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The stream flowed under a little wooden bridge； and the banks leading down to the water were steep and brushy。 I worked my way down carefully； holding on where I could and digging my heels in。 I went down out of summer and back into midspring； or so it felt。 The cool rose gently off the water； and a green smell like moss。 When I got to the edge of the water I only stood there for a little while； breathing deep of that mossy smell and watching the dragonflies circle and the skitterbugs skate。 Then； farther down； I saw a trout leap at a butterfly…a good big brookie； maybe fourteen inches long…and remembered I hadn't e here just to sightsee。
I walked along the bank； following the current； and wet my line for the first time with the bridge still in sight upstream。 Something jerked the tip of my pole down a time or two and ate half my worm； but he was too sly for my nine…year…old hands…or maybe just not hungry enough to be careless…so I went on。
I stopped at two or three other places before I got to the place where Castle Stream forks； going southwest into Castle Rock and southeast into Kashwakamak Township； and at one of them I caught the biggest trout I have ever caught in my life； a beauty that measured nineteen inches from tip to tail on the little ruler I kept in my creel。 That was a monster of a brook trout； even for those days。
If I had accepted this as gift enough for one day and gone back； I would not be writing now （and this is going to turn out longer than I thought it would； I see that already）； but I didn't。 Instead I saw to my catch right then and there as my father had shown me…cleaning it； placing it on dry grass at the bottom of the creel； then laying damp grass on top of it…and went on。 I did not； at age nine； think that catching a nineteen…inch brook trout was particularly remarkable； although I do remember being amazed that my line had not broken when I； netless as well as artless； had hauled it out and swung it toward me in a clumsy tail…flapping arc。
Ten minutes later； I came to the place where the stream split in those days （it is long gone now； there is a settlement of duplex homes where Castle Stream once went its course； and a district grammar school as well； and if there is a stream it goes in darkness）； dividing around a huge gray rock nearly the size of our outhouse。 There was a pleasant flat space here； grassy and soft； overlooking what my Dad and I called South Branch。 I squatted on my heels； dropped my line into the water； and almost immediately snagged a fine rainbow trout。 He wasn't the size of my brookie…only a foot or so…but a good fish； just the same。 I had it cleaned out before the gills had stopped flexing； stored it in my creel； and dropped my line back into the water。
This time there was no immediate bite so I leaned back； looking up at the blue stripe of sky I could see along the stream's course。 Clouds floated by； west to east； and I tried to think what they looked like。 I saw a unicorn； then a rooster； then a dog that looked a little like Candy Bill。 I was looking for the next one when I drowsed off。
Or maybe slept。 I don't know for sure。 All I know is that a tug on my line so strong it almost pulled the bamboo pole out of my hand was what brought me back into the afternoon。 I sat up； clutched the pole； and suddenly became aware that something was sitting on the tip of my nose。 I crossed my eyes and saw a bee。 My heart seemed to fall dead in my chest； and for a horrible second I was sure I was going to wet my pants。
The tug on my line came again； stronger this time； but although I maintained my grip on the end of the pole so it wouldn't be pulled into the stream and perhaps carried away （I think I even had the presence of mind to snub the line with my forefinger）； I made no effort to pull in my catch。 All of my horrified attention was fixed on the fat black…and…yellow thing that was using my nose as a rest…stop。
I slowly poked out my lower lip and blew upward。 The bee ruffled a little but kept its place。 I blew again and it ruffled again 。 。 。 but this time it also seemed to shift impatiently； and I didn't dare blow anymore； for fear it would lose its temper pletely and give me a shot。 It was too close for me to focus on what it was doing； but it was easy to imagine it ramming its stinger into one of my nostrils and shooting its poison up toward my eyes。 And my brain。
A terrible idea came to me： that this was the very bee which had killed my brother。 I knew it wasn't true； and not only because honeybees probably didn't live longer than a single year （except maybe for the queens； about them I was not so sure）。 It couldn't be true because bees died when they stung； and even at nine I knew it。 Their stingers were barbed； and when they tried to fly away after doing the deed； they tore themselves apart。 Still； the idea stayed。 This was a special bee； a devil…bee； and it had e back to finish the other of Albion and Loretta's two boys。
And here is something else： I had been stung by bees before； and although the stings had swelled more than is perhaps usual （I can't really say for sure）； I had never died of them。 That was only for my brother； a terrible trap which had been laid for him in his very making； a trap which I had somehow escaped。 But as I crossed my eyes until they hurt in an effort to focus on the bee； logic did not exist。 It was the bee that existed； only that； the bee that had killed my brother； killed him so bad that my father had slipped down the straps of his overalls so he could take off his shirt and cover Dan's swelled； engorged face。 Even in the depths of his grief he had done that； because he didn't want his wife to see what had bee of her first…born。 Now the bee had returned； and now it would kill me。 It would kill me and I would die in convulsions on the bank； flopping just as a brookie flops after you take the hook out of its mouth。
As I sat there trembling on the edge of panic…of simply bolting to my feet and then bolting anywhere…there came a report from behind me。 It was as sharp and peremptory as a pistol…shot； but I knew it wasn't a pistol…shot； it was someone clapping his hands。 One single clap。 At the moment it came； the bee tumbled off my nose and fell into my lap。 It lay there on my pants with its legs sticking up and its stinger a threatless black thread against the old scuffed brown of the corduroy。 It was dead as a doornail； I saw that at once。 At the same moment； the pole gave another tug…the hardest yet…and I almost lost it again。
I grabbed it with both hands and gave it a big stupid yank that would have made my father clutch his head with both hands； if he had been there to see it。 A rainbow trout； a good bit larger than the one I had already caught； rose out of the water in a wet； writhing flash； spraying fine drops of water from its filament of tail…it looked like one of those romanticized fishing pictures they used to put on the covers of men's magazines like True and Man's Adventure back in the forties and fifties。 At that moment hauling in a big one was about the last thing on my mind； however； and when the line snapped and the fish fell back into the stream； I barely noticed。 I looked