It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  “I don’t know if I really believe you. I think that that’s what you want to believe you would prefer if you had to choose.”

  “Then you must think I’m callous?”

  “No, not at all. A passion is a passion, and as James said, or was it Pound? ‘Nothing matters but the quality of the affection.’”

  “But he meant an affection for another human being.”

  “Probably, but I don’t see that that invalidates the argument. It’s the depth of the passion that matters, not the object. It could be affection for a woman, a Cat, a violin, and of course, Nature, and in your case it’s Nature. I can understand you, for I share your passion, as you know.”

  “But you’ve just proved the pivotal role of a woman in your life?”

  “Yes, but if I had to choose between a woman and Nature, I think, but I could just as well be wrong, that I would have to choose Nature; however, I would hate to have to choose, but it’s really the sense of the absolute, of infinity, of the prospect of the peace that passeth all understanding, that is so nourishing, and it is more prevalent in Nature than anywhere else, especially in the emptiness of the desert where God always is near at hand, as emptiness. In the forests or at Sea this sense is more hidden, but it still constitutes the all-pervasive undercurrent. Such perceptions have become my poor prayer-wheels.”

  “But it should also be present in a woman, for that sense of an absolute value must be what you imagine the woman who broke into your house had.”

  “Yes, she jumped out of the window but left a smell of truth behind her in the air quite as unmistakable as the smell of a corpse?”

  “But the infinite may be more difficult to sniff out in a woman than in Nature, that’s all.”

  “It’s this basic thirst for authenticity, for the authenticity of an absolute that moves us even if we’re so besotted with interests that we are unaware of it, and the more we are aware of it the more difficult it becomes to survive in an exclusively secular society such as ours.”

  “Never mind, now we’re in Fochabers, and here’s the Coach Inn, but we’ll have a serious discussion with Jessie next week.”

  The reception had a distinguished rural air – suggesting a late eighteenth century intimacy.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Ralph Drummond.”

  She was blonde and plain and sweet – with sea blue eyes – all the way to the horizon.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Drummond, we have been expecting you – ”

  “He drove as fast as the car could run. I never thought I would end up here in one piece.”

  “I risked my life to give you half an hour more so you could catch the Salmon of your dreams.”

  “We have yer sandwiches here, and I jist took a couple o bottles at random, so I hope – ?”

  “You could not have done better, and a corkscrew, please, and two glasses?”

  “Can we leave our suitcases here? I mean, we don’t have to see the rooms first, do we?”

  “Oh no, we’ll take care o that. You can jist run along.”

  She would have to be older than the sunny features of her face suggested. Seymour opened his suitcase to extract two pairs of dark green waders – warm clothes and thick socks for them both. Jessie’s maternal and instinctive touch.

  “Splendid, splendid, and here’s our car.”

  “We’ll have to inquire at MacIntyre’s first. We don’t know where we’re going to fish yet.”

  “MacIntyre’s?”

  “It’s right here. I hope there’s someone in. Wait a minute.”

  “Anybody in?”

  “I’m ayeways in. Sae there ye are?”

  “Could you please tell me where we are supposed to fish?”

  “Aye, ye’re gaun tae hae a ferly gweed chance here, and the wither’s gweed.”

  His finger obscured most of the bend in the river on the map.

  “Jist follow this path here.”

  “All right, and thanks.”

  With the map in his hand he rushed out conscious of Seymour’s growing impatience.

  “We’ll have to cross the bridge and turn south.”

  He gave the driver the map.

  “You will have to drop us here, then we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  Knowing the notches along the river the driver nodded. A day like any other day.

  “How far away is it.”

  “It seems to be about five kilometres, one kilometre to a little beyond the bridge and then four kilometres upstream. But we’ll have to walk for about three hundred metres.”

  “Never mind.”

  Nivver – nivver – nivver – nivver. Apotropaic magic.

  “It could have been raining. We’re lucky.”

  “Shush. No hybris.”

  “I’m glad to see how superficial the veneer of science really is, not more than skin deep.”

  “He’s slowing down.”

  “ The road is gravelled. We’re turning south-east here.”

  “That’s no excuse for trying to emulate a snail on ice.”

  “Say, do you think you could drive a little faster? The fish are impatient, or what’s worse, on the point of getting a full stomach.”

  “Aye, hold on!”

  The car rushed forward and the small stones drummed on the splashboards. There was a gallery of Birch and Beech on the left side – otherwise only flat fields of flat thrift. They passed a muddy path going down to the river and a large farm – with cattle everywhere. A little drop of water put in the milkman’s milk will let the milkman’s daughter dress herself in silk.

  “I think it’s the next turn here on the left.”

  “I can smell the river already.”

  “Water is best.”

  “Maybe you can park here where the path ends.”

  “Could you come back sometime after sunset”?

  He would of course want a definite time. The question was plain.

  “Round about ten, I mean. And what about to-morrow morning?”

  “It depends on fit ye want?”

