by Niels Hammer
“You’ll only be able to persuade her if you believe intrinsically in the project yourself, or if you’ve already taken the decision. You just have to tell her the truth, namely that you’re dying piecemeal at the moment, and that your survival depends on how closely she can listen to the wilderness, but it will of course also in the long run save her from herself.”
“Never mind all that! We’ll deal with it when we return to London. Right now we’re going to fish. Do you want the same beat as yesterday?”
“Yes, I think so.”
While Seymour went downstream he waddled out into the chilly water – unfurled a fair length of line and made a cast downstream toward the Dawn. He could have taken another fly? Seymour had brought along a spectacular diversity – one for each Salmon in the river. But he could at least try it once more. Making small flicks he shortened the line and the fly skipped about on the surface like a brightly coloured insect out of his or her god-given wits. Maybe it depended upon what it would look like through half a foot of rapidly flowing water? Would it resemble the Salmons’ favourite food here? It did not really look like a fly – a beetle or a butterfly – or even a dragonfly – and how would the connoirsseurship of Salmons concerning insects influence their choice? To what extent could they recognise different species? The light illuminated the mist which now was confined to the low-lying areas as milky or translucent cobwebs. The Cuckoo had ceased calling and he made another cast aimed at the middle of the river. Very slowly – bit by bit – he wheeled the line home hoping for a slight tug – for a little response – and – there it was – going up against the stream at the bend. The line was taught as he put pressure on the wheel – but the speed did not diminish. There was line enough yet – but the longer it became the greater the risk of entanglement in stones or roots. So he increased the resistance and an instance later the fish zigzagged downstream with the added speed of the water. For the Salmonoid at the other end of the line it was a matter of life and death but for him it was a game. The fish did not know who – and he did not know either who or what – but if the line broke the hook would get stuck in the jaw of the fish as well as in his mind. He gave him or her more and more line but increased the resistance and made a sudden small pull backwards. The fish changed course and sought shelter under the other brink. He began hauling it in – inch by inch and slow foot by slow foot – but after a sudden twist there was no longer anyone at the other end of the line. He hoped the hook had slipped – and it had for the fly came dancing back over the faintly purling surface of the water. It would be pleasant now just to watch the light change and get a cup of tea. Sitting on the still wet grass he munched cold toast and orange marmalade while looking out over the valley. Seymour was just visible in front of the Goat Willows and the eddies in front of him lifted the glitter of the Sun up into their translucent hands. The Skylark rose behind him again and he turned round to follow his ascent up into the brilliant blue above. Rapture and rolling delight. Can vei la lauzeta mover – de joi sas alas contra·l rai – but he still had a pious hope and here he was looking in the same direction as the Sun so the whirring of his primaries in the light remained invisible. The black spot vanished into nothingness but the trills lingered a little longer in the air or in his ears.
