Short Story

Hawera Star, Volume XLVII, 26 May 1928, Page 7

Short Story

FROM THE GREEN RUSHES. ♦ 7 He w.iis mad now, and spent moist id' his time sitting on the banks of the mere. A pike rushing among the reeds, a coot trailing a silver 'streak across the tarn —any sudden movement — roused him for a time, then lie would relapse into his long silemo. Sometimes on a day when there was unwonted life in the air he would rouse out of his lethargy and walk down to the side of the tarn. And for a time his old interests worn! seem to come hack. A swallow clinging to a reed, the swan sailing on her shadow, the water lily leaves starting fitfully on their stalks, these would lift him out oi himself for a moment, but the end was always the same. His Willie, his life —all that hail been li,e to him —wvas deep in the darkgreen water, and call on it as he Would it would never come back. ‘•■Oh, Willie, my Willie,” lie would call to the wavelets, then go wearily hack to his seat on the hank. .Listening to liis talk, it was easy to gather of what he was thinking. One could draw the scenes from his wandering words, and they always went hack tiThis ‘‘Willie.” in imagination the old man sat again on the banks of a trout stream. There was Willie. Willie bis king, with a willow wand, a bit of string, and a crooked pin. And then as the old man called him to the fishing, his little brown legs would carry him far out beyond the blown pebbles. He would cast, and cast, sometimes catching a tiny brown trout, sometimes a silvery samlet fresh run from the sea. Then their joy was great indeed Willie wo»ld dance round the old man until jus fingers were covered with silvery scales, then would pity his little catch as tiie g ore of its iridescence faded. •‘.My v\ ifiio, W illie my king.” moaned tlie old miin to himself. ‘‘And thou shall he a fisher of men. This shall be th >• Capernaum, and that is Hermon afar oil”—and he pointed away to the g.een hills. Lilt in the times to which Wunity went back. Willie hacl been as much a. savage as most boys, and the old man would wander on.' suggesting another picture.

They were fishing again. Willie had put down his rod. and moved stealthily as he raised the likely stones. He had a primitive poaching weapon in his hand and would ‘‘leister” the loach and bullheads as they darted through the reeds. He had a bottle on the ;ank. and into it lie poured unhurt the fish he captured in his hands. There were loach and minnow and sticklebacks. and his cap and pocket were stuffed with sprawling eravtish. This was what one gathered in his lucid moments from the old man; as time went on the connected mumblings became fewer and fewer. Autumn came, and the strange cries the migrating birds as they moved across the night sky made him more and more restless.

The cry of the curlew in the darkness. the whistle of the golden plover as they hovered over the lights—these were the loice of- “Millie" come back to him. In the misty nights lie would wander round the mere, calling softly to all the wildfowl, and smile to liimself as he heard the whistle of their wings. He would call back to the wild swans as they crossed the sky, and then, tending to the reeds, would tell t licm tout M illie was back to-night.

And then, what an ecstasy the old man was in. In the stillness the wonts

.•aim* io.tly acrcss the water —‘‘Willie, my M'illie. Anil he shall make thee a fisher of men.”

He was mad now. The hill folk pitied him, but none tried to restrain him. They saw his night wanderings and watched his lantern as it flitted over the dark water. His wailing and wild demoniacal laughter was carried o.er the mere and lasted far into the nil* lit.

The ■old man would bend on his oar and listen. *’

The splash of rising; fish, the night wind in the reeds, the scream of a bird —every soUncl he traoked to 'its source.

I ut •‘Wilde’’ was not among them — Willie was not to be found.

The poor maniac had been far different than now. His thin features were drawn, and his long, silvery hair was down about his face. His fishing-pole was always in his hand, his pannier slung on his back. He rarely went abroa I without them, hut they were lie. or used. ‘‘They are tor Willie.’’ The matter that had unhinged his mind had been the drowning oi Willie, the only son of his only child. "\\uimys W illie" was known to all the hill farmers, and even I rum the time when his dappled legs first bore him. they were always together. The little dark-eyed sprite was always carried on Wunny's shoulders, and long neie the tramps they took together. All the lonely tarns they fished, and only the grey heron and the old leechgatherer ever .surprised them in their fishings. They were always talking, e.ei before Wilile could understand, blit what tlic.v conversed about none e,cr knew.

Once a shepherd, seeing them by the tarn, crept steallliily down through the boulders and bracken, and watched them. Litt.e Willie, confined in a corral of heather bents, was placed by the side of a wild duck’s nest. The brown du k sat on. She was not frightened. Hut e.er and again the old man would put down his rod, and, approaching the child, would take out his Bible and read.