  “We would like to be here well before sunrise, so if you could fetch us at a quarter to four?”

  He smiled bravely – plying his chosen trade.

  “Then it’s early tae bed – ”

  Picking up their gear they walked down to the river along a row of Goat Willows. The late afternoon sounds and smells fused with the softening of the light. A Skylark was soaring up over the field to the South and his jubilant notes of clarity soothed them with delight.

  “How peaceful this seems after all the bustle and hustle of London or even of Aberdeen.”

  “We are here to heal our souls.”

  “And to fish. Shall I go down the river or what do you prefer?”

  “It’s all up to you.”

  The brink was stony but not steep – the bed broad with sand and boulders nibbling at the light but the river had still a little of the turbulence of spring left in its speed and murmuring eddies. They put on their waders and he opened one of the bottles.

  “Here, have a glass of wine.”

  “All right, but I can hardly wait. I think I’ll go down the river.”

  While Seymour waddled down along the brink he stood with the glass in his hand and watched the stream of fresh water rush towards the Sea where it had its origin. The Eternal Return to the old unfathomable Sea where everything had begun and where everything would end. The wine was tolerable – honest and simple. He licked his lips and adjusted the rod. Negotiating the stones was not as easy as he had thought – nothing ever was – but he managed to avoid falling and with the water whirling around his knees he unfurled a long loop – whipped the rod backwards and threw the line downstream. It could have been better but it would have to do for now. He needed practice but the form and the colours
of the fly were a gamble – to match each specific biotope. The first Barn Swallows he had seen here flew to and fro along the willows as the lessening breeze had encouraged the Hymenoptera – who had been resting beneath their leaves – to seek honey – blood and mates among the sun-yellow Brooms that grew along the brink or among the Remote Sedges that shaded the shallow pools. There was no reason to go further out from the shore. The bottom was hard beneath his feet. Leaning a little backward against the current the pressure of the water began to feel quite persistent and if it became too cold he could continue from the brink. He pulled the line back and made another cast but aimed it at the middle of the river instead. The East side was more densely wooded – and there would be a fair population of Otters here – from the Insh Marshes – and beyond – but the chance of seeing some would be better to-morrow morning. A mild chill in the air embraced his shirt in search of his heart but fused with the soft purring of the wheel – of time. He would not mind that so much – but Seymour would. He tried again downstream. There was no doubt plenty of fish but maybe they did not like the flies he had and that meant that they did not like Seymour’s either. Fish or no fish – the evening was a balm after the blunt busyness of the brightlit hours. Activity and introspection. Systole and diastole. It had been a long day and now he felt satisfied with the result. He had her name and could now try to discover her present whereabouts. It was a question of being able to eliminate the irrelevant – and that was a slow and laborious process. Elementary though. Not a question so much of inspiration – and that smell – of freshly flowing sweet water – was unique – mixed with the smell of trees and flowers on the brink and yet they were not so far away from the Sea as to be without a faint soupÇon of salt and sea-weed in the air. The fly jumped out of the water as if alive and the drops from the line twinkled in the slanting rays of the evening Sun. Affinity for one’s own kind – even Humans – Greylag Geese – all species of Ants – social animals. There should at least have been an attempt. He was beginning to feel cold and uncomfortable in the waders and crawled up on the brink to take them off. A relief – with his toes exposed again to the more fleeting element. The scenery across the river was suffused by a soft mist or rather by a diffuse light that enhanced its natural serenity – evening peace as in the rocky and densely wooded landscapes of Jan Both. He could breathe freely now and lay down in the grass to look up into the heavenly blue above. The Sun was about to set and from the wooded side of the river a Cuckoo called with the persistency that was diagnostic of the whole family. He floated away on the disyllabic notes till nothing was left but the volume of blue sound – and the longing for infinity.

  “Are you asleep?”

  He sat up astonished to realise that he must have slept.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s get the sandwiches. Yes, they’re here. I caught two trouts but no salmons. Did you catch anything?”

  “No, I tried till I felt too cold to continue and had to come up here to get warm. Let’s open the other bottle. I’m still tired and a little disappointed.”

  “Never mind, we have a whole day to-morrow. Cheers and good luck.”

  “Oh thanks, I really need it, at least if judging from what we were able to unearth to-day.”

  The cautious stance that best befitted mortals.

  “As long as you’re so besotted with that woman your entire perspective is static, and you can think of nothing else.”

  “Of course I can. Just because I did not happen to catch a Salmon it does not mean that I did not enjoy the light in the river, the song of the Lark and the fresh air. On the contrary, I would like to come back, but further up the river, to the Insh Marshes maybe.”

  “Would that be better than here?”

  “Not necessarily. It would be less crowded and the biological diversity would be greater. Nature would be more impressive. Here the fields are crowding out the river which becomes a thin lifeline in an agricultural desert.”

  Sitting beside him Seymour nodded – chewing slowly and thinking about something else. The light on the opposite brink began to fade and the colours became mute – but the evening peace was penetrated by the white-grey noise of cars rushing to and fro in the near distance.

