The Trapper -- a story (ii)

Adriaan's directive, from the man who employs him, is to be sure to run the trapline. I have no idea if immigrant Hollanders ran traplines--in fact, I rather doubt it. But I did, years before, when I was an eighth grader. I knew something about trapping muskrats, so I used what I knew to develop the story.

Adriaan is going out to check traps. It's early in the fall. Klassen, his boss, is off somewhere with his wife and children.

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When he reached the first bend, Adriaan got to his knees and slid carefully down the steep bank of the river where Klassen set his first trap. For hundreds of years the river had gouged into the flatland, digging itself deeper and deeper into the rich black topsoil, creating sharp cliffs at the bends. Even though fall rains had swelled the flow of the river, the incline was so treacherous that Smid edged carefully northward on hands and feet, using his backside as a brake. He inched up closely to the first set, knowing that he wasn't to disturb the stand of wild oats that jutted out and up from the water's edge. 

There was still no sun above the horizon, and although the sky continued to redden, Smid couldn't see the pan in the shallow water. He leaned over the set, grabbing a handful of brush to keep himself from falling into the quiet rush of the river, but there was no sign of the trap. Assuming it was unsprung, he grasped the brush to jerk himself back to the bank. Suddenly the weeds pulled out at the roots, and, anchor gone, Smid's right boot slid through the flaky ice at the edge and into the cold water. For­tunately, his foot caught on the trap stake, a heavy stick that just barely projected above the water, and in a moment, everything was quiet. He could feel the heavy cold pressing through his overshoe, while the flow moved easily around his foot, creating little eddies in the wake. 

Then he felt it. His foot had come down on the chain that secured the trap to its anchor, and as he tried to regain his balance and lift himself back up the bank, he felt the chain jerking between his overshoe and the soggy river bed, then snap tight and pull, madly, making the stake jump like a bobber. He reached back up toward the bank and grabbed the big forked stick with his left hand, keeping his foot firmly in place. He knew he could control the frantic movement of the animal more easily if he kept his foot on the chain. 

The fork plopped gently into the water as he started to poke in the current for the trapped animal. Then the chain snapped again, and he felt a powerful bite on the stick. The water splashed as the muskrat surfaced momentarily, leaving a chestnut trail of fur as its back arched toward the bottom again, slapping the water with its thick, naked tail. Smid poked through the darkened water with his stick, groping, touching, teasing the animal, but never quite finding the death grip. 

He stopped, withdrew the stick, and waited for the muskrat to move. The gun would be so much easier. For a moment Adriaan saw himself here, poised, cat-like, holding, pointing Klassen's death stick. Adriaan Smid, the teacher, son of Hendrikus and Gesina, waiting here, now, for an animal whose fate was already drawn as tight as the trap chain. The river flowed quickly and gently past. Blood flushing through his cheeks, his insides turning,. he held the stick inches above the water, collecting all of Evert Klassen's oaths to squelch the pain he refused to acknowledge. 

Beady eyes surfaced suddenly, behind a mask of quill-­like whiskers. Like a boy watching a stranger, Adriaan stared, his stick raised, hoping for the intervention of something far beyond himself, praying without words. The eyes were not suppliant but menacing, defiant, full of the rage. Adriaan plunged the stick into the water quickly, catching the animal's neck between the sharpened prongs before stabbing the points into the river bed. Only his arms held the muskrat down, but the animal jerked and pushed beneath the surface. Smid leaned more weight on the weapon, angered by the insolence of a creature so un­wise in the face of its own obvious destiny. His whole body shook as the muskrat's powerful webbed feet kicked madly for freedom. Thick bubbles mushroomed to the surface, and little waves, pushed by the frenetic motion beneath the surface, slapped at the bank and pushed water up into the wild oats. 

But it wouldn't die. The muskrat kicked and stamped and thrashed against the unrelenting prongs. Smid swore he felt the grate of sharp teeth on the wood again. He grew furious at such obstinate stupidity, and used the stick like a crutch for all his weight, breathing heavily in short, erratic gasps, as if he were himself engaged in mortal combat. 

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If you're going to trap muskrats, you have to learn to kill. It came with the territory. After a fashion, I suppose, using my own experience here, I was reliving something that, when it happened for the first time, seemed nightmarish. 

More tomorrow.