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ll back into the stream； I barely noticed。 I looked over my shoulder to see who had clapped。 A man was standing above me； at the edge of the trees。 His face was very long and pale。 His black hair was bed tight against his skull and parted with rigorous care on the left side of his narrow head。 He was very tall。 He was wearing a black three…piece suit； and I knew right away that he was not a human being； because his eyes were the orangey…red of flames in a woodstove。 I don't just mean the irises； because he had no irises； and no pupils； and certainly no whites。 His eyes were pletely orange…an orange that shifted and flickered。 And it's really too late not to say exactly what I mean； isn't it？ He was on fire inside； and his eyes were like the little isinglass portholes you sometimes see in stove doors。
My bladder let go； and the scuffed brown the dead bee was lying on went a darker brown。 I was hardly aware of what had happened； and I couldn't take my eyes off the man standing on top of the bank and looking down at me； the man who had walked out of thirty miles of trackless western Maine woods in a fine black suit and narrow shoes of gleaming leather。 I could see the watch…chain looped across his vest glittering in the summer sunshine。 There was not so much as a single pine…needle on him。 And he was smiling at me。
'Why； it's a fisherboy！' he cried in a mellow； pleasing voice。 'Imagine that！ Are we well…met； fisherboy？'
'Hello； sir；' I said。 The voice that came out of me did not tremble； but it didn't sound like my voice； either。 It sounded older。 Like Dan's voice； maybe。 Or my father's； even。 And all I could think was that maybe he would let me go if I pretended not to see what he was。 If I pretended I didn't see there were flames glowing and dancing where his eyes should have been。
'I've saved you a nasty sting； perhaps；' he said； and then； to my horror； he came down the bank to where I sat with a dead bee in my wet lap and a bamboo fishing pole in my nerveless hands。 His slick…soled city shoes should have slipped on the low； grassy weeds which dressed the steep bank； but they didn't； nor did they leave tracks behind； I saw。 Where his feet had touched…or seemed to touch…there was not a single broken twig； crushed leaf； or trampled shoe…shape。
Even before he reached me； I recognized the aroma baking up from the skin under the suit…the smell of burned matches。 The smell of sulfur。 The man in the black suit was the Devil。 He had walked out of the deep woods between Motton and Kashwakamak； and now he was standing here beside me。 From the corner of one eye I could see a hand as pale as the hand of a store window dummy。 The fingers were hideously long。
He hunkered beside me on his hams； his knees popping just as the knees of any normal man might； but when he moved his hands so they dangled between his knees； I saw that each of those long fingers ended in what was not a fingernail but a long yellow claw。
'You didn't answer my question； fisherboy；' he said in his mellow voice。 It was； now that I think of it； like the voice of one of those radio announcers on the big…band shows years later； the ones that would sell Geritol and Serutan and Ovaltine and Dr。 Grabow pipes。 'Are we well…met？'
'Please don't hurt me；' I whispered； in a voice so low I could barely hear it。 I was more afraid than I could ever write down； more afraid than I want to remember 。 。 。 but I do。 I do。 It never even crossed my mind to hope I was having a dream； although I might have； I suppose； if I had been older。 But I wasn't older； I was nine； and I knew the truth when it squatted down on its hunkers beside me。 I knew a hawk from a handsaw； as my father would have said。 The man who had e out of the woods on that Saturday afternoon in midsummer was the Devil； and inside the empty holes of his eyes； his brains were burning。
'Oh； do I smell something？' he asked； as if he hadn't heard me 。 。 。 although I knew he had。 'Do I smell something 。 。 。 wet？'
He leaned forward toward me with his nose stuck out； like someone who means to smell a flower。 And I noticed an awful thing； as the shadow of his head travelled over the bank； the grass beneath it turned yellow and died。 He lowered his head toward my pants and sniffed。 His glaring eyes half…closed； as if he had inhaled some sublime aroma and wanted to concentrate on nothing but that。
'Oh； bad！' he cried。 'Lovely…bad！' And then he chanted： 'Opal！ Diamond！ Sapphire！ Jade！ I smell Gary's lemonade！' Then he threw himself on his back in the little flat place and laughed wildly。 It was the sound of a lunatic。
I thought about running； but my legs seemed two counties away from my brain。 I wasn't crying； though； I had wet my pants like a baby； but I wasn't crying。 I was too scared to cry。 I suddenly knew that I was going to die； and probably painfully； but the worst of it was that that might not be the worst of it。
The worst of it might e later。 After I was dead。
He sat up suddenly； the smell of burnt matches fluffing out from his suit and making me feel all gaggy in my throat。 He looked at me solemnly from his narrow white face and burning eyes； but there was a sense of laughter about him； too。 There was always that sense of laughter about him。
'Sad news； fisherboy；' he said。 'I've e with sad news。'
I could only look at him…the black suit； the fine black shoes； the long white fingers that ended not in nails but in talons。
'Your mother is dead。'
'No！' I cried。 I thought of her making bread； of the curl lying across her forehead and just touching her eyebrow； standing there in the strong morning sunlight； and the terror swept over me again 。 。 。 but not for myself this time。 Then I thought of how she'd looked when I set off with my fishing pole； standing in the kitchen doorway with her hand shading her eyes； and how she had looked to me in that moment like a photograph of someone you expected to see again but never did。 'No； you lie！' I screamed。
He smiled…the sadly patient smile of a man who has often been accused falsely。 'I'm afraid not；' he said。 'It was the same thing that happened to your brother； Gary。 It was a bee。'
'No； that's not true；' I said； and now I did begin to cry。 'She's old； she's thirty…five； if a bee…sting could kill her the way it did Danny she would have died a long time ago and you're a lying bastard！'
I had called the Devil a lying bastard。 On some level I was aware of this； but the entire front of my mind was taken up by the enormity of what he'd said。 My mother dead？ He might as well have told me that there was a new ocean where the Rockies had been。 But I believed him。 On some level I believed him pletely； as we always believe； on some level； the worst thing our hearts can imagine。
'I understand your grief； little fisherboy； but that particular argument just doesn't hold water； I'm afraid。' He spoke in a tone of bogus fort that was horrible； maddening； without remorse or pity。 'A man can go his whole life without seeing a mockingbird； you know； but does that mean mockingbirds don't exist？ Your mother…'
A fish jumped below us。 The man in the black suit frowned； then pointed a finger at it。 The trout