by Jack Dann
"What's that, a squirrel cage?" asked Percy.
They saw him pull line out from it. It clicked with each turn. There was a handle on the wheel, and a peg at the bottom. He put the peg through the hole in the handle and fastened it down with an iron screw.
He threaded the line, which was thick as a pen quill, through the guides, opened the black case, and took out the largest of the hooks he'd fashioned.
On the line he tied a strong wire chain, and affixed a sinker to one end and the hook on the other.
He put the rod in the wagon seat and climbed down to the back and opened his bait box and reached in.
"Come, my pretty," he said, reaching. He took something out, white, segmented, moving. It filled his hand. It was a maggot that weighed half a pound.
"I had them kept down a cistern behind a shambles," said Walton. He lifted the bait to show them. "Charles, take my line after I bait the angle; make a handcast into the edge of those stumps yonder. As I was saying, take your gentles, put them in a cool well, feed them on liver or pork for the summer. They'll eat and grow and not change to flies, for the changing of one so large kills it. Keep them well fed; put them into wet moss before using them. I feared the commotion and flames had collapsed the well. Though the butcher shop was gone, the baits were still fat and lively."
As he said the last word, he plunged the hook through the white flesh of the maggot.
It twisted and oozed onto his hand. He opened a small bottle. "And dowse it with camphire oil just before the cast." They smelled the pungent liquid as he poured it. The bait went into a frenzy.
"Now, Charles," he said, pulling off fifty feet of line from the reel. Cotton whirled the weighted hook around and around his head. "Be so kind as to tie this rope to my belt and the cart, Percy," said Walton.
Percy did so. Cotton made the hand-cast, the pale globule hitting the water and sinking.
"Do as I have told you," said Walton, "and you shall not fail to catch the biggest fish."
Something large between the eyes swallowed the hook and five feet of line.
"And set the hook sharply, and you shall have great sport." Walton, seventy years old, thin of build, stood in the seat, jerked far back over his head, curving the rod in a loop.
The waters of the slough exploded, they saw the shallow bottom and a long dark shape, and the fight was on.
The preacher stood up from his pots, opened his clasp Bible, and began to preach in a loud strong voice.
"Render to Caesar," he said: Walton flinched and put his back into turning the fish, which was heading toward the stumps. The reel's clicks were a buzz. Bunyan raised his voice: "Those things which are Caesar's, and to God those things which are God's."
"Oh, shut up!" said Cotton. "The man's got trouble enough!"
The wagon creaked and began to lift off the ground. The rope and belt cut into Walton's flesh. His arms were nearly pulled from their sockets. Sweat sprang to his forehead like curds through a cheesecloth. He gritted his teeth and pulled.
The pegs lifted from the ground.
Bunyan preached on.
The sunlight faded, though it was late afternoon. The noise from the woods grew louder. The blue hills in the distance became flat, gray. The whole valley leaned over them, threatening to fall over and kill them. Eyes shined in the deeper woods.
Walton had regained some line in the last few hours. Bunyan preached on, pausing long enough to light a horn lantern from his fire.
After encouraging Walton at first, Percy, Marburton and Cotton had become quiet. The sounds were those of Bunyan's droning voice, screams from the woods, small pops from the fire, and the ratcheting of the reel.
The fish was fighting him on the bottom. He'd had no sight of it yet since the strike. Now the water was becoming a flat black sheet in the failing light. It was no salmon or trout or carp. It must be a pike or eel or some other toothed fish. Or a serpent. Or cuttlefish, with squiddy arms to tear the skin from a man.
Walton shivered. His arms were numb, his shoulders a tight aching band. His legs where he braced against the footrest quivered with fatigue. Still he held, even when the fish ran to the far end of the swamp. If he could keep it away from the snags, he could wear it down. The fish turned, the line slackened, Walton pumped the rod up and down. He regained the lost line. The water hissed as the cording cut through it. The fish headed for the bottom.
Tiredly, Walton heaved, turned the fish. The wagon creaked.
"Blessed are they that walk in the path of righteousness," said Bunyan.
