FROM THE GREEN BUSHES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3870, 15 May 1928, Page 82

FROM THE GREEN BUSHES.

By

John Watson.

He was mad now, and spent most of 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 he would relapse into his long silence. 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 would seem to come back. 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 of himself for a moment —but the end was always the same.

His Willy, his life—all that had been life to him —was deep in the dark green water, and call on it as he would it would never come back.

His Willy, his life—all that had been life to him—was deep in the dark green water, and call on it as he would it would never come back.

Listening to his talk, it was easy to gather of what he was thinking. One could draw the scenes from his wandering words, and they always went back to his “Willy.”

In imagination the old man sat again on the banks of a trout stream. There was Willy, Willy, his king, with a willow wand, a bit of string, and a crooked pin. He would wanton in the stream and then as the old man called him to the fishing, his little brown legs would carry him far out beyond the brown pebbles. He would cast, and cast, sometimes catching a tiny brown trout, sometimes a silvery salmon fresh run from the sea. Then their joy was great indeed. Willy would dance round the old man until his fingers were covered with silvery scales, then would pity his little catch as the glory of its iridescence faded.

“My Willy, Willy, my king,” moaned the old man to himself. “ And thou shalt be a fisher of men. This shall be thy Capernaum, and that is Hermon afar off,” and he pointed away to’ the "reen hills.

But in the times to which Wunny went back, W illy had been as much a s savage as most boys, and the old man would wander on, suggesting another picture. They were fishing again. Willy Kad 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 roach and bull - heads as they darted off through the reeds. And how skilfully he used his weapon! He had a bottle on the bank, and into it poured unhurt the fish he captuied in his hands. ■’There were roach, and minnow, and sticklebacks— and his cap and pockets were stuffed with sprawling crayfish.

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 of the migrating birds as they moved across the night sky made him more and more restless.

The cry of the curfew in the darkness, the whistle of the golden plover as they hovered over the lights—these were the voice of “Willy” come back to him. In the misty nights he would wander round the mere, calling softly to all the wildfowl, and smile to himself as he heard the whistle of their wings. He would call back to the wild swans as they crossed the sky, and then, bending to the reeds, would tell them that Willy was back to-night. And then, what an ecstasy the old man was in. In the stillness the words came softly across the water; “Willy, n*y M illy. And 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 over the mere, and lasted far into the night. 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 etery sound he tracked to its source. But “ Willy ” was not among them— M illy was not to be found. The poor maniac had been far different than now. His thin features were diawn, and his long silvery hair was blown about his face. His fishing pole was always in his hand, his pannier slung on his back. He rarely went abroad without them, but they were never used. “They are for Willy.” The matter that had unhinged his mind had been the drowning of Willy the only son of his only child. “ Wunny’s Willy” Was known to all the hill farmers, and even from the time when his dappled legs first bore him they were always together. The little darkeyed sprite was carried on Wunnv’s shoulders, and long were the tramps tliev took together. All the lonely tarns they fished, and only the grey heron and the old leech-gatherer ever surprised them in their fishings. They were always talking, even before “Willy” could understand, but what they conversed about none ever knew. Once a shepherd, seeing them by the tarn, crept stealthily down through the boulders and bracken, and watched them. Little Willy, confined in a corral of heather bents, was placed by the side

of a wild duck’s nest. The brown duck sat on. She. was not frightened. But ever and again the old man would put down his rod, and, approaching the child, would take out his Bible and read. * » » Wunny had come to the district rather 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 a good 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 his 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 portion 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 had always exercised a great spell over 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 his 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 of the various editions of the “ Uompleat 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 the exclusive care of “ Willy.” So that out of doors he 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 of his mountain garden in June.

As the child developed Wunny early became his tutor —outside tuition acting as a set-off against indoor lessons. Morn” ing was devoted to the one, the remainder of the day to the other, and evidences of their hobby were 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 man and the little child. Inseparable in their goings, they were of the chiefest 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. He’ knew the birds and flowers and fishes by their names, and lisped them. A sandpiper ran among the pebbles—he would name it. A coot led out her downy brood from the marge —he would cry “Toot, toot.” According to Wunny for him the flowers bloomed and the birds sang. The sunbeams danced on the water for Willy; the wind whispered in the reeds—to Willy. How Wunny loved him! As he lay in his little cot, Wunny could steal to his bedside and pray. Pray that he was teaching him aright; pray that his soul 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 butterness of his soul, he would pray God that the lad’s life might be lived in the beautiful country—that he might be kept far from great cities; but that in the end he might, in God’s good pleasure,- leave the world better than he had found it. It was a great yet simple wish—and it was easy to see that Wunny’s thoughts ran back on his own life.

