest tackle in Britain. He had grown up a Wesleyan Methodist, and at the age of thirteen had himself chosen to join the congregation. He was scrupulous and fair when dealing with competitors and had come to Canada and the States to scout a setting for a new factory in the burgeoning markets of North America.
After arriving in New York Harbor he soon set out for the famous rivers and trout streams of the Northeast, plying his Greenwood rod with great effectiveness, to the admiration and chagrin of the locals in each village and town through which he travelled. Reaching the far west of Pennsylvania near the Great Erie lake, he enjoyed an evening's meal and entertainment at a local pub. There he met a fellow angler who told of his personal encounter with a mountain man during a brief adventure out west back when he had still been at University. The mountain man, Bridger by name, fished with a rod so light and strong that the college boy had to inquire of its origin. Bridger explained at the time, “It's a cane rod, lithe as willow, strong as oak, given me in payment for a favor I performed for a store proprietor in Tahoe City.” The young man was so impressed with the rod and Bridger's skill in using it that the memory had lasted quite clearly to this day.
Allcock fell victim to the greatest of temptations for a businessman: Avarice. Although upstanding in most every other way, the gnawing worm of greed for gaining exclusive markets and profits began to cloud his reason. He wanted that rod for his own and left his conscience behind in the rationalizations that made him even 'Just' to pluck such fineness out from the obscure and barbarous wilderness. Soon he was planning a trip out West on the ostensible purpose of entering the Great Tahoe Fishing Tournament. A likely reason for the journey, as all who had met him recognized his prowess and zeal plying his Greenwood rods.
As the carriage drew up in front of the Tahoe City Inn he bid his driver dispose of his luggage, asked that the rig and horses be tended to at the livery up the street, and made arrangements for their dining together later in the evening. He supervised the unloading of the baggage then ambled back down the street. When he came abreast of the hardware store he turned to the two men sitting in front of the humble village shop.
“Hallo gentlemen, I am pleased to meet you. I have but one question...” opened the scotsman with such bravado it was difficult not to imagine that here was a man who was used to having his way, and brooked no argument to the contrary. “Can either of you point me to the vendor of the finest fishing gear who lives here abouts?”
George looked at White Feathers and White Feathers looked at George. The old man stood and approached the still grinning visitor.
“I've met him, sir. If you look down that river bend over there,” pointing back up the road from which he'd already traveled. The scotsman squinted as if to see through forest more clearly. “Then he'll be just off your left elbow on that porch right there,” he finished with a straight face. “Good evening George, I'll be 'round in a bit, I've a quick errand to which I must attend. Good evening young stranger.” White Feathers waved over his shoulder without looking back.
White Feathers hadn't fully accepted George's explanation about the sudden visitor, and decided it would be worthwhile doing a bit of reconnoitering on behalf of his friend and family. So circling behind the shops and offices of the main street he came to the Inn through the side door. He caught the eye of Mandy Hill behind the front desk and motioned for her to join him as he moved into the saloon adjacent to the foyer of the Inn. There for several minutes he plied the questions to which he most needed answers. Satisfied, he looked up the Scotsman's driver and made a few more innocent-seeming inquiries which revealed more than the workman had intended, and it all confirmed White Feather's own suspicions.
But back in the street, as the old Indian strolled out of sight, the scotsman watched after him. His grin faded, his head cocked quizzically, then he slowly turned to face the oriental-looking gentleman on the porch. They looked at each other for a brief time and at the same moment smiled, accepting at once the peculiar introduction made by White Feathers.
“Well laddie, I've a proposition for you; but let me introduce myself. I am Samuel Allcock. I have crossed seas, hills, plains and mountains, in carriage, wagon, train, and steamship to enter the Great Tahoe Fishing Tournament. And I would engage yourself, for a handsome fee of course, to guide me on this lake of yours; which will in turn guarantee my winning the competition. What do ya say to that?” He planted his hands on his hips and assumed an air of unforced confidence.
“Please just let me lock up my store for the day,” responded George abruptly. Then he added almost as an afterthought, “And may I invite you dine with myself and my family presently. We may discuss your, ahh... proposition.” He started to turn to the door, caught himself and added, “What do ya say to that?” in a close imitation of Mr. Allcock himself. He took more time than usual checking the till, straightening the nearest shelves and finally producing his keys for the door, all under the watchful eye of the stranger.