The ghosts came in over the slough straight at them. Monkey-demons began to chatter in the woods. Eyes peered from the bole of every tree. Bunyan's candle was the only light. Something walked heavily on a limb at the woods' edge, bending it. Marburton screamed and ran up the road.
Percy was on his feet. Ghosts and banshees flew at him, veering away at the last instant.
"You have doubts," said Bunyan to him. "You are assailed. You think yourself unworthy."
Percy trotted up the stony road, ragged shapes fluttering in the air behind him, trying to tug his hair. Skeletons began to dance across the slough, acting out pantomimes of life, death, and love. The Seven Deadly Sins manifested themselves.
Hell yawned opened to receive them all.
Then the sun went down.
"Before you join the others, Charles," said Walton, pumping the rod, "cut away my coat and collar."
"You'll freeze," said Cotton, but climbed into the wagon and cut the coat up the back and down the sleeves. It and the collar fell away.
"Good luck, Father Walton," he said. Something plucked at his eyes. "We go to town for help."
"Be honest and trustworthy all the rest of your days," said Izaak Walton. Cotton looked stunned. Something large ran down from the woods, through the wagon, and up into the trees. Cotton ran up the hill. The thing loped after him.
Walton managed to gain six inches on the fish.
Grinning things sat on the taut line. The air was filled with meteors: burning, red, thick as snow. Huge worms pushed themselves out of the ground, caught and ate demons, then turned inside out. The demons flew away.
Everything in the darkness had claws and horns.
"And lo! the seventh seal was broken, and there was quietness on the earth for the space of half an hour," read Bunyan.
He had lit his third candle.
Walton could see the water again. A little light came from somewhere behind him. The noises of the woods diminished. A desultory ghost or skeleton flitted grayly by. There was a calm in the air.
The fish was tiring. Walton did not know how long he had fought on, or with what power. He was a human ache, and he wanted to sleep. He was nodding.
"The townsmen come," said Bunyan. Walton stole a fleeting glance behind him. Hundreds of people came quietly and cautiously through the woods, some extinguishing torches as he watched.
Walton cranked in another ten feet of line. The fish ran, but only a short way, slowly, and Walton reeled him back. It was still a long way out, still another hour before he could bring it to gaff. Walton heard low talk, recognized Percy's voice. He looked back again. The people had pikes, nets, a small cannon. He turned, reeled the fish, fighting it all the way.
"You do not love God!" said Bunyan suddenly, shutting his Bible.
"Yes I do!" said Walton, pulling as hard as he could. He gained another foot. "I love God as much as you." "You do not!" said Bunyan. "I see it now."
"I love God!" yelled Walton and heaved the rod. A fin broke the frothing water.
"In your heart, where God can see from his high throne, you lie!" said Bunyan.
Walton reeled and pulled. More fin showed. He quit cranking.
"God forgive me!" said Walton. "It's fishing I love." "I thought so," said Bunyan. Reaching in his pack, he took out a pair of tin snips and cut Walton's line.
Izaak fell back in the wagon.
"John Bunyan, you son of a bitch!" said the sheriff. "You're under arre
st for hampering the King's business. I'll see you rot."
Walton watched the coils of line on the surface slowly sink into the brown depths of the Slough of Despond.
He began to cry, fatigue and numbness taking over his body.
"I denied God," he said to Cotton. "I committed the worst sin." Cotton covered him with a blanket.
"Oh, Charles, I denied God."
"What's worse," said Cotton, "you lost the fish."
Percy and Marburton helped him up. The carters hitched the wagons, the horses now docile. Bunyan was being ridden back to jail by constables, his tinker's bag clanging against the horse's side.
They put the crying Walton into the cart, covered him more, climbed in. Some farmers helped them get the carts over the rocks.
Walton's last view of the slough was of resolute and grim-faced men staring at the water and readying their huge grapples, their guns, their cruel hooked nets.
They were on the road back to town. Walton looked up into the trees, devoid of ghosts and demons. He caught a glimpse of the blue Chiltern Hills.
