Original Fiction: A Sliver of Moon

He sat by the window, gaze fixed on the sliver of moon that hung low in the purple twilight. He was old and tired and had been for some time. Those he grew up with who were still above ground called him Little Jack, but most people these days knew him as Old Man Hartigan or simply Hartigan. His hands, once strong and calloused from years of gripping wood and steel, trembled slightly around the tumbler of bottom-shelf whiskey. Outside, the river whispered its ancient lyrics, a song he knew by heart. Tomorrow, he would try to fish it one last time.

He sipped the acerbic liquid and allowed his mind to drift to a summer day decades past. He was a boy then, gangly and eager, standing on the bank of a small, clear stream. Big Jack, a patient man with a lifetime of angling wisdom, stood to the side and slightly behind him. The old fly rod, a relic passed down through generations, felt awkward in his young hands, eight feet of whip and quaver. His father had tied on a simple #8 elk hair caddis—big so Little Jack could easily follow its arc—and, with gentle guidance, showed him how to cast. The line unfurled on the still air, the fly plonking onto the surface in a twist of loop and leader. Again. Again. Over and over until it finally landed softly on a table of flat water. A ripple, a flash of silver, and a trout breaking the surface. His heart pounded as he fought to land his first fish. It was a rainbow the size of a 3 Musketeers bar, iridescent flanks fading to silver as he gently released it back into the current. He had found something special in that moment and would be forever changed.

Over the years, the river had been his constant companion. He'd fished its waters in every season, under every sky. He'd chased trout in the icy spring currents when the world was breaking green and reborn. He'd battled the summer's heat, the sun beating down on his back as he waded through the shallows. Autumn had brought the magic of falling leaves; the water stained a rich amber. And in winter, he'd braved the cold, the river a silent, crystalline world.

He'd fought giants and lost, humbled by the fish's cunning and strength. He'd stood on the banks of remote, pristine streams and felt a connection to the natural world that ran deeper than blood. He had proudly eaten the flesh of his adversaries and, in instants of mercy or respect, let them glide away unharmed. But now, his body had betrayed him. His eyes, once keen, were growing dim. His balance, once sure, was becoming uncertain. The natural world, once a place of reassurance, was now a challenge.

He closed his eyes and pictured the river—the feel of the rod in his hand, the rhythm of the cast, the thrill of the strike, the emergence of things long-hidden. He would fish tomorrow, no matter what. He would stand in the current, the morning sun casting long shadows across the water. He would cast his fly and let the river decide his fate.

As sleep claimed him, the moon climbed higher in the sky, reflecting its silvery light on the world outside. And in his dream, he was a young man once more, standing on the bank, watching a crimson maple leaf flow downstream until it disappeared from his sight.

The first light of dawn painted the eastern sky in soft pastels as Hartigan stirred. His body protested the movement, creaking and groaning like an ancient ship. With deliberate slowness, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his feet finding purchase on the worn wooden floor. He moved to the small kitchen, the air still heavy with the scent of sleep.

The coffee pot, a dented relic from an era of cigarettes and chrome, hummed its familiar tune as it warmed the water. He filled the filter with the coarse grind of Folgers, an aroma as familiar to him as the river itself. While the coffee brewed, he dressed in layers, the morning's chill seeping through the old cabin's thin walls. His fishing vest, worn and patched, was loaded with fly boxes, tippets, leaders, forceps, nippers, and floatant, each a touchstone to a memory. He pulled on his waders, the rubberized fabric stiff and cold against his skin.

A steaming mug of coffee in hand, he stood by the window and watched as the world awakened to a chorus of birdsong. The river, still shrouded in mist, promised the day ahead. It was time.

The chill morning was alive with the sweet and intricate melody of wildlife echoing through the woods and heady with the scent of wildflowers that mingled with the earthy zest of damp soil. He stood at the edge of a sandbank thirty yards upstream from the cabin, his eyes set on the river. It was a familiar stretch, but the water seemed to shimmer with an almost otherworldly glow in the burgeoning light. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and with a grunt of effort, lowered himself into the flow, his knees protesting the movement. The water was cold, a shock to his system, but he welcomed the sting. He waded in slowly, the current tugging at the old tobacco stick he used for balance. The riverbed was smooth and sandy here, but he knew that would change soon.

His plan was simple: to follow the river upstream, as far as his aged body would allow. He would pass the riffles below the railroad bridge, where he had fought and landed a brown trout just a couple of ounces shy of the state record. Beyond that, the river deepened, and the water grew colder. He would push on, if he could, to the spawning pools where the brookies gathered. And then, if he had the strength and the luck, he would press on to that place beyond the abandoned logging camp where a sluice of rocks marked the end of the fishable waters.

Hartigan moved slowly, methodically, through the moving river, his gauzy eyes scanning the surface for any sign of life. His hands, stiff with arthritis, fumbled with the leader, but with a practiced unease, he attached the #8 caddis. It was a big fly, too big, really, but it was the best his aging vision could manage to thread. It would have to do.