He encased his legs in the waders again and stalked down from the brink – avoiding the slippery stones and a sudden fall from grace – but became mindful of the pressure of the water when it began to reach his knees. Yet another cast and just below the ripple there. A stone probably in the lee of which – but it was too short. He pulled the line back and tried again – throwing out more line. A little too much to port. Once more. The line snaked through the air and the fly landed at the right spot to test the surface tension. A Golden-ringed Dragonfly settled on his arm and he paused to get a good look at the large faceted eyes and the terrible mandibles. During the Palaeocene there were species with a wingspan of eighty-five centimetres. This configuration of black and yellow denoted death among insects as well as among Mammals. What a piece of work – so far beyond his ken. Just the flight ability. Then he or she alighted from his arm to ply the highway of the air for prey – but still there was no pull – only the water. It was beginning to get warm so he crawled up on the brink to discard his pull-over – or rather Seymour’s. Jessie’s light touch – thoughtful and considerate as only women were. They had the ability – lacking in most men – though not in Euripidēs or Montaigne – of imagining themselves in somebody else’s shoes. Empathy and another cup of tea. As the Sun rose the wind did as well and cat’s paws ruffled here and there – like laughter – the surface of lee pools along the brink. The river – this river – was alive with a life of its own but not as the life of a Trout – a Golden-ringed Dragonfly or a Cuckoo. It was rather an immaterial – an insubstantial coherence of infinitesimally small systems forming larger and more coordinated systems incorporating wind – insects – birds – plants but first and foremost the patterns of flowing water – so as to strike a certain amplitude – a certain vibration and manifest a Dea loci – a Nērēis – an Apsarā – water was a feminine element – if seen with the eyes of a Mammal – eyes which it were hard to close. To sense how alive the river was as a constantly changing dissipative entity or much better as a spirit he had to be aware of that level in himself first – only when alive on this level could he truly absorb the river. Tathāgataḥ sensitivity – if only – but here he was – a poor painter an early Summer morning hoping to catch an Elf for a wife and a Salmon for dinner. Protected by the waders he entered the whirling water once again with the long flexible rod in his colour-craving hands. Come what may – he would die whatever happened. Once and once only. Like a fish on dry land – like a Cat in a puddle. There was a distinct delight in making such a sweeping cast and watch the line curl backwards and fly forward with the grace of a hawk – to hit the surface just where he had wanted it to. The delight of muscles – intentions and something undefinable combined. Fish or no fish – the joy of the morning was keen and soothing – the joy of being alive here and now. The impetus had come from the Lark – behind him – pure exuberance and rapture – overflowing with life. His life – for the affinity with the Lark was instinctive. They shared the same neuroanatomical presuppositions and reacted identically. Bashō’s butterfly dream – did it have a Chinese origin? A vague recollection was stirring in the caverns of his subconcious – where everything that mattered took ἰδέα or rūpam. The Sun saw itself in the glittering fish scales of ripples just as he saw himself in the Salmon – the Lark and the river. Where were the common boundaries? A vast ever changing unity. Demarcations were artificial. How often had he not reached that conclusion and how often had he not lamented the difficulty of realising it fully – and not just as foam on a cognitive level? He had been fishing without being attentive to the fishing – without being present here and now – on account of the opium of thoughts. How could he escape the habit – that monster who all sence did eate – the groove into which the present so easily fell to form the future. This escape mechanism guarded him like clothes from being naked in the wind beneath the stars – together with the water and the Salmons? The iron-cast human condition – and yet how fragile life was – how fragile he was? Here today – gone to-morrow. A brief flash between the two eternity-infinities. Fons et origo. The house – the home of Death. Feeling tired he stumbled back over the stones to the brink and sat down to seek shelter in the shadow of an Elder Tree and inhale its smell. A little glass of wine would soothe his prickly mood. Now there were several Barn Swallows flying up and down on a regular beat – and a couple of White Wagtails darting to and fro along the edge of the water – among the pebbles and the boulders. All rural peace and equanimity – but slow heavy footsteps approached from behind and as he turned his head he saw an elderly man with a grey cloth cap and a walrus moustache bear down upon him.
“Gweed mornin, mister!”
“Good morning.”
> So grey-tweed-suited he sat down with a brisk and earthy air beside him in the long grass.
“I see yer luck’s run clean oot.”
“It has, it certainly has. The Salmons have all the luck to-day. We’ve been here since sunrise and my friend caught two Trouts yesterday but released them again, one of them might have been about three pounds, I think.”
“I sometimes get ane or twa salmons here fur ma dinner, ye ken.”
A cunning streak of shielded light lurked in his North Sea-grey eyes.
“So it’s your part of the river we’re fishing?”
“I canna deny it.”
He took out a hard-gnawed pipe and a tobacco pouch. It had a tar-like smell – old wrinkled leather. Seymour was indefatigable for he had now been fishing for almost five hours and he did not seem to have lost any of his enthusiasm. The difficulties stimulated him.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Aye. A’m awfu sair an needin a dram.”