  “We had better get ready, the cab can come any minute now. I wonder what it would be like to fish in the Marshes?”

  Carrying their tackle they began to walk back through the long and dew-soaked grass.

  “We’ll make a thorough investigation. What about August?”

  “I have my holiday in August.”

  “What about the family?”

  “What about your obsession?”

  “I would take her along.”

  “I could do that as well, the whole family. There he is.”

  “But it’s also bound to be problematic. Family and fishing, fire and gunpowder.”

  “Good evening. You came just in time. We’re dead tired.”

  “An good evenin tae ye.”

  They drove back in silence as the dusk thickened – engrossed in their particular but parallel views of the near future.

  “Then we’ll see you to-morrow morning, I hope?”

  “That’s for sure!”

  They met the fair receptionist in the low and thick-beamed hall.

  “So there ye are! Did ye catch anything?”

  “Unfortunately no, as you can see. We’re empty handed.”

  Her smile of sympathy was perhaps tinged by a touch of instinctual irony.

  “Then maybe ye’re hungry?”

  “No, not really. We had your excellent sandwiches as a picnic at sundown, when we sat on the brink of the river, imagining Salmons and lamenting our luck. But we hope you can make some similar sandwiches for us now, and put them somewhere so that we don’t have to wake you, for we will be leaving while you’re having your beauty sleep.”

  “I’ll jist tell our cook, but what aboot some tea and a thermo. It’s quite cold that early – ?”

  “Two thermoflasks if possible, and two bottles of wine, like the ones we had just now.”

  “I’ll show ye where ye can pick up the sandwiches an the tea to-morrow.”

  They followed her out into the kitchen where she opened the door to a large steel refrigerator.

  “We’ll place the sandwiches here an the thermos on the floor, but I’ll give ye the wine now.”

  “I must say you take care of your guests.”

  “We’ll have to do what we can, especially as ye’re away most of the time, but I wish ye the best o luck to-morrow.”

  “Thanks a lot. You can just give us the bottles now, so you don’t have to come up with them.”

  “All right, half a minute.”

  “It’s quite nice here. I wouldn't mind if I should come back for a couple of days.”

  “You should, but let’s try the Marshes first.”

  “You’re keen on watching the Otters play?”

  “Here you are.”

  “Thanks for everything, and good night. Yes, they make you keen to join them.”

  “We had better go to sleep right away, otherwise it will be too dreadful to-morrow morning.”

  “Yes, I feel that I’m half asleep already.”

  XI

  The shrill vibrations from Seymour’s alarm clock was still ringing in his naked ears when he had extinguished the noise. Feeling bewildered about time and place he stumbled out into the bathroom to be purged of sleep and bed nostalgia by streams of icy water. Such hardships could make the stars appear to be within reach – a chilly kind of comfort that early – but creeping into the comfort of warm clothes to keep the heavy morning mist at bay he staggered out to meet Seymour who looked haggard but steely with determination.

  “I hope the driver will turn up; it might be hard to find another one if he doesn’t.”

  So carrying bottles – rods and waders th
ey tip-toed downstairs – found the sandwiches and the thermoflasks in the kitchen – unlocked the front door of the silent house and went out into the faintly brightening twilight.

  “It’s his car down there turning sharply round the corner.”

  A word was a word though words were very rascals – disgraced by bonds – so maybe relics of the archaic traditions still lay lingering here in customs and conventions.

  “What a fine morning it is!”

  “Aye, it is.”

  Rumbling along in the car they tried to shake off the drowsiness of the early hour. The mist shrouded the landscape in swarms of amorphous ghosts and the Sun was now about eight degrees below the horizon. It was by far the best time of the morning.

  “We also have to come back sometime to-day, but we don’t know when. So could we telephone you, that is, of course, only in case you will be able to come sometime during the afternoon?”

  “O coorse!”

  They exchanged slips of paper and the driver homed in on his car to go back to sleep while they picked up their gear and trudged down towards the river. Just as yesterday the Cuckoo called from the opposite brink where he probably had his favourite perch.

  “The smell, that’s what I like. This fragrance of earth, grass, weeds and water.”

  “Here all the senses as well as the soul are satisfied, and feel this silence! The traffic has not begun its sanding of the tympanum yet.”

  “Why do I continue to whittle away my life at a practice in London, the unreal city?”

  “Because you love your wife and your children, I suppose, but also because from September to April it’s rough, wet, cold, windy, dark and rather unpleasant up here. So what you ought to do is to get the best of both worlds, as I said last night, cut down on all your expenses and close the practice from the tenth of May to the tenth of September. That would give you four month of freedom here or anywhere else. Get a large tent and make a deal with a local farmer.”

  “It’s easy for you to suggest that. You’re a born gypsy. It would be hard to persuade Jessie.”

  His lugubrious sigh would have been audible all along the river to the Sea.