English Original
Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. He spoke to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered limbs, experience on the move. Trout beware, we thought.
"We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur of the stream a tinkling idyllic music rising up the banking. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
中文翻译
兄弟想必是匆匆穿过了岁月，忆起儿时父亲带他来此的情景。“那是很久以前了，”兄弟用他那简洁的北索格斯口吻说道，带着异乡人的腔调，话语具体，毫不拖沓。我们听说，老奥伦·本特利小时候曾沿着16号公路，徒步五英里穿过一片未知的森林，偶然发现了这个露营地、一座旧小屋的遗迹，以及松树河的一个大拐弯。这样一来，无论往上游还是下游走一英里，你都能拥有三英里的溪流可以垂钓。北方的天堂。
那位可敬的长者又点了点头，他是个善于用动作示意的人，然后说道：“老早以前认识他一些。在铁桥那儿遇见的。我们碰过几次面。”我们立刻就能想象出那个故事。他话语中包含着一整段相遇的历史；它像知识一样，也像传说一样，径直穿透了我们。他指了指咖啡壶。“孩子们要出去了，但我下去的日子被切得零零碎碎的。我要坐一会儿，喝点那个。”他把“那个”说得太刻意，太戏剧化，没过多久我就明白了原因。
白色的柳条摇椅开始缓慢而从容地晃动，他又点了点头。他对儿子们说道：“你们俩别超过两三个小时就回来，好让这些伙计们也干他们的事，把地方收拾干净。”
最沉稳的那个儿子说：“好的，爸。两三个小时。”两个年长的儿子离开露营地，沿着小路走向松树河岸，靴子在大腿高度刷刷作响，最精致的钓竿指引着穿过散落树枝的道路，经验在行进中。鳟鱼要当心了，我们想。
“我们当了一辈子木匠，”他说，话语中仍带着那种简洁。“我那两个儿子也干得不错。”他歪着头，似乎在倾听他们离去的声音，树叶和树枝安静下来，溪流的低语如叮咚作响的田园音乐从河岸升起。可敬的老者自己前后摇晃着柳条摇椅，仿佛在进行一种小小的计时。他听到了我们尚未听到的声音，我们周围完整的交响乐。埃迪看着我，也点了点头。那意思是：“我在专心听，我知道你也是。这是我们与一位长者的唯一一次相遇，他多年来一直垂钓于我们热爱的这条河，我们每年只来两次，五月带着蜉蝣来，六月带着黑蝇来。”这份馈赠与折磨，我们时常记起，既被它留下伤痕，也被它缝合。