"Father Izaak," said Cotton. "Rest now. Think of spring. Think of clear water, of leaping trout."
"My dreams will be haunted by God the rest of my days," he said tiredly. Walton fell asleep.
He dreamed of clear water, leaping trouts.
This story is for Chad Oliver, Punisher of Trouts.
THE PHOENIX
Unlike the other creatures in this anthology, the phoenix is a singular marvel. By definition, there can only be one phoenix at a time, in all the world. Usually pictured as being about as big as an eagle, with scarlet plumage, a purple tail, iridescent wings, and a plumed golden head, the phoenix is obviously a handsome bird, but its fame depends not so much on its beauty as on the strange cycle of death-and-resurrection it periodically undergoes. As Pliny puts it: "Hee liveth 660 yeares: and when hee groweth old, and begins to decay, he builds himselfe a nest ... and when he hath filled it with all sort of sweet aromaticall spices, yeeldeth up his life thereupon ... of his bones and marrow there breedeth at first as it were a little worme: which afterwards proveth to bee a pretie bird." By the early Middle Ages, the nest of fine woods and "aromaticall spices" has become a self-made funeral pyre upon which the phoenix is totally consumed by fire, only to rise again reborn from the ashes to live for another thousand years, a cycle that repeats endlessly forever. This image has proved so powerful and enduring that the phoenix has become a worldwide symbol of resurrection and rebirth, and the phrase "a phoenix from the ashes" is still part of popular parlance.
But as the story that follows demonstrates, even a symbol of rebirth can be quite a limiting thing to own, if you have to take care of it every day . . .
Joan Aiken is an internationally-known writer, especially acclaimed for her children's books, and for her work in the mystery, suspense, and romance fields. Her books include Not What You Expected, The Far Forests, Night Fall and A Touch of Chill. Her latest book is the collection A Whisper in the Night.
A Leg Full of Rubies
by
Joan Aiken
Mom', Now. AND a young man, Theseus O'Brien, coming down the main street of Killinch with an owl seated upon his shoulder—perhaps the strangest sight that small town ever witnessed. The high moors brooded around the town, all up the wide street came the sighing of the river, and the August night was as gentle and full as a bucket of new milk.
Theseus turned into Tom Mahone's snug, where the men of the town were gathered peaceably together, breathing smoke and drinking mountain dew. Wild, he seemed, coming into the lamplit circle, with a look of the night on him, and a smell of loneliness about him, and his eyes had an inward glimmer from looking into the dark. The owl on his shoulder sat quiet as a coffeepot.
"Well, now, God be good to ye," said Tom Mahone. "What can we do for ye at all?"
And he poured a strong drop, to warm the four bones of him.
"Is there a veterinary surgeon in this town?" Theseus inquired.
Then they saw that the owl had a hurt wing, the ruffled feathers all at odds with one another. "Is there a man in this town can mend him?" he said.
"Ah, sure Dr. Kilvaney's the man for ye," said they all. "No less than a magician with the sick beasts, he is." "And can throw a boulder farther than any man in the land." "'Tis the same one has a wooden leg stuffed full of rubies." "And keeps a phoenix in a cage." "And has all the minutes of his life numbered to the final grain of sand—ah, he's the man to aid ye."
And all the while the owl staring at them from great round eyes.
No more than a step it was to the doctor's surgery, with half Tom Mahone's customers pointing the way. The doctor, sitting late to his supper by a small black fire, heard the knock and opened the door, candle in hand.
"Hoo?" said the owl at the sight of him, "who, whoo?" And, who indeed may this strange man be, thought Theseus, following him down the stone passageway, with his long white hair and his burning eyes of grief?
Not a word was said between them till the owl's wing was set, and then the doctor, seeing O'Brien was weary, made him sit and drink a glass of wine.
"Sit," said he, "there's words to be spoken between us. How long has the owl belonged to you?"
"To me?" said Theseus. "He's no owl of mine. I found him up on the high moor. Can you mend him?"
"He'll be well in three days," said Kilvaney. "I see you are a man after my heart, with a love of wild creatures. Are you not a doctor, too?"
