The Crayfish God

I don't go fishing. Sounds strange, doesn't it? Someone who grew up in the Adirondacks and currently lives here, and I don't fish. Not for Father Ward's lack of trying, of course. He loves fishing. When it's in season, every Saturday morning you can be sure he's either at his favorite spot on Clifton Lake, or tramping through the woods, looking for just the right place along Black Creek for brook trout. He always asks me to join him, and every time, I pass.

He doesn't know why, of course. I've never told him about the weird experience which put me off fishing  for good. After what I think I saw years ago, I don't want to contemplate what lives underwater.

I have no logical basis for this unease, of course. It's not like we've had many drownings on Clifton Lake. The last one happened back in the seventies, when high school basketball star Michael Whitaker got caught in a storm while fishing from his father's rowboat on the lake. A pretty straightforward accident. The only odd thing was, they never found the body. 

No, I don't like being around water in Clifton Heights because of something my imagination conjured up when I was thirteen years old. One of those strange experiences we lock inside our heads and forget about. Maybe because of time passing, or maybe because we make ourselves forget them. I certainly forgot about it, until I returned to Clifton Heights. I've tried multiple times to turn it into a short story, but have so far failed, so here's the experience itself, as I remember it.

*

Up until the age of thirteen, I went fishing every Saturday morning with my Grandpa Carlton. Dad wasn't much of a fisherman. An engineer who worked in Utica, as a kid he'd been more interested in building things. As an adult, he liked to spend his weekends working around the house on the numerous construction projects he always had in progress.

Because Dad hadn't caught the fishing bug, Grandpa Carlton thought it was his duty to pass it on to me. After my tenth birthday, during fishing season Grandpa Carlton would pick me up at dawn. We'd either head out to Clifton Lake to cast for sunnies, blue gills, or small mouth bass; or, we'd scout along Black Creek for brook trout.

I fished right alongside Grandpa when we visited Clifton Lake. It was easy from our spot on the bank behind The Motor Lodge (and before you ask, yes, The Man Who Sits in His Chair was there, and Grandpa Carlton always waved, and the man waved back).

However, I didn't have much patience when we searched along the banks of Black Creek, because it was much harder to cast in the pools hidden under overhanging banks, where the trout liked to hide. Instead, I hunted for crayfish under the rocks near the shore.

We would often alternate; Clifton Lake one week, Black Creek the next. At Black Creek, while Grandpa was busy casting for trout, I waded near the shore, carefully turning rocks over in the hopes of finding crayfish big enough for Grandma cook when we got back. It sort of amazed me that those things which sorta looked like bugs were basically mini-lobsters. They tasted pretty good, dipped in butter.

Suffice it to say, I don't eat lobster or crayfish, today.  Just the thought curdles my stomach.

*

Ever hunt crayfish? It's a frustrating enterprise at first. Those mini-lobsters are fast. They don't turn around to run away. They swim backwards. One wrong move on your part, and they jet, in the blink of an eye. I don't know how many times I had a decent-sized crayfish before me, and as I was lowering my small net behind it, if I shifted my feet wrong, that sucker disappeared upstream, leaving nothing but specks in its wake.

In any case, that's how I spent my mornings when Grandpa took me fishing along Black Creek. It worked out well for both of us. I hunted downstream from him, so my wading wouldn't alarm the fish, and it kept me busy, while he doggedly cast under bank overhangs, searching for crafty book trout (more often than not, he was successful in outwitting at least enough for a nice lunch of pan-fried fish).

One Saturday morning, however, something happened which eventually put me off fishing for good. I didn't quit immediately, but I started coming up with excuses when Grandpa wanted to return to Black Creek, only fishing with him at Clifton Lake. After the season ended, the following year I didn't go anymore. I could tell he was disappointed, (though he wasn't the type to show it). I felt bad about that, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself go fishing, even to make him happy, and I haven't been fishing since.

*

We were riding in his truck toward the trailhead just outside town, between Clifton Heights and Old Forge, which led to our access point for Black Creek, where Grandpa usually fished. Black Creek runs through town, down past the lumber mill, where Clarke Street crosses it, over Black Creek Bridge. The water's deep enough to fish there, but Grandpa liked to fish alone, so we headed downstream to the trailhead.

