My Short Story
by
Darren George
Darkness.
Pitch-black darkness: an all-enveloping void. Deep in the silky nothingness
a snake of glass slithers through the undergrowth, pimpled with beads of dew.
The un-seen river meanders past ancient oaks, crooked and wrinkled with wisdom.
Around hills, cutting through meadows; the moody stream is sheathed in a grey
- almost black - mist.
Velvet night covers distant hills on the horizon, beyond which a million pin-pricks
of silver stars are fading. At the limit of perception, the eastern sky gradually
begins to lighten, a ball of orange light summons all of its immense power.
He creeps up above the prison that is: where the world ends and the sky begins.
Swathes of cotton wool, rising in clouds from the water, are stained by bars
of amber light. The sky is doused with yellows, reds and purples which merge
into each other seamlessly. Light cascades across the roof of the world. Beams
of glorious colour leap from meadow to meadow, touching each blade of grass,
each small flower with liquid gold. The conductor has arrived - his dawn chorus
commences.
Immersed, swallowed by the sweet, cool energy. A mass of tangled green-ness
waves and curls with near pleasure, stroked by the ever lasting life-force
rushing by. The spirit comes from no-where and goes no-where, yet it comes
and goes forever. A myriad of stones cover the bed, bathing, un-moving. Tiny
creatures hide away in the gravel, grabbing miniscule parcels of food that
are delivered by the current. Under the great oak, among a fortress of knobbled
claws created from tree roots dance tiny young. In and out they flit, flashing
silver, happy with the joy of being alive. They are blissful, at peace in
the un-knowledge that they are being watched. Their instincts tell them to
stay close to the cover, but they succumb to the temptation of playful feeding.
A hundred eyes observe them - hungry eyes.
Long, slender and muscled. The streamlined Being is generously painted with
the richest bronze, draped in figure-hugging, lace like scales. Strong and
large coral coloured fins held steadfast, erect, poised perfectly. A large
pointed rudder waves seductively, holding exact station effortlessly. A face
of pure, un-touched beauty, crowned with four probing nerve centres that search
patiently between pebbles. Here She takes up Her thrown, at the Centre of
the Universe.
The angler: he is struck with an affliction. He does not know it, yet he longs
for the Centre of the Universe. He dreams, plots, learns and needs to find
the path that cuts along the radius - to find the Hub of the world. There
is no map, however, the path, once was trodden, but is since forgotten. The
angler must beat his own track in the quest that pulls him.
As She summons him, the pull is subtle, but still he feels it. The angler
has beaten many tracks, all dead-end cul-de-sacs. On the morning that dawns
however, he begins a new lead. After a week of preparation - readying foods
to offer Her, perfecting rigs to present Her - the Sun finally rises, bathing
the new World in optimism. He begins the journey, through tree-lined avenues,
around hills, cutting through meadows. All the while tension builds in the
pit of his stomach; a hundred and one butterflies flutter-by the intestine
and tickle his diaphragm. The angler is getting closer to his latest playground;
the child within him becomes ever more excited.
The car is parked, the sweet air inhaled by deep testing breaths. He likes
the new-found slice of paradise, everything is green and lush, the morning
dew glistening on young-leafed foliage. There are great billows of mist rising
in the distance from a crease in the meadow beyond, painted by the dawns virgin
light. The meadow is a-bloom with wildflower, soaking the Suns rays. The bumble
bees are beginning to awake, visiting each pollen outlet, gathering the sweet
fuel. Day is infantile - young, pure and fresh. The atmosphere is cool, yet
expectant, all feels well with the world.
Angler begins un-loading his meagrely justified burdens. A tool for every
eventuality, a weapon for every battle. If you pit your wits against Royalty,
you must bring your coat of arms! The contest between thought and Instinct
is often bitter, thought too many times defeated by Instinct. Yet still he
continues his quest. He must find Her, no matter what - She summons him.
And so he begins the walk, never a hardship through land of wonder and splendour.