The native scotsman, undaunted, casually hailed a young boy who had been staring bald-faced at the odd visitor. He paid him a silver coin and gave him instructions to run up to the Inn, find his driver and change his previous arrangements for supper. Then Samuel turned back to George and gladly accepted his kind offer to enter into negotiations over supper. George led him around the corner of the porch to his own front door where, after graciously accepting Samuel's compliments on the architecture and construction of his home and shop, he opened the cedar door and ushered him inside. He introduced himself at last, his wife Belle, and then he presented Mr. Allcock to his wife as a guest for the evening.
Belle had already made the hasty preparations, thanks to the ministrations of her grandmama and Wang Lung, for the Scotsman's arrival and the portents it signaled. She held a pitcher of beer in one hand and motioned them into the great room with the other. Harry was playing with a little toy boat with wheels on a thick woolen rug of kaleideoscopic colors. The larger table was set with three mugs and four chairs while silverware on linen napkins for five rested neatly in place. A platter of cured salmon steak was set in the middle adorned all round with crackers and cheeses. Small bowls of nuts were set thoughtfully beside each of the mugs and a vase of wild flowers in yellows, reds and deep purples held court over all. Belle placed the pitcher on the table, gave her husband a peck on the cheek, patted Harry on his head, and went to the kitchen.
Samuel was so quickly seated, a mug put into his hand, and his 'good health' saluted, that as he swallowed his first draught he was for a moment unsure into what situation he had let himself. It had always been his part to 'Act first, Act fast, and Seal the Deal,' but the tables had been turned and he was pressed hard to keep up. Had he inadvertently let on about his ulterior motives at that pub in Pennsylvania, or perhaps misspoken at some point on the journey? They seemed to have been waiting for him and he had a most uneasy feeling at present which ever only accompanied his being late for an appointment---an extremely rare occurrence at that. He looked again at his host and the room, and reassessed the prospects.
Around the room were displayed rugs and blankets of such richness and luxuriance he was forced to question his previous notions as to the humble nature of the Livingsons, which in turn began to counter his rationalizations that he was here to wrest a trophy in the wilderness from a backward folk. In niches and corners were set little altar-like pieces which at first glance appeared to be merely artistic vignettes. The river rock fireplace and expansive mantle were modestly adorned with two pictures of aged folk surrounded with small items which complimented the images and frames. There were also children's toys, a few letters and a volume of Shakespeare's Complete Works. A drapery of finely woven silk brocade half concealed an alcove off one end of the room wherein he recognized a work bench and attendant hand tools. The large framed bay window filling the next wall looked more like a living painting of the highest caliber, with its view of the deep green late evening woods barely swaying in the dusky breeze and the glimmering lake visible just beyond, sparkling gold and orange and red over the vast deep blue.
On the wall opposite to where he sat were displayed two of the most exquisite rods he had ever laid eyes on. One single handed and one spey, each of two-piece hexagonal cane construction, polished madrone reel seats fitted with turquoise and polished silver rings, brass guides, jade strippers set in brass, crimson wraps, both varnished and hand-rubbed to a high sheen. The tooled leather covered grips were finished in swelled butts inlayed with redwood and nacre. Upon the ornate reel seats were secured brass reels well proportioned to their respective rods and meticulously crafted---the likes of which Samuel had never seen. He had lingered a tad too long on the rods, for Belle had re-entered and with George waited patiently for their guest to notice them again. Harry made some snort of amusement in his play, Samuel thoughtlessly glanced at the source of the noise and out of the corner of his eye caught George and Belle's patient stares.
“Dinner will be just a moment,” said Belle promptly to excuse their rudeness, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Loovely,” was all Samuel could muster at this. They'd done it to him again. Caught him out; he was definitely off his game. “Ahem, well Mr. Livingson, let me get to the terms I am willing to offer for your services.”
“More beer, Mr. Allcock?” Belle was at his elbow with the pitcher raised.
“Thank you Lady, please.” He looked up into Belle's face and her piercing green eyes as she poured, then he turned back to his host but he found only a vacant seat. George had gotten up and fetched something from the workshop alcove. He sat down again with a well crafted, sealed wooden tube, inlayed expertly with an exotic design. He proffered the object to Samuel for his inspection.