"I am," answered Theseus. "Or I was," he added sadly, "until the troubles of my patients became too great a grief for me to bear, and I took to walking the roads to rid me of it."
"Come into my surgery," said the doctor, "for I've things to show you. You're the man I've been looking for."
They passed through the kitchen, where a girl was washing the dishes. Lake-blue eyes, she had, and black hair; she was small, and fierce, and beautiful, like a falcon.
"My daughter," the doctor said absently. "Go to bed, Maggie."
"When the birds are fed, not before," she snapped.
Cage after cage of birds, Theseus saw, all down one wall of the room, finches and thrushes, starlings and blackbirds, with a sleep stirring and twittering coming from them.
In the surgery there was only one cage, but that one big enough to house a man. And inside it was such a bird as
Theseus had never seen before—every feather on it pure gold, and eyes like candle-flames.
"My phoenix," the doctor said, "but don't go too near him, for he's vicious."
The phoenix sidled near the end of his cage, with his eyes full of malice and his wicked beak sideways, ready to strike. Theseus stepped away from the cage and saw, at the other end of the room, a mighty hour-glass that held in its twin globes enough sand to boil all the eggs in Leghorn. But most of the sand had run through, and only a thin stream remained, silting down so swiftly on the pyramid below that every minute Theseus expected to see the last grain whirl through and vanish.
"You are only just in time," Dr. Kilvaney said. "My hour has come. I hereby appoint you my heir and successor. To you I bequeath my birds. Feed them well, treat them kindly, and they will sing to you. But never, never let the phoenix out of his cage, for his nature is evil."
"No, no! Dr. Kilvaney!" Theseus cried. "You are in the wrong of it! You are putting a terrible thing on me! I don't want your birds, not a feather of them. I can't abide creatures in cages!"
"You must have them," said the doctor coldly. "Who else can I trust? And to you I leave also my wooden leg full of rubies—look, I will show you how it unscrews."
"No!" cried Theseus. "I don't want to see!"
He shut his eyes, but he heard a creaking, like a wooden pump-handle.
"And I will give you, too," said the doctor presently, "this hour-glass. See, my last grain of sand has run through. Now it will be your turn." Calmly he reversed the hour-glass, and started the sand once more on its silent, hurrying journey. Then he said,
&
nbsp; "Surgery hours are on the board outside. The medicines are in the cupboard yonder. Bridget Hanlon is the midwife. My daughter feeds the birds and attends to the cooking. You can sleep tonight on the bed in there. Never let the phoenix out of its cage. You must promise that."
"I promise," said Theseus, like a dazed man.
"Now I will say goodbye to you." The doctor took out his false teeth, put them on the table, glanced around the room to see that nothing was overlooked, and then went up the stairs as if he were late for an appointment.
All night Theseus, uneasy on the surgery couch, could hear the whisper of the sand running, and the phoenix rustling, and the whet of his beak on the bars; with the first light he could see its mad eye glaring at him.
In the morning, Dr. Kilvaney was dead.
It was a grand funeral. All the town gathered to pay him respect, for he had dosed and drenched and bandaged them all, and brought most of them into the world, too.
"'Tis a sad loss," said Tom Mahone, "and he with the grandest collection of cage-birds this side of Dublin city. 'Twas in a happy hour for us the young doctor turned up to take his place."
But there was no happiness in the heart of Theseus O'Brien. Like a wild thing caged himself he felt, among the rustling birds, and with the hating eye of the phoenix fixing him from its corner, and, worst of all, the steady fall of sand from the hour-glass to drive him half mad with its whispering threat.
And, to add to his troubles, no sooner were they home from the funeral than Maggie packed up her clothes in a carpet-bag and moved to the other end of the town to live with her aunt Rose, who owned the hay and feed store.
"It wouldn't be decent," said she, "to keep house for you, and you a single man." And the more Theseus pleaded, the firmer and fiercer she grew. "Besides," she said, "I wouldn't live another day among all those poor birds behind bars. I can't stand the sight nor sound of them."
"I'll let them go, Maggie! I'll let every one of them go."