The conversation started innocently enough. Smoking his usual brand of Kentucky cheroot cigars (the smell of tobacco mixed with motor oil always reminds me of those mornings in his truck), Grandpa glanced at me and said with a smile, “Gonna get a mess of crawdaddies, today?”

I nodded. “Gonna try to get enough for us to eat again.”

Catching crayfish had become a challenge I embraced eagerly. They moved like lightening, and my first few times out, I'd come up woefully short. By thirteen, however, I'd gotten pretty good at it. Averaged twenty to thirty good-sized crayfish each outing. I was always trying to catch more.

Grandpa chuckled as he looked back to the road. “Well, that's jus fine. One thing you want to remember, though, is if you ever come across a crayfish bigger'n a man's hand, one almost as big as a small lobster, don't catch it. It's bad fortune to catch a crayfish that big.”

I  frowned, confused. “Why not? Crayfish that big would be good eating, right?”

Grandpa shook his head and chuckled again. “Regular crayfish don't get that big in these parts, so if you do see one looks that big, especially in Black Creek, you leave it be.”

“Why?”

Grandpa puffed on his cheroot and looked thoughtful. “Well, legend has it crayfish that big ain't really crayfish. It's kinda what the Mohawks used to call the 'Onyare.'”

“What's  that?”

“Some legends say it's a big a lake serpent – kinda like a Native American Loch Ness Monster – that lives in deep lakes an likes to come up an capsize boats if it ain't been receivin it's yearly sacrifice. Other legends sat the Onyare ain't one thing, it's a kinda thing – a spirit that died in the water, an now haunts that water, in the form of the hungriest thing there.”

This surprised me at first; the idea that crayfish were the hungriest things in Black Creek. But then I thought of what I'd seen one Saturday morning, an image which still haunts me today. I'd caught more crayfish than usual, nearly thirty-five. We didn't get to eat that many, however, because upon returning to my bucket with a freshly-caught crayfish, I discovered, to my young horror, the crayfish attacking each other, the water at the top of the bucket littered with severed claws, antennae, and other specks of white which I realized were little chunks of crayfish.

When I called Grandpa over, he'd confirmed this, saying that crayfish, lobsters, crabs, or any other kind of “bottom-feeder” can get ornery enough to turn cannibal. That image has always stayed with me. Those crayfish angrily viciously consuming each other.

Grandpa continued. “See, there's a town legend that ties in with the Onyare. Details are pretty scarce, but it goes somethin like this. Apparently, back in the twenties, a small group of  Mohwaks who loved out past Bassler House – keepin their beliefs but dressin an livin like townfolks – lost one of their girls when she caught pregnant by one of the more important  townsmen. No details on who, just someone high up in the town order, some fella already married with kids. Anyway, as the story goes, she begged him to leave his family an marry her, an of course he refused. So one day they found her naked, face down in Black Creek, under Black Creek Bridge. Dead, of course.”

I stared at Grandpa, mouth slightly open, enthralled despite the story's macabre tone, or maybe even because of it. Grandpa had quit high school early to help support his family during the Depression, and hadn't ever pursued a formal education, but the man was a natural born storyteller, most likely one of my very first “literary” influences, in his own way. “Did they find out how she died?”

Grandpa shook his head, cheroot sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Nope. Leastways, the story don't say so. Anyway – an here's where it gets a little gory, so don't tell your Mom or  Dad I told you this  – when they turned her body over, they at first thought she was still alive, cause it looked like she was twitchin an shiverin in her belly, and it looked like her throat was still workin. But they figured out she was dead right quick when the crayfish started clawin their way outta her mouth, by the dozens. So you can probably guess why it looked like her belly was twitchin.”

I swallowed down a dry throat. “Crayfish? In...inside her?”

“Yep. That's how the story goes, anyway.” He paused as he turned the wheel and left Route 15 for Route 28 North. “Afterward, story started circulatin about her affair with this fellow, an that she'd gotten pregnant. Folks who pulled her out of the river also started spreadin stories about two different things. One, how it looked like she was wearin some sort of weird Indian necklace that gave them the heebie-jeebies just lookin at it. Now, I ain't the type of man who cares what a person looks like, what their skin color is, or what they worship – I'm just tellin the story as I heard it. Anyway, folks back then bein more religious an scared of things they didn't understand, pretty soon the story spread she was wearin a sorta Indian conjure necklace for workin black magic. That's the more believable of the two stories.”