Obviously taken aback in surprise, Samuel mechanically reached over the table to receive it. He looked at George blankly, who was motioning him to open it. Obediently, Samuel uncorked the tube and tipped it up to reveal a silk bag sliding out the end. Another glance at George and he was urged to untie and open the wraps. With a sharp intake of breath, Samuel withdrew an unparalleled spey rod from the silken sheath. Finished and fitted to make the ones on the wall in front of him blush with plainness were they able. George stepped from the table after smiling in satisfaction at his guest's reaction.
“Permit me,” cooed Belle and set a plate in front of her guest of what appeared to be sliced prime rib arranged around a small cup of horseradish, a garnish of fresh green beans tossed with white corn, and a hearty serving of butter potatoes, then placed the same at her husband's seat.
“Oh, yes, of course, thank you ma'am, yes indeed.” Samuel slipped the bundle back into the tube and set it near his elbow at the table. “Mr. Livingson, I have ne'er seen its equal,” he called aloud recovering his presence of mind. Belle set her own plate at the table, motioned for her son to fetch his plate and to take a seat, then she pulled over a chair for herself and joined them at the quiet table.
George was coming back to the room from the kitchen with two more plates, one filled as the others and a smaller one containing some rice, a bit of corn and some large beans which he set near the middle of the table with reverence. Then just as he set the fourth supper dish at the empty place, White Feathers entered at the front door, and grabbing a fifth chair, he joined them sitting at his usual seat as if simply having stepped outside for a moment and expected all along. Samuel peered hesitantly, inconspicuously around the table waiting to see if there were any ceremony to beginning the meal; a sense of formality so pervaded the company he did not wish to appear uncouth. George and Belle spoke together but so softly that he couldn't quite catch it all, and at once they were cutting into the meat and passing butter, fresh baked bread and seasonings round.
They ate with only the occasional exchanges of courtesy interrupting the quiet relish each took dining on the exquisite meal. Belle quit the table and soon returned from the kitchen once more bearing a tureen of Apple Crumb Cobbler, dessert plates and a serving spoon. White Feathers spoke first, “I see you found the master rod-maker you were searching for...” he said matter-of-factly to Mr. Allcock as he accepted a fresh plate. The 'master rod-maker' had not been a part of the Scotsman's professed, simple request for a 'vendor and guide,' and was set as bait by White Feathers.
“Indeed,” admitted Mr. Allcock without a thought, and the subtle trap snapped shut. All eyes now turned to him, and even the little boy peered steadily up at him. He felt in a rush that all at once his ulterior plans were completely transparent and absolutely undone. “But I must admit I am at a loss as to what I am to do now.” He paused after this cryptic phrase; his Wesleyan upbringing at last reasserting itself, and the shame of his intended ruse rose mockingly before him. These were good and civilized people, honest, generous and sophisticated, not mannerless bumpkins. The conflict in his heart overwhelmed him. So there he sat baring his soul to strangers, confessing his utter shock at the prompt welcome, of the miraculously brief dinner preparations, their warmth and candor, and he just kept talking. “I came here with the definite aim of, uh... 'procuring a sampling' of Mr. Livingson's rods to replicate to the best of my factory's ability and to market them under my own brand. I had additionally expected to use one of them to win the Tahoe Tournament, proclaim the victory was due in large part to the newly adopted rod, take it as my own---a trophy if you will---and use it as a selling point for the new line.” The rush of words abated as suddenly as they began, and the table was quiet save the sounds of eating. Again Samuel was struck by their nonchalance, even in the face of this unprecedented news. He looked down at the excellent meal only half-eaten, and realized his appetite was gone.
George broke the spell of silence with, “You cannot steal what is freely given,” as if reciting a favorite proverb. It was his only comment after he had washed down a few bites with a mouthful of beer.
“We do have one condition,” added Belle promptly, “You must return to visit us in ten years time and accept the responsibility of educating our son Harry. We have limited access to higher learning here, for various reasons.” She subtly motioned with her chin to the 'Shakespeare' on the mantlepiece. “Under your administration, a proper British University education is acceptable to my husband and to me.”
