Randy White - Hunter's moon

It turned… sounded… then ascended. More unusual behavior. I pumped and reeled, the morning breeze keening through the line I gained.

I didn’t care about landing and killing the fish, although I would if it was breakfast-worthy. I wanted to find out what it was. Swimming against the tide, its erratic descents, didn’t mesh with the behavior of familiar species. I at least wanted to get a look at the thing. So I waded waist-deep to the edge of the drop-off, trying to narrow the point of intersection. The tide was running so hard, it eroded the sand beneath my feet, and I had to keep moving or I would have been swept away.

Then, abruptly, the line went slack. It didn’t break; there was no elastic recoil. It collapsed, like a balloon deflating.

The fish was gone… I thought.

But it wasn’t gone.

The line, I realized, hadn’t broken. The line was moving toward me

… no, it was torpedoing toward me at high speed… hissing now as it ripped the water’s surface.

The fish I’d hooked wasn’t alone, either. Its erratic behavior was explained. A shark’s dorsal fin, two feet high and gray, was tracking the line, closing in so fast that it pushed a bulbous wake like a submarine.

I turned my side to the shark, watching the line as I tried to hurry into shallower water. But the sand was like snow and collapsed under pressure. I could walk but I couldn’t run.

There was no escape. So I stopped and just let it happen, resigned but also fascinated.

The shark was a great hammerhead, as long as our canoe but triple the girth. It had to weigh a half ton. The dorsal was backlit by the dawn horizon; its bizarre head was a transient shadow wider than my shoulders. I lifted my feet from the bottom and let the tide move me as the fish I’d hooked shot past my legs. The shark’s wake followed, close enough that I felt its bulk graze my thigh.

An instant later, water imploded. The hammerhead breached. In its jaws was a barracuda, my chartreuse fly pinned neatly to the hinge of its mouth. Plasticine flakes glittered as the shark twisted and crashed into the water-barracuda scales. Then it swirled massively, so close I could feel the suction created by the hammerhead’s tail stroke.

My feet had found the bottom. I walked and crawled until I was on the beach, the fly rod still in hand.

“An interesting fishing technique, Dr. Ford. But shouldn’t you have a large hook strapped to your butt?”

The president had been watching. He looked fit in running shorts and a T-shirt. He was also wearing owlish, wire-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses-even in photographs I’d never seen the man wear glasses. It had been less than half an hour since I’d left him.

I was laughing, adrenaline wired. “Did you see the size of that bastard?”

“Yeah. You’d look nice in his trophy case.”

I was searching the water. No fin. “It wasn’t after me. It was locked onto the fish I was fighting. Probably didn’t even notice I was there.”

“You’re the expert. But I think I’ll give it a few minutes before taking a swim.” He was a dry one-irony as understatement, a trait common in people comfortable under pressure.

“I thought I told you to call me if fish were hitting.” Wilson put his hand out, not joking now. I realized he wanted the fly rod. He took it, looking around, seeing the sunrise, the painted dancers, then he smiled, touching an index finger to the bridge of his glasses. “God, I’ve missed this. Mind if I see what’s on the other end?”

He reeled in the line. Nothing left but the barracuda’s head.

“Five-footer, you think?” Wilson had done some saltwater fishing.

“A little over four maybe. Big.”

I showed him the drop-off where I’d caught the snook.

“The barracuda was using it as an ambush point. The shark was doing the same thing. It’s possible the barracuda didn’t know.”

“One predator using another predator as bait.”

“Yeah.”

That meant something to Wilson. I wasn’t sure why but I could guess.

“Good,” he said. “ Another good omen.”

As the man turned down the beach, though, I noticed a purple hematoma on his thigh and a smaller bruise on his calf.

Bad omens.

I stood at the edge of the drum circle observing as a lone drummer started, offering a baseline rhythm. Others joined. As the noise grew, some added solo riffs and counterbeats. After a few minutes, the chorus broke down and a new tempo emerged.

The objective, Tomlinson once explained, was to connect with the Tribal Mind. If you found that magic zone, he said, you vanished into the sensation that your body was being played by the drum circle, not your drum.

Tomlinson looked as if he’d found the zone.

As I approached the circle, I saw people I recognized. There was a fishing guide, a couple of nurses, several restaurant people, even a Sanibel cop. Mizzen, the nautical setter, was there with Dr. Bill and Sherry Welch. We exchanged waves. But Tomlinson was too lost in drumming to notice. He didn’t recognize my voice, either, when I came up behind him and said, “Do you take requests? Or only original material?”

The man’s eyes weren’t just dreamy, they were glassy, but opened wide, like miniature TVs reflecting images of painted figures dancing by the fire.

Without looking, he replied, “I can’t take verbal requests, man. But if you feel what you want, I might tune to the vibe. Comprendo? ” His head bobbed, hands blurred, as he added a triple-time riff. “Reason I don’t take requests is… rhythm, it’s the mother tongue. Earth’s first language. Words, man”-he motioned vaguely, somehow without missing a beat-“they’re pointless here. You gotta feel it to communicate. So far, though”-he inserted another flourish-“you’re not putting out a signal. It’s like you got no soul, dude.”

I didn’t answer. Stood looking over his shoulder until he got curious and turned. “Why… it’s you, Doc?” His expression was theatrical. “ That explains it.”

When he grinned, I realized I’d been set up.

“How long have you known we’re here?”

“Since before you landed, man.”

“Uh-huh.”

His hands slowed on the drum, then stopped, but he continued keeping time with his left hand. “Seriously. I went down the beach to take a whiz and saw you riding that track of moonlight. You’re the only guy I know who paddles a canoe like he’s harvesting potatoes. And he’s with you.”

“Surprised?”

“Nope. I was expecting him.”

“I bet your friends are excited.”

“No need to test me, Doc. The man gave me orders. It’s top secret.”

I looked toward the cabin. Wilson was a solitary figure in the dawn light. He was fishing: smooth backcast, a tight loop; doublehauling and making it look easy. Impressive.

I said, “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Going? You mean we’re taking a trip? The three of us? That’s cool

… I guess… despite several troubling issues. Some of his outrageous political positions, for example. Which means I must anticipate conflict. I’ll have to tread lightly to avoid ugly scenes. Unless-” Troubled, Tomlinson paused, now talking to himself. “Unless I’m just imagining this. Which is very possible with a snoot full of hooch, and a head full of conga. Yes, this could be another one of Senor Tequila’s little mind fucks. A potential downer.”

I said softly, “Tomlinson?”

“Yes, Marion.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He focused. “Doc? I’m not imagining you, am I, Doc?” Fire crackled, sparks cometed across his eyes, as he sought reassurance by touching my arm.

I gave his hand a friendly whack. “Knock it off. I’m not Dorothy and you’re no Wizard. We need to talk.”