“Whatabout the second story?”

Grandpa smiled a bit, and I could tell he was getting a kick out of the whole thing. “Well, the story goes, as they was tryin to haul her out of the water, they heard something rippin, like a wet bag tearin. Her belly started bulgin, claws started rippin through her skin, an then a crayfish – bigger'n man's hand – slipped out of her torn belly. Before folks could blink, it skittered into the creek and vanished.”

Thinking back on it, I'm somewhat surprised I didn't start writing horror sooner, quite honestly.

Grandpa continued.  “Eventually, the commotion mostly died down. The year after, however, fisherman occasionally reported seein a crayfish bigger'n a man's hand up an down Black Creek, one that darted away through the water if they even so much as twitched toward it. Story started spreadin among the local Mohawks that the big crayfish wasn't a crayfish at all. It was an Onyare. This girl's spirit in the form of the hungriest thing in the creek. You can imagine the sensation when, a year later to the day that girl was found dead in Black Creek, the fella got her pregnant went missing when he was fishin in the middle of Clifton Lake when he got caught in a storm. When his body washed up the next day, can you guess what they found?”

At that point, in spite of my dread fascination, I do remember my stomach lurching a bit. “Crayfish?”

“Ayuh. All over him, clawin out of his mouth, an some folks claim they saw, as they pulled his body into shore, the biggest crayfish they ever seen – bigger'n a man's hand – flashin away into the water. Mohawk folks outside town claimed that girl's Onyare finally got its revenge. Clifton Heights folks? Well, they never talked about it, but when those Mohawks finally decided to move somewhere else, I don't think anyone felt too bad.”

We fell into silence, while Grandpa smoked and drove. I thought furiously. Ten minutes later, when he pulled into the trailhead for Black Creek, I asked, “Grandpa...do you...think that story's true?”

Grandpa laughed outright and shook his head. “Lord, you start havin nightmares, I'm gonna catch it from your folks.” He took his cheroot out and tapped its ash out the truck window. “Do I think the story entire is true? Not at all. I mean, this world is full of strange  things can't be explained, but still. My mind is a bit too ground-bound to believe in such stuff, though them stories is awful fun to tell.”

He turned to face me, leaning back against his door. “I think it's probably more a myth made up to explain why those big crayfish is so crafty. I certainly seen crayfish that big before, but it ain't no use catchin em. They're fast an smart. Almost seem like they're more'n animal smart, that they're people smart. But I don't think that's cause they're Onyare. I just think it's cause no crayfish gets that big, avoidin racoons an snappin turtles an whatnot every year, without bein crafty. And it'd be a shame to catch somethin that smart an crafty for nothing more'n snack you won't remember come a week later. Myths like the Onyare help explain things like that, I guess.”

He slapped the steering wheel and opened the door. “Anyway. Let's get out there and see what's biting.”

*

You'd think a story filled with corpses bloated and choking with crayfish might put me off actually looking for them, but kids are resilient that way. They're flexible, and their minds bounce back from things. Plus, at the time, I thought Grandpa Carlton's story nothing more than just another of his tall tales.

So, after hiking to our usual spot along Black Creek, we settled into our routine. Grandpa found several bank overhangs where he began casting for trout, and after putting on my water boots and filling my bucket with stream water, I waded into the creek where I usually did, and started catching crayfish.

As I hunted (I experienced success immediately, snagging nearly fifteen in the first hour), Grandpa, not finding much success of his own, moved up the creek, around the bend, out of sight. I didn't mind; it's what usually happened. It wasn't long after Grandpa left that, standing calf deep in the quietly rippling creek, I saw something which made my heart stutter and my breath catch in my throat.

About five feet to my left, on a rock just under the water, close to the opposite shore, sat the biggest crayfish I'd ever seen. Bigger than my hand, easily. Bigger than Grandpa's hand, for sure. The story he'd just told me of the Onyare flashed through my mind, but I didn't hesitate, not for one second. It was just a story. That right there, sitting on that rock – not even facing me – was the biggest crayfish I'd ever seen. It legitimately looked like a small lobster.

