With a deft flick of a supple wrist
he sends the white whip of the line back and forth. It flails backwards over
his head like a lashing tongue and forwards in a direct arc, elongating with
every progressive stroke. He judges just the right moment to let the
line flow lightly onto the water where it gently pierces the surface tension
and descends silently.
The angler stands still, waits, the
waters parting around his green rubber clad thighs like sea around pier
columns. There is barely a breeze; the odour of moisture gathering in the air
as the sun rolls, blushing towards the horizon. I watch fascinated from the
bridge over the mill race. The fisherman lifts his rod upwards it bends
like a willow wand: the line taut. But it is merely caught in the weeds. He
disentangles, wades through the water with leaden legs and out onto the bank.
‘Have you caught anything?’ I call
from the bridge.
‘No. Doubt I will. Hardly ever do.’
As he begins again the silent
ritual, whisking the line to and fro, I enjoy the grace of his actions.
Two minutes later with the line tight again, he yo-yo’s the rod upright and
back several times, gradually coaxing a fish towards his waiting keep net. The
low sun glances across the scales reflecting rainbow colours as the fisherman
extricates the hook with a practised movement. I hurry excitedly to see his
catch before he releases it back into the mill pond.
‘Must be your lucky day.’
But not the fish’s. The angler
already has a heavy metal implement in his right hand while holding the
wriggling, gulping fish against a sacrificial stone with his left. I’m shocked
to know what’s coming and turn away. Starting over the tussocky grass, I can’t
prevent the brutal crack of a skull caving in reaching into my ears.
Insects dart and float through the
twilight as I progress onto the smoother sheep field. Images arise of the
fisherman arriving home with the gills of this fish looped over his finger and
thumb, proudly; his small son observing, through wide eyes, the mystery of dissection;
his wife surreptitiously hiding the supermarket fish in the freezer to make way,
in the pan of softened butter, for the hunter’s prey.
Jacqueline
Summer 14.10.2013