Samuel set with his mouth agape, his foolish ambitions obviated, and the charge of these new conditions not fully settled yet in his mind. He was for the first time in his adult career, overwhelmed and out-classed. Not only had he been wholly out-maneuvered, but it seemed he was negotiating with the woman of the house instead of the man and this alone was enough to flummox him completely. “I...” but as suddenly he closed his mouth and sat mute for a few moments. The Princess had not finished.
“You shall remit three per cent of the profits from this venture to an account we shall name, and another three per cent to a fund for Henry's education, invested of course as you see fit.” She concluded as if she had just recounted the next week's shopping list.
The other two men continued their meal as if nothing out of the ordinary in the least had occurred. White Feathers pushed back his plate and chair and coaxed little Harry to abandon his chair for his own lap and sat happily whispering and making faces at the youngster. George asked solicitously if his guest would like more of anything, which was greeted with a shake of the head. Only Belle still held her eyes fixed on Samuel, patiently waiting for an answer.
“I am... that is to say, I accept your terms without reservation and shall endeavor to fulfill your wishes at whatever cost to myself and family,” he responded succinctly, “I have one caveat as well... I will do as I have said...” he added hastily, “but may I ask one favor.”
“You may ask,” admitted Belle easily.
“Would your husband be willing to instruct me in the building of one rod so that none of his own need be destroyed in order to inadequately, I'm now sure, learn its secrets?” Samuel finished, his voice sincerely supplicant.
Without even glancing to her husband, Belle answered clearly, “He would be most happy to have your company for as long as it takes for you to understand his absolute mastery of his craft, and that, to your own satisfaction.” George and White Feathers both smiled at each other then at Samuel, and Belle poured the rest of the beer into their glasses and rose to clear the table.
Raising his mug, George said, “To profitable negotiations!” They all drank. “And that rod at your elbow is a gift by the way,” he finished.
Samuel was now in tears.
White Feathers imperceptibly shot his eyes toward the door for George to follow him onto the porch, and once they were out of earshot of the others, in a low voice he made the following observation: “You don't have to confirm or deny it, but I am now convinced that you have not been entirely honest with me.”
George felt a moment of anxiety at what was coming.
“You are in contact with unseen informants; I suppose they must be ancient and somehow related to you.” He paused to assess his accusation's impact, noting nothing, he continued. “This evening's shinnanigans take the cake. I know what Allcock came here to do because I just interrogated his driver who knew things about his master he didn't realize he knew; but how could you and Belle have known these things, and been so prepared?” He proceeded to list specific instances over the last few years which he had mentally cataloged as too remarkable to be due to the ordinary powers of one man, or one woman for that matter because he elaborated innumerable instances of similar occurrences involving his own niece. When all was laid before him, George was agog at the old man's powers of observation and capacity for details. “My conclusion is that both you and Belle are in actual direct contact with your own ancestors, informing and advising your various decisions and actions. Of Belle, I am sure of the sources for I knew a few of the strong-willed women who came before her and recognize their hand quite plainly in her influence. For yourself, I can only surmise that the wisdom and careful planning you have exhibited over the years may be from your native talent, yet it also bespeaks the experience of great age.” White Feathers stood there, with arms crossed, “What do ya say to that?” he finished in close imitation of their guest inside.
Still stunned, George had to laugh at that last. Then his great-grandfather's voice answered, plainly impressed, 'This is one great man and a good friend, indeed, I have not known his peer. Speaking for all of us, embrace him now and trust him with your life.' Without hesitating, George hugged the old man and with tears on his face, admitted to the verity of his suspicions, and as he promised to tell him all he wished to know they went back inside arm in arm.
The next morning Samuel was seated beside the door of the hardware store eager to begin his apprenticeship. George nearly tripped over him rounding the corner from his front door, unused to such early customers. They greeted each other warmly and waited for the arrival of White Feathers who had agreed to watch the store while they were occupied with rod building. When the pleasantries were over George asked to see the rod Samuel was wont to use. He thought it would be a good launching point for his own instruction---if he saw what methods and techniques with which Mr. Allcock was already familiar. He added, “I expect I'll learn a thing or two by looking through another's eyes, so to speak.” Samuel was back in a thrice, his own Greenwood under his arm. Happily, though with a bit of modesty, he presented it for inspection. “This is good workmanship...” George began as he turned the pole this way and that,