Christmas Spirit
By Lee Fletcher
By Lee Fletcher
The night sky was greyish white as the snow fell lightly on the frost bitten ground. The wind, blowing in from the East, rattled the dead stems of common reed that bent and swayed in bunches once warm green, but now the cold lifeless shells that would soon be washed away when floods next come.
Away in the whiteness, somewhere across the river, a vixen callen into the night. Her ghostly call is heard by many as a warning, for in harsh conditions, she will be hunting hard for a meal tonight. Ears pricked with bright eyes blinking against the falling snow, every smell, every movement, will be investigated as she trots her nightly beat.
It was two days before Christmas Eve, and behind a wind buffeted umberella, a lone angler sat watching his rod tip whilst feeling the line drapped over his cold finger. Eyes squinting, he slowly lifted a flask cup up towards his face, blowing into its hot steam as the cup reached his lips. Not for a second, do those squinting eyes leave the direction of the glowing rod tip. It was soon time for home so every second of his concentration was needed in order to catch a fish on the biteless session. He would have so loved to catch a barbel with snow on the ground. Any size of fish would have done.
Upstream, the lock keepers house on the opposite bank was decked out with brightly shining Christmas lights. Their colours seemed so warm, glinting in the cold falling snow. The angler could just make out the shape of people in the lit windows that sent streams of yellow light onto the snow covered lawn at the front of the house. Whisps of smoke drifted from the chimney pot rising up in a spiral to disappear in the whiteness of the skies. A happy family in a warm house. Almost unaware that their roof was now a white sheet of snow instead of rows of dull grey slates. Christmas is near, and come the morning, the children from the lock keepers house will rush out into the white winter wonderland and the thoughts of Christmas, would then fill their hearts.
Time for home, the angler thought. The wind was starting to die down and the snowfall became odd flakes of snow falling gently like feathers to the ground. The angler stood up and pulled the umbrella and its spike from the ground. Taking it down whilst shaking the snow from its cover, the angler noticed a light shining at the side of the river downstream. Another angler? Thats odd. Mine is the only car in the carpark and its three miles to the nearest road up the farm track. Ah well, he thought. Perhaps someone is out walking a dog, or even someone out doing a spot of poaching.
The angler wound his rod in and folded it away. The last pieces of bait were thrown into the cold river as thoughts were now with Christmas that meant no more fishing for a few days. Rod rest away, flask in the rucksack, chair folded and one last look at the river and those pretty light's around the lock keepers house. That will be me soon, the angler thought. Home with my family. Warm and ready for Christmas.
Lifting his rucksack onto his back and tightening its straps, the angler noticed that the light was coming upstream towards him. Nearer and nearer the light came whilst the angler slung his tackle quiver and chair over each shoulder.
The snow had stopped falling and the wind had died down to a whisper as the downstream light came closer and closer. Now flickering and swaying, seemingly to be just above the ground. Then, a figure came into sight. Another angler.
"Hello, I wondered what the light was", said the angler. "Oh its only my old oil lamp", said the figure. The man seemed quite old in the light of the snow covered meadow. It was hard to tell with his wide brimmed hat half covering his eyes and his neatly trimmed thick grey beard hanging over a white cloth scarf. He wore a long heavy coat made of a thick material and instead of rubber boots, wore leather boots with canvas type gaiters fastened with thick leather straps. "Did you have any luck?" the angler asked. "No Lad, a bad night for barbel", said the figure. "I am quite surprised to see another angler tonight, especially as mine is the only car in the carpark". "I ain't come by car lad. I only live a few hundred yards up the river in the parish yard cottages at the side of the weir", said the figure. "Oh, that explains it then", the angler said.
Both anglers then walked together through the snow covered meadow going up onto the floodbank talking as they went. The angler noticed the figures rod and landing net. The rod was made from cane and his net seemed knotted on a bent wooden frame with a cane handle. " You use traditional type tackle I see", said the angler. "Traditional? Oh I see", said the figure. Yes I suppose I do", he answered with a chuckle.
On reaching the carpark, both anglers stopped. The angler took his tackle off his shoulders and passed the chair and quiver over the gate, then his rucksack. The figure stood his flickering oil lamp on the thick gate post and lit his pipe. "Far to go?", the figure asked as the angler strode over the gate. " About twenty five miles", the angler replied. "Well, I bid you safe journey my friend", said the figure as he puffed on his pipe. The figure then said, "Perhaps we will meet another year my friend". "I should think so, seeing as its the new year in a few days", the angler replied. "Oh, so it is. So it is lad", said the figure. "Well my lad, I'll bid you good night now". "Merry Christmas", the angler shouted as the figure walked away. "And to you lad", the figure shouted as he raised an arm without a backwards glance.
The angler packed his tackle away in the back of his estate car and was just about to take off his coat, when he noticed the tin coated oil lamp flickering brightly on the gate post. Climbing back over the gate, he picked up the lamp and quickly headed along the floodbank towards the weir. He cant be far ahead the angler thought as he quickly walked along the snow covered bank. Passing the lock keepers house, the angler arrived at the weir. Parish yard cottages? I cant remember any cottages standing near to the weir, he thought. All there was there, were ruined outbuilding's and piles of rubble covered in briars. The angler stopped and standing in what was once, a cottage yard, stood the oil lamp, still alight on an ivy covered derelict garden wall. Thats a strange thing, the angler thought looking down whilst scratching the side of his head. There are only my footprints in the snow. Surely not, the angler thought. Now he began to back track, back along his footprints in the snow along the flood bank. Right back to his parked car, only his footprints were there along the floodbank and a tingle started to rise down the back of his spine.
The angler retraced his steps back to his pitch. Only his footprints remained. Freshly made tracks, showing clearly the pattern on the soles of his boots. There we no other footprints in the snow. None save for his own.
Hurrying back to his car and reaching the gate, he suddenly thought, the oil lamp! I've left the oil lamp on the wall! Looking back upstream, he could still see it burning brightly on top of the old wall but now frightened and with the hairs on his neck bristling, there was no way that he was going back for it. Within five minutes, the bright red tail lights of his car disappearing up the farm track, were all that remaimed of the anglers presence. The night wore on and the wind picked up. More snow fell that covered the anglers footprints and the oil lamp flickering on the old wall, went out as a gust of wind blew through the old courtyard.
Christmas Day. Three days later and the lock keepers house lights cast their yellow light onto the snow covered lawn in the early morning. Inside, excited children rushed about. Santa's been! Santa's been! And blurry eyed parents watched their children open presents.
As the sun rose over the Christmas snowy landscape, a chill wind blew around the old parish yard over across the passing river. And there, on top of the old wall, tangled in twined twisted ivy, lay the rusted almost gone base of an old oil lamp.
Merry Christmas, old Christmas Spirit.
Merry Christmas Jack.
By Lee Fletcher