W unity had come to the districtrather mysteriously—or, rather, it seemed so when once he was settled down. A cottage which was empty was taken for him by a stranger, and there was ii rood deal of quiet wonder in the countryside concerning the new tenant. The rumour that accompanied him, and which subsequently turned out to be true, was that lu's coming was owing to the downfall of a great business house.

Of a quiet and unobtrusive nature, it was easily seen that he was of gentle birth and breeding. Although the latter oortion of his life had been spent in a great city, he had been reared in the country, and soon resumed ways never forgotten. He had, in fact, been renewing them all his life. The country bud alw&yis exorcised a great spell o er him, and almost all his vacations had been spent in shooting or fishing. If His troubles had been great they

had left but little outward impress upon him. He settled to bis new mode of life as though he had known no other, and when he was not out of doors he was in his library. This came with him, and revealed the nature of his tastes. His books were mainly on country and outdoor subjects, works on angling predominating. The speciality of the library was a collection ol the various editions of the “Gompleat Angler.” and a small collection of valuable works on falconry, a subject that had always fascinated him. Two servants accompanied him, an old housekeeper who knew and ministered to his every want, and a nurse having exclusive care of ‘‘Willie.” So' that out of doors lie had nature, indoors his little grandchild and his books. And between them the time passed pleasantly. And how great was the old man’s love of his hobbies! His ‘•.Nature” calendar must have been as complete as that of Gilbert White. There was no dead season to him, and the fascination of a wintry landscape" was as great as the life or his mountain garden in June. As the child developed, W'uniiy earl.v he ame his tutor,w outside tuition acting as a setoff against indoor lessons. Horning was devoted to the one, the remainder of the day to the other, and evidences of their hobby was always apparent. Their pleasures were always the same. It was a strange friendship, and so constant. Nothing came between them. They were all in all to each other —the old limn and the little child. Inseparable in their goings, they were of the chieiest interest to. the fell-folk. And what a marvellous boy, said they. So precocious, so wise, such far-away looks in those big brown eyes. And what wonder was in his talk—in his little prattling nothings, lie knew the birds and flowers and fishes by their names, and lisped them. A sandpiper ran among the pebbles—lie would name it. A coot led out her downy brood from the marge—he would cry “toot, toot.'' According to Wuliny. for him the. flowers bloomed and tlie birds sang. The sunbeams danced on the water—for Willie; the wind whispered in the trees —to Willie. How Wunny loved him! As lie lay in his little cot. Wunny could steal' to his bedside and pray. I - ray that lie was teaching him. aright; pray that his s ail might be filled with goodness; that he might grow like the child Jesus; that his ways might be ways of peace. And then, from the bitterness of his soul, be would pray God that his lad’s life might be lived in the beautiful country—that he might he kept far from great cities; but that in the end lie might, in .God’s good pleasure, leave the work! better than lie had found it. It was a great yet a simple wish—and it was easy to see that Wunnyks thoughts ran hack on his own life..

Isut one June night- a night when the soft green shadows were stealing over the tarn, the lad was missingdrowned. The misfortune need not be detailed. When the little body was found the life’ was gone out_ of it — gone from Wunny That is ; d : . M tinny did not rail at God. He was broken and stunned—crushed. Willie was dead. The sad summer night long past.

The old man was broken in body, his drawn features more pinched, anq for months he was cJmpelled to keep his bed. It was hard to restrain him. He always harped on the old theme, and asleep or awake his talk was all o "Willie" and the fishing. His thoughts went back to the tarn and the mountain streams, and in his delirium many were the trout he drew from their "hovers." Occasionally, in making a longer east, his line would be caught last in the overhanging boughs : at another time he would slip oil a mossy boulder, and find himself waist-dfsep in the yellow turbulent water, or. more rarely, he would have two fish on his cast at the same time. And then his excitement knew no bounds. The old scenes came back to his waking dreams, and they were made \ery real to him. What tended most to calm him was placing his fishing tackle on the bed before him. These were the relies of his youthful passion, as of his latter age—a passion that c uld never grow old. And how tenderly lie handled them! The deftly dressed Hies were his own handicraft, and were marvellous productions of the ■originals. '•They are for Willie.”

No one had studied the delicate Ephemerae more lovingly than he, and none could have made more of his knowledge Krone his bulky fishing-, book lie .would take out, one by one, tlie leathers from which he had dressed the flies. There were the leathers ol snipe, oj dotterel, of partridge, of wild cluck, of teal, of heron, a plover’s crest, hare s Hull, tinsel, and side, unci all the paraphernalia of the fly-dressers’ art. Nor bad the olcl man’s hand lost its cunning. He would dress now casts and retie old ones. How neatly he picked out each elegantly dressed fly from its little bunch —drawing it with trembling lingers across tlie white c-o-. erlet. There was the pale-green willow fly. the March brown, dark Idem, stone, and May flies, brown watchet,’curlew, black gnat, duly dun. red palmer, and water cricket —he knew and named them all. And when his work was complete, what a picture was the old angler! He was propped up with pillows, and the sun placed upon his silvery hair through the geranium-bowered window. The window was a leaded one, and the sun was broken into golden ripples as it fell on his face. And then, with his fly-book before him, angling was no longer a mere delightful clay-dream, but a reality—a reality that took him I neo-deep, or waistband-high, through river feeding torrents, to the glorious music of his running and ringing reel.