Too characteristic almost – but for his benefit maybe – to keep the illusion of the unspoilt country side alive. He handed him a glass and sat down. A Heron came with slow floppy wing beats at treetop height and vanished upstream. They sat side by side – so close together and yet so far apart – watching the river flow and the light change but from two different perspectives. He closed his eyes and was perhaps on the point of slipping into a light sleep when a sudden loud splash made him look up.
“It looks as if he has caught a fish.”
“Ye ken he wants tae keep it?”
So that was why. He smiled inly at his ability to assume such innocence.
“A Pound a pound?”
“Nae, mak it fower.”
They were watching Seymour who reeled in a little line from time to time though only to let the fish rush away downstream when he felt that the strain became too great. He could feel his excitement in the way he moved.
“We don’t know yet how how much the fish weighs, but I’ll give you forty Pounds. If it’s more than ten pounds you lose a little and if it’s less you win a little.”
“I’ll tak yer bet.”
He handed him four bills which he ceremoniously tucked away in the deep folds of his wallet. It had all been predictable. MacIntyre it must have been. Jumping up he ran along the brink till he reached the place where Seymour was fighting the fish of his life – oblivious of what had been happening on the brink or any where else in the universe.
“Seymour, if you want the fish keep it. The owner of the rights has come down to have a look and he says you can keep it if you like. We’ll get some ice.”
“Great, but I don’t know yet. There’s such a strain on the line that it could break any second.”
As he returned the old man rose from his grass seat with the pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Now I’m gaun tae hae tae find ma way back an thanks.”
“All right, and good bye.”
Putting on his waders again he took his net and a piece of marline and went down to see Seymour battling with the fish.
“If you want to continue we can keep the fish alive if we stitch the two nets together.”
“Yes, but I’ve got to get it up in the net first.”
“I’ll hold it for you.”
“Let me take the hook out first.”
He took hold of the wet cold slippery creature who kept fighting for his life. The strength of the fish was disproportionately greater than it ought to have been if considering his size.
“I think it’s about twelve or fifteen pounds or more. Hold on.”
Prizing his jaws apart Seymour wriggled the hook out and they pushed the fish – who now seemed to be stunned – into the net and held the rings of the two nets against each other so that he could lash them together with the marline. The Salmon could be kept alive by securing the nets to a Goat Willow near the brink where the water was more than a foot deep.
“When we call the driver we can ask him to get some crushed ice for us.”
“Yes, and I think I might as well join you on the way back. There’s not much I can do here that I cannot do at home, such as scrutinise marriage registers to see if some of them have changed name or to see if they still appear to favour the land of their birth.”
“Then it will be much easier carrying the salmon. You only have your computer and a bag.”
“Yes, but I’m tired, so I will take a nap while you continue.”
He went back to lie down in the shadow of the Elder Tree and fell asleep to the drone of a White-tailed Bumblebee beside his ear. Later – much later – he woke – when Seymour began unpacking the sandwiches – and sat up.
“I’ve made a booking from Aberdeen for you at half past seven and confirmed my own. That ought to give us time enough.”
“Fine, did you catch any more?”
“A rather small salmon, about three pounds. When should we phone for the cab?”
“We might as well do that now when we’ve finished lunch.”
He picked up the terror of convenience.
“It’s the two Salmon fishers. Could you come and drive us back, and if possible, could you get eight or ten pounds of crushed ice? We’ve caught a fine fish and would like to keep it fresh till we get back home.”
“I’ll be gaun doon tae MacPherson then tae see if he’s got some ice to spare for ye.”
“Excellent! He’ll try to get ten pounds of crushed ice. The fish can stay in the water till he comes.”
“I’ll have another glass. Should we eat at the airport in Aberdeen?”
“It might presuppose an appetite honed by three weeks on a raft in the roaring forties.”