But one June night—a night when the soft green shadows were stealin" over the tarn—the lad was missing—drowned. The misfortune need not”be detailed. When the little body was found the life was gone out of it—gone from Wunny. That is all. Wunny 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, and for months he was compelled 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 of “ Willy ” 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 cast, his line would be caught fast in the overhanging boughs; at another time he would slip off a mossy boulder and find himself waist-deep 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 in his waking dreams, and they were made very real to him. What tended most to calm him was placing his fishing tackle on the bed before him. These were the relics of his youthful passion as of his latter age—a passion that could never grow old. And how tenderly he handled them. The deftly-dressed flies were his own handicraft, and were marvellous productions of the originals. “They are for Willy.”

No one had studied the delicate Ephemera more lovingly than he, and none could have made more of his knowledge. From his bulky fishing book he would take out, one by one, the feathers from which he had dressed his flies. There were the feathers of snipe, of dotterel of partridge, of wild duck, of teal and heron, a plover’s crest, hare’s fluff, tinsel and silk, and all the paraphernalia of the fly-dresscr’S art. Nor had the old man’s hand lost its cunning. He would dress new casts, and re-tie old ones. How neatly he picked out each elegantlydressed fly from its little bunch—drawing it with trembling fingers across the white coverlet. There was the pale green willow fly, the March brown, dark bloa, stone and May flies, brown watchci, curlew, black gnat, July 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 played 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 flybook before him, angling was no longer a mere delightful day-dream, but’ a reality a reality that took him kneedeep, or waistband-high, through riverfeeding torrents, to the glorious music of his running and ringing reel. Once more autumn came, and with it the winter genus loei of the mountain mere. It was a bird—a loon—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, his excitement grew beyond restraint. There was a wildness and 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 mere was fearsove even to the farmers. But Wunny must be quieted—only so long as the loon clanged he was all of a wild unrest. One of the fell-folk would shoot the great black bird, and Wunny would resume his old ways. That was what they told him. But the ill-omened fowl 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 feathers. A couple of jets of water were flung upward by its web feet—and it was gone. But by resolute rowing and hard shooting the gunner gained upon it. Soon it was disabled so that it would neither dive nor fly. And then, so the gunner averred, it faced its foe, looked him in the face with clear, piercing eyes, and fought resolutely till death; and there was something in its wailing cry almost human in its agony. Its wild demoniacal laughter no longer awoke the echoes of the solitary tarn. Then it was thought that Wunny’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 a coincidence, but was merely the hitherto silent bird seeking its dead mate. Again the old man could no longer be restrained. It was Willy calling from the dark water—Willy come back to him! * * * The white mists once more settled on the mere, and darkness came over it. The clanging of the night bird arose, and the mocking laughter, and- the echoes repeated it. * * * As they watched, a boat shot out from the shore, and “ Willy, my Willy,” arose from the waters. But only the loon replied. As it was pursued its feet were more than feet, 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 cry and the laughter, but the bird eluded him. It dived, but always out-distanced him. Many times he rested on his oars, and each time his unnatural strength was abated. He was pursuing a spirit—W illy’s spirit. He renewed the chase, and each outburst 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 black water, and only the regular crunch of the rowlocks came to the marge—that and the eerie clangin" of the loon. The fell-folk were wasted in watching, 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 he would be more tractable. The cry of the bird would cease with the light, and the day would bring peace. Wunny would be led home, and the mocking loon would hide her head in the reeds. Morning came, and the night-bird was still. Wunny’s boat was in the middle of the mere, slowly drifting. Wunny sat in it ; l;e was bowed and looked down into the green water. He held the oars, but they were not moved. His concentration was deeper than usual. Yes, Willy was in the loon’s cry. Wunny had been very near to him, but now he was lost again among the reeds. The boat slowly drifted. A fanner looked from the bank.

Poor Wunny— and his dead body. How he felt it! The 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 by, but Wunny did not raise his head. The boat drifted nearer. He still held the oars, but they did not control the punt. It came on to the reeds. . The strong loon sprang up and rent air with its mocking laughter. The fell-folk who watched came down to the marge. He was quieter now. They could see it. The boat drifted near, nearer. Its stem grated among the brown reeds; they parted, and the boat had come to its haven—brought by the wind. Wunny did not look up. The wind was in his hair. It was covered with rime. He still bent on the oars. He would wake soon. They waited. The loon laughed again. No, he would not awake. He had found Willy.—Weekly Scotsman.