Circling, circling, the fingerlings would investigate for several moments. Finally, a brave soul would find the food so alluring that the daring fingerling would sneak in for a bite.
The trophy clutched firmly between his baby fish teeth, he would swish away, creating a momentary flutter of panic among his siblings. The crowd would nervously re-converge on the beloved but feared mesh sack until the next adventurous trout risked it all for the sake of his belly.
Cleav watched, satisfied. They were learning, these babies of his. Each day the fingerlings overcame their fear sooner and sooner. His brooders were totally fearless, knowing that there was nothing to harm them in these ponds. The fingerlings would learn, too, but by then these would be in the fattening ponds. Fingerlings would always be afraid of the bag, he decided. It was nature's way of helping the smallest trout to protect themselves.
As he watched, the banquet was steadily increasing its diners. The fancy swirling dance of a hundred tiny trout entranced him. It always did. He could think here, imagine, postulate. Nothing would disturb his peace. That is, until he saw a woman's reflection in the water before him.
Startled, he turned. Esme Crabb was standing behind him, dressed in the same clean but worn dress as the previous day.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised. No one had ever disturbed him at the ponds before.
Esme dropped to the ground beside him, carelessly crossing her legs Indian style, and gave a little shrug of feigned indifference. "Just looking for you, I guess."
Cleav had no idea what to make of that. Since that incident in the store yesterday, thoughts, and memories of Esme Crabb, had plagued him. The sight of her raising the dress to adjust her garters was a shocking one. But he had, with great effort, painstakingly come to the conclusion that he had been at fault. He had continued to stare at her naked calf, knee, and lower thigh. Why he acted so impolitely he couldn't imagine. She was hill bred and motherless. Such behavior for her, while not excusable, was understandable. He, on the other hand, should have had the decency to turn his back. A gentleman would have, he was sure.
Esme looked around curiously and watched the tiny fish nibbling their dinner. "What about you? What are you doing?" she asked Cleav.
"I'm working."
Esme's expression lit with amusement. "Working?" she repeated, glancing at Cleav's relaxed pose and then at the quiet bucolic surroundings. "I'd best tell Pa about this. It looks to be just the job he's been praying for!"
His jaw tightening with annoyance, Cleav rose to his feet. He knew people didn't appreciate his work. Even Reverend Tewksbury and dear Miss Sophrona could barely keep the boredom out of their expressions when he talked about it. But it was work, important work, and Cleav bristled with the unfair comparison to the lazy and worthless Yohan Crabb.
"Some men labor with their backs and others with their minds. It's obvious that you're more accustomed to the former." Almost rudely, Cleav walked away from the young woman who had interrupted his afternoon. He had things to do, and he couldn't allow a curious hill girl to distract him.
Esme bristled slightly at his scornful tone, but then bit down on her lip and hurried to follow him. "He's got a prickly pride," she whispered to herself, as if making a notation for future reference. She was supposed to be making him coo and pant after her, not getting him all puffed up and nay-minded.
Cleav picked up a pail that he had left near a larger and deeper pond just downstream. Hurrying to catch up, Esme smiled up at him when she reached his side. He was just the right height, she thought to herself. Not so tall as to be clumsy, but plenty tall enough to see over the crowd. She also approved of how easily he'd scooped up the full bucket. His muscles were strong.
These cheery thoughts intrigued her for a moment, until she smelled a distinctly unpleasant odor. She peered into the bait bucket.
"Whew! What is that?" she asked him, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
"It's trout food," he answered.
"What you feeding them, skunk turds?"
Cleav was momentarily taken back by her frank language, but recovered quickly. "Meat," he answered calmly.
"Meat?" She raised her eyebrows. "I suspect you're dang right it is, and sure to graces it's been dead near a month!"
"Trout can't smell," he explained with only slight agitation. "Fish, in natural circumstances, never consume pork."
"And that's just exactly how God intended it. Can you imagine what would happen if every time a pig wandered into the river the fish came up and started gnawing on the poor thing? Why, they'd be purdy mangled afore we'd get them to slaughter."
Cleav couldn't quite tamp down the ghost of a smile that came to his lips at the image of a squealing hog being attacked by swarming carnivorous river trout. She had humor, this one, he thought in grudging appreciation. Humor being a high form of intellect, he wondered curiously how bright the Crabb woman might be. People in town said she was smarter than her sisters, but in his slight acquaintance with the twins, he thought perhaps even rocks were closer to his intellectual equals than those two.
With a touch more patience he continued his explanation. "It's very difficult for me to provide enough small fish and minnows to feed this many trout. So, I'm trying to extend the fish products I feed them by grinding them with pork. As far as preference, thus far they seem unable to tell the difference. But their digestive systems seem to tolerate the pork better when the meat is partially decomposed."
Esme wrinkled her brow seriously, listening to his explanation. "You mean when it's rotten?" she translated.
"Just so," he agreed, suppressing a laugh. Cleav stopped at the side of the pool, and Esme saw to her disbelief that the shadows his body cast on the water was enough to bring a bevy of huge full-grown trout out of hiding.
"Look at that!" Esme's words were whispered in stunned amazement.
"They're coming to be fed," Cleav answered cheerfully. Squatting down beside the water, Esme saw him dip his hand in the pail of coarsely ground, rotten meat. Retrieving a fistful, he put his hand just under the surface of the water and, to Esme's awestruck surprise, the big proud trout hurried up to get a bite.
"They eat right out of your hand!" Her eyes were wide with amazement. She looked at Cleav as if he'd just accomplished a great miracle.