They munched on the sandwiches in silence and watched the changes in the ripples as they subsided and increased to become identical to the ripples of the past – but identity did not ex-ist. An illusion of the human mind. The light had changed but they had about four hours.
“Look! Tree number four from the South on the opposite brink, a Fox or a Fox cub rather.”
“Otherwise he would not come out in the open like this. Yes, not more than six weeks, I think.”
“The whole place could do with four or five hundred Lynxes. That would make the forests come alive. A place without Tigers, Leopards, Lions or Lynxes lacks spirit. Lynxes would be the answer to the deforestation caused by the deer population.”
“Yes, but the farmers would hate them. It’s ten times easier to catch a sheep than a deer.”
“Afghān Mastiffs could take care of the Sheep. It’s a question of ignorance and prejudice.”
“But that’s what defines farmers, generally.”
“The scions of the soil, doomed to worship the great God Profit.”
“Perhaps we had better begin packing. That's our car.”
While he took the rods – the waders and the picnic basket Seymour went down to get the Salmon. In the booth the driver had a large plastic bag with ice into which they put the dying fish – who already had begun to lose the lustre of his silvery – pearl-grey and black colours – so he felt a certain relief in not having been burdened by the corpse of a fish although he was directly responsible for the death of this particular Salmon because he had felt bound to invite Seymour up here to help him find the love of his life. Death by asphyxiation in the air – an oxymoron and the consequence of a specific evolutionary adaption to life in wind-oxygenated water. At the inn they paid the driver – had a quick bath and shaved. While Seymour packed the car he settled their bill and they began driving back to Aberdeen. As the crescendo of the excitement and the strain of the past days had subsided they were lethargic and tired enough to withdraw into mutually comprehensive silence for everything was so obvious that the need for further communication had ceased. At the airport he paid for the car and with less than one and a half hour
left before departure they shared a bottle of Brouilly – to dream about Blueberry-moss and sunshine-fruits. The flight back was so dull that they both slept and when they parted with mutual assurances at Norwich he felt ready to continue sleeping.
XII
The morning air was fresh and the urgency – simmering in his affective circuits since Saturday afternoon – expanded – a bubble rising in a boiling liquid – toward the surface. A list of all the martial arts clubs in the vicinity – an area of about fifteen thousand square kilometres. A club – even if situated at an uncomfortable distance – could have some specific advantages. Such a conjecture was based on the assumption – tentative or perhaps only somewhat more likely than unlikely – that she lived somewhere within this rural area. Whenever he thought about her topographical environment she appeared as living in a house all by herself in order to arouse as little curiosity among her neighbours as possible. When she came home at Dawn – warmed by the red glow of the satisfaction of having achieved more than she had set out to do – it hurt too much to see her as not living alone. However unreasonable this supposition might prove to be it was too disheartening to see her returning to the warm embrace of a lover or of a husband even. The very suggestion of such a possibility – made him all hollow with jealousy or furious with indignation – as if they – by fate and fortune – had been betrothed to each other since birth – and she just happened to be disregarding this fundamental fact of the universe in a fit of amnesia. If she indeed were living with her lover or her husband – and did not favour casual relationships which would sustain her independence – he would by necessity have to be engaged in comparable pursuits of the darker arts. Yet there was only one way forward but he felt nevertheless annoyed by having to attack the computer and his annoyance increased when the number of people practising martial arts became apparent. A rough calculation – about seven thousand women would be active in the various branches of martial arts just within the likely vicinity. She could be frequenting a local club – but she might also favour a more sophisticated club in London – in which case his search would be bound to flounder. For if so there would be something like fifty thousand women to consider. Not all of them would be equally active – but there was no way in which the real aficionadas could be picked out. Soon he could come tumbling down over this hurdle in rage or despair – but keeping the dark cloud of failure hovering in the periphery a list of all the possible clubs in the neighbourhood had to be made. Name – email and physical address – but the information he wanted was only available to the members of the clubs. He could come no further and telephoned Fjodor.