He began his ascent, casting into every promising pool and riffle. The rod, a worn companion, felt like an extension of his arm. With each cast, a wave of reveries washed over him. The feel of the line cutting through the air, the rhythmic cadence of the back cast, it was all so profoundly familiar. The first fish came quickly, an eight-inch rainbow that flashed in the sunlight before being gently released. The old man smiled. It was a good sign. As he moved further upstream, the river narrowed, and the current grew more assertive. The fish, he knew, would be larger here, older, more wary. He pulsed with anticipation, a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

The day wore on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, and Hartigan's pace slowed. His knees ached a familiar complaint. He wallowed to the bank and sat a minute on a mossy rock, sipping a bit of whiskey from a pocket flask decorated with an abstract trout pattern, brown and red dots against an orange-yellow background. As if summoned by the spirit of the flask, his next fish, a sleek and powerful brownie, rose to his fly with a determined swirl. The fight was brief but exhilarating. He released the fish, watching it disappear into the depths. Another, and then another in that same pool, before he continued up the river, wading carefully, his failing legs somehow finding a rhythm against the current. Each cast one step closer to the end.

The pools just beyond the sagging timbers and rusting barrels of the old logging camp should have been teeming with brook trout but were eerily quiet. He painted the edges, floated the undercut banks, and hovered the caddis over shadowy holes, but there was no sign of the elusive fish. Disappointment washed over him. Brookies had always been his favorite, with their vibrant colors and spirited fight. They were the only species native to these waters, a vestige of a time when the woods were wilder and less touched by human hands. He continued to cast as he moved haltingly against the thigh-high flow, mending his line with mechanical precision, but his heart was no longer in it.

The old logging camp was the last trace of civilization—although anyone who'd spent time with loggers, as Hartigan once had, might argue that point. Above the spawning pools, the river got narrow and fast, the rocky bottom slick and irregular. There were few fish to be had there, even for those foolhardy enough to try.

He was not.

The bank was a steep, slippery slope, and Hartigan moved with cautious deliberation from the water. He peeled off his waders, the cold water dripping onto his clothes. His legs trembled, a protest against the unaccustomed exertion. He secured his gear, the familiar motions a comforting ritual. A long pull from the flask warmed his throat, a fiery elixir against his suddenly wavering stance; the weight of his own body seemed to have doubled without the buoyant support of the water. The trail was dubious, a treacherous labyrinth of rocks and roots, and he moved slowly, carefully placing each step. The sun beat down on him, a relentless adversary. Few outsiders and only a handful of locals knew of this place, and the ones that did knew better than to talk about it. An indeterminate time later—he'd purposely left his watch at the cabin—he emerged from the trees and into a clearing.

The scene before him was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Massive boulders, shaped by millennia of wind and water, dominated the landscape. They were arranged in an abstract yet almost deliberate pattern as if placed by the hand of a giant. The river roared through the gaps between the rocks, spouting randomly in great sprays like a pod of exiled cetaceans. It was a place of raw, untamed power. It was exactly how he remembered it. Big Jack had called it Desolation Falls, although that name would not be found on any official map or document. The land had belonged to the lumber company then, but they had packed up decades ago, and it probably belonged to the county or the state now.

Hartigan leaned the tobacco stick against a tree and gratefully sank onto a smooth stone, his muscles screaming for a break. He sat there for a long time until the sun, lower in the sky, cast mottled shades of green and brown across the clearing. A part of him wished he had brought the whole bottle of Early Times. He could drink it until he passed out and never wake up, the cold night taking him, a fitting end to a life on the river. But submission was not his way.

As the last rays of sunlight kissed the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and red, Hartigan returned to his cabin, not by the river but by the old logging road and the gullied gravel ribbon that passed for County Road 8. He left his waders and vest and rod there by the banks of the river, careful to remove any indication of ownership. He hoped some young enthusiast might find them, adopt them, love them, but if they just moldered there by the river he was okay with that too.

There was a quietude to the cabin, a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in years. He picked up the journal from the oak table by the window, the essence of his life on the water, recorded the day's catch in clean, neat script, and then drew a double line across the page. He had found closure, not in some grand gesture of resolution but in the quiet acceptance of the journey.

Outside, the river continued its eternal song, a lullaby to the dying day. Hartigan stood at the window, watching the twilight descend. He was exhausted, his body aching, but his spirit was filled with a sense of completion. Tomorrow would be tomorrow, and the morning would likely come, dragging the discomforts of age with it. But for now, as darkness enveloped the world, he allowed himself a moment of peace.

In the stillness of the night, amid the query of the owls and the yearning of the coyotes, Old Man Hartigan fell asleep, dreaming of rivers and rainbows, laughter and loss, and pages crumbling to dust between his fingers. And as the sliver of moon rose above the treetops, the river once more whispered its ancient secrets to him, and he understood.