I slowly picked my way against the current toward the crayfish. It didn't move, not even an inch. Hardly believing my good fortune, I eased up and slowly lowered my net behind it, the net itself touching the rock the crayfish sat on. Still, it didn't move, maybe flicked its long antennae once, and that's all.

I hesitated for a moment. Up close, the crayfish looked even bigger than I'd originally thought. It's thorax, head and pincers easily matched the size of my hand, and it's tail probably would've stretched from my hand to my forearm. For just a second, I considered turning around, heading back to shore, and forgetting I ever saw it.

The second passed. Leaning forward ever so cautiously, I jabbed a finger into the water, right in front of it. It twitched, and then – lazily, it seemed, as if not afraid at all – it settled backward into my net.

I jerked the net upward with a whoop, holding the crayfish up so I could see it better. It certainly was big, my estimation of its size correct. In a flash, I thought about the Onyare clawing its way out of the young girl's belly in Grandpa's story, but I pushed the thought aside. He was going to be so surprised, so proud of me, and I couldn't believe I'd actually caught such a big...

           

My thoughts trailed off as I stared at the crayfish. Oddly enough it hung there, very still, not scrambling for escape like most crayfish do, getting their pincers tangled in the net as they hopelessly flailed. It just sat there, motionless, with the exception of an occasional twitch of its antennae.

It was staring at me.

I know it sounds strange, but I got the distinct impression that those small, nearly-blind eyes were staring at me.

That's when I heard it.

A watery rustling behind me. That's the only way I can describe it, after all this time. As if something was scuttling many legs through wet gravel toward me. And also...clicking. Yes. I heard something I can only describe as clicking. Hundreds of pincers clicking together.

Behind me.

Between me and the shore.

Before me was bank I'd have to scramble up and hoist myself over. Though I was thirteen and fairly agile, it would be hard going. I could easily slip down that bank, and though the water only came up to mid-calf, if I fell backwards clumsily enough, on my back, my head would surely go under water, and...

Unbidden, I saw a vision of crayfish swarming over me, clawing out my eyes, jamming themselves down my throat, choking off my airway as they forced themselves down into my stomach.

I didn't look over my shoulder.

But I heard them. Thousands of insectile legs rustling the wet gravel of the shore, and thousands of pincers, clicking.

I looked at the huge crayfish sitting placidly in my net.  It stared back at me (I swear to you, it did), and surprisingly enough, I felt no menace coming from it. Oddly enough, a strange kind of sadness filled me. A longing. For what, I didn't know, and I still don't know. Suddenly, I knew I had to let it go, and not just because of what would happen to me if I didn't. I believe then, as I believe now, I would've let it go even if I hadn't heard those legs rustling and those pincers clicking. I would've let it go because I would've wanted to, because I suddenly felt so sad.

Slowly, I lowered  the net back into the water. Gently – almost reverently – I deposited the huge crayfish back on it's rock. Soon as I pulled the net away, it darted downstream faster than any crayfish I've ever seen, becoming nothing but a dim brown blur, and I realized something else, then.

It had let itself be caught. It could've dodged my clumsy capture attempt any time it wanted, but instead, had casually let itself be backed into my net.

Soon as the crayfish – the Onyare? - disappeared downstream, the rustling and the clicking stopped. It took me several minutes to muster up the courage to look over my shoulder. When I did, my breath caught as I saw what looked like ten or fifteen crayfish scuttling off downstream, also.

How many more had been there?

I slowly waded back to shore. Took my bucket of crayfish, upended it in the stream, not watching my former prisoners scuttle off and vanish. I then found a dry place on the bank, sat down, and quietly waited for Grandpa Carlton to make his way back to me, my mind whirling with jumbled thoughts and images which I refused to consider very closely, but at the same time, couldn't ignore.

As I said, I continued fishing with Grandpa for the rest of the season, but only at Clifton Lake, and after that season I never went fishing again, nor have I eaten crayfish or lobster, since.

Gavin Patchett

Clifton Heights, NY