Once more autumn came, and with it tlie winter genus looi of the mountain mere. It was a bird- —a 100n —a creature as wild and solitary as the black tarn itself. Night by night its mocking laughter echoed over the mere. As he listened, the old man grew strangely restless, and as the laughter was repeated hi-s excitement grew beyond restraint. There was a wildness and solitariness about the cry that brought up a great feeling of weariness.

The night wind rose and the demoniacal cry of the loon became louder and louder.' The mountain merelet was fearsome ©ten to the farmers. But

Wunny-must be quieted; only so long as the loon clanged be was all of a wild unrest.

One of the fell-folk would shoot the great black bird, and Wunny would i esume his old ways. That was what they told him. Hut the ill-omened .owl was quick and cunning and resolute.- It dived with such marvellous quickness that the shot of the gunner struck only in time to cut across a circle of descending tail featho: .s. A couple of jets of water were (lung upward by • its web feet, and it evas gone. Hut by resolute rowing and hard shooting the gunner gained upon ii. Soon it was disabled that it would neither dive nor fly. And then, so the gunner averred, it laced its fee, looked him in the face with clear, piercing o,«es, and louglit resolutely till death, and there was something iii its wailing .ry almost human in its agony. Its wild demoniacal laughter no longer awoke the echoes of the solitary tarn. Then it was thought that M unny’s agony would pass. But as the autumn gales heightened and days darkened the voice of another loon arose from the lake It was thought to be a coincidence, hut was merely the hitherto silent bird seeking its dead mate. Again the old man could no longer be restrained.It was Willie, calling from the dark water —Willie come hack to him! The white mists once more settled on the mere, and darkness came over it. flu clanging of the night bird arose, and the mocking laughter, and the echoes repeated it. As they watched, a boat shot outfrom the shore, and “Millie, my M illie,” arose from the waters. But only the loon replied. As it was pursued its feet were more than.leet, its wings more than wings, it plunged into the denser air, and flew with incredible swiftness. Still on and, on. without waiting. Wunny pursued it through the darkness. He followed! the mocking ciy and the laughter, hut I the bird eluded him. It dived, but always out-distanced him. Many times lie rested on his ours, and each time Ids unnatural strength was abated. He was pursuing a spirit—M’illie’s spirit. He renewed the chase, and each hurst made the bird wilder. Finding itself pressed, it dived and reappeared a quarter of a mile away. It flew under water as a heron flies on land. And always its clanging cry and weird laughter came over the water. The tarn was shut down under densest darkness. The rough craft was blotted out on the dark water, and only the regular crunch of the rowlocks came to the marge—that and the eerie cry of the loon. The fell-folk were wasted in watchin;.', and went to their homes, it was not the first time Wunny had spent a night on the mere. They would find him exhausted in the morning, and lie would be more tractable. The cry ot the bird would cease with the light, and the day would bring peace. M'uliny would be led home, and the mocking loon would hide-her head in the reeds. Morning came, and the night bird | was still. M’unny’s boat was in the middle of the mere, slowly drifting: Wunny sat in it; he was bowed-and i 100 ,e.i down into the green water. He held the cars, but they were not moved, j His concentration was deeper than j usual. Yes, Willie was in the loon’s cry. M’unny had been very near to him. but now be was lost again among! ill? reeds. j The boat slowly drifted. A farmer looked from the hank. ■ Poor Wunny—and his dead boy. How he felt it! . j 'l’lie wind stirred in his hair; it was white as the foam by the pebbles. A couple of teal swam close by the boat. : but they passed unheeded. A blue; heron went bv. but MTmny did not; raise his head. . j The boat drifted nearer. lie stilt; field the oars, but they did not con-j trol the punt.. I t came on to the reeds. 1 The strong loon sprang up and rent j the air with its mocking laughter. , The fell folk who watched came down j to the marge. He was quieter now. | Tliev could see it. j The boat drifted near—nearer. Its stem grated among • the brown reeds ; j the v parted, and the boat had come to j its haven, brought by the wind. M'uiiny did not look up. The wind j was in his hair. It was covered with; rime. He still bent on the oars. He! would wake soon. They waited. j The loon laughed again. No. lie v,odd not awake. | Fe had found M'illie. • __John Matson in the ‘‘Australasian.”!