Barbel from the Afterlife

The Witching Hour

A quick shower, knock up some sandwiches and I’m loading my gear into the car. The roads are almost eerily quiet and I make rapid time on my way north. Not surprisingly the car park is empty and I shoulder my tackle and clamber over the stile.

I love these misty, mild winter’s days. The air is heavy with the breath of a world deep in slumber, waiting for rebirth. In the hedge the first green hints of spring are peeping through the leaf mould.

The river looks perfect, so heavy with the previous week’s rain that it looks almost viscous. I wander upstream, dropping bait into a few likely spots, before settling into a swim near the top of the length. The first hour passes quickly and I share my sandwiches with one of the resident robins before moving down to my next swim.

I settle into the familiar rhythm of move, wait, move, and gradually the stillness of the day draws all sense of time out of me. Moments stretch and compress with slow rhythms of winter; here a slow contemplation of the stark, bone-white skeletal forms of the cow parsley, there the quick, sharp flutter of a wren.

As I approach my last swim, still fishless, I’m in an almost dreamlike state. The light is fading into a long twilight and the stillness draws in with the coming evening. I cast and settle back into my chair. The moment stretches into the twilight, then I start into wakefulness with the sound of sirens from the nearby road and a sense of a presence behind me.

I turn to see a figure crouched at the top of the bank, a cheerful open face, freckles, red hair.

“Sorry mate you made me jump!”

He grinned in reply and gave me a brief nod.

“I’m just about to pack up. Been here all day, but haven’t had anything”

He shook his head.

“Give it a while longer, you’ll get one”

I shook my head, smiled and turned back to my rod just as the tip pulled round.

“Feels like a good ‘un!”

The fish moves off, a slow ponderous weight, effortlessly powerful. The water feels like treacle as I struggle to retrieve line, but I gradually gain control. As I draw the golden form over the net I hear the soft words

“It’s a beauty; a double”

I lift the net and turn to smile at him, but he’s gone. Puzzled, I leave the fish to rest in the net and clamber up the bank to peer into the gloom. Nothing. On the road the sirens start again and blue strobes spear the mist.

I shiver slightly and turn my attention back to the fish. He was right, 10lb 7oz. I hold her in the dark water until she kicks and drifts back into her dream. In my own dream, I drift back to the car. As I reach the end of the lane I’m waved down by a fluorescent form. I wind down the window

“Hold on a sec mate until we get this cleared.”

“What happened?”

“Not sure really, think he might have stalled it turning into the lane. Car came round the corner and t-boned him. Didn’t stand a chance”

“Oh”

“Come to think of it, he was a fisherman too. Had tackle in the back of his car. You might have known him.”

“What did he look like?”

“Young lad. Fresh faced, red hair.”

“No, don’t think so.”

“Oh OK. Strangest thing really: could’ve sworn he was dead as we got him out of the car, but as we loaded him in the ambulance he smiled. Never mind, roads clear now. Get on your way. Happy Christmas.”

“Thanks.”

I pulled away into the darkness, back towards the warmth of home.

“Thanks mate. See you again sometime…….”