The meadows roll by, grass giving way to hedges, grass again. Trees bear young
un-ripe fruit, packages awaiting patiently to be eaten - thus completing the
life cycle.
In the distance, growing ever nearer, is the great oak: wise old oak., it
is distinguished and gnarled. Two hundred migrations have been and gone -
the old tree has seen them all. The tree seems small at first, but with perspective
the fuel, it soon becomes large. Angler now finally arrives, placing his tackle
beside the aged tree, he takes his bucket of maggots, rod and bait dropper
and stealthily walks downstream.
The spot is of fantastic beauty, pleasing to his eye and to his soul. The
frenetic hurriedness of civilisation is left in another dimension. The water
- clean and clear - flows incessantly, animating great beds of streamer weed
that are alight with pretty white flowers. Golden light sparkles from the
glass-like surface, beams captured by lingering mist. Below the surface, a
hundred silver flashes catch the anglers eye; young fish dance around the
tree roots.
His inner-child is released.
He fills his bait dropper with a mass of crawling grubs. After choosing an
area of water - a long crease - he swings out the contraption. It hits the
surface with a muted slap, the taught line cuts through the surface before
jumping slack. White parcels of nutrition are deposited onto the gravel; a
fragrance carrying the code of food is swept along the current. She sees the
payload of wriggling breakfast, stirs - on the edge of Her Thrown.
Time halts. All around becomes silent. The bees no longer buzz, the breeze
no longer blows - busyness becomes still. The water forgets to flow, fry stop
flitting. The Conductors dawn chorus comes to a crescendo and ceases. All
in a split second as his eyes meet Hers. However, She has only seen Her breakfast.
As the moment is drawn out into an eternity, both are mulling over the choices.
It is his thought verses Her Instinct: Drama at the Centre of the Universe.
The eternal split second draws on. She leaves Her Thrown, Instinct tells Her
to eat, and so upstream She ventures. The taste of the small white creatures
tingle on Her barbules as She draws ever closer.
All the while the angler watches. His heart begins pumping again, harder and
faster. His vision becomes sharper, focused, like a bird of prey, stalking
above. The adrenaline, coursing through his veins, induces a tremor of his
hands. His breath becomes shorter, sharper. To meet face to face with a Creature
of such Grace and Elegance is an honour for him.
With gentle sucks, She becomes a maggot catcher. Delicately tasting the gravel,
feeling for grubs; once found they are daintily drawn into Her mouth. One
by one She consumes them, forgetting She has left the comfort and safety of
Her Thrown. More grubs rain down from the world above, Her breakfast becomes
a feast. Hurriedly, She engulfs each last parcel of food, before Her knights
arrive to join in the banquet.
He sits and watches, the Fish becomes ever more confident. With Her loss of
Instinctive caution, he too loses his rational thought. The heady combination
of fresh air, excitement and intoxicating adrenaline robs him of patience
and he cannot resist any longer. Hurried footsteps return him to his tackle.
At last! The child within him grows ever more dominant.
He has set up his equipment and is obeying his impatience. It was the mistake
of many before, it will be the mistake of many to come. The cast is made;
the lead hits the water with a plop and sinks to the river bed. Angler slowly
draws the over-cast weight back, into the feeding zone. The impaled maggots
wriggle in an attempt to escape, as if they sense that soon they will be devoured.
He waits, with legs of jelly, a slight sweat breaks upon his brow.
Engulfing each mouthful of maggot, She searches with great gusto for ever
more. She hears the plop - the breakfast gong as it were - and awaits the
grubs arrival. And still She waits. Instinct rises above the yearning of Her
stomach. Slowly, more un-seen wriggling food parcels bounce across the current.
A touch. She feels it on her flank, it is hard, yet soft; it is large, yet
small. It is a feeling She has felt upon Her side before and She recognises
it in an instant.
The large Barbel edges towards his hook bait. His heart beats ever faster,
pace quickening. Everything around stands still and falls silent. Her posture
has changed? She does not engulf the bait. She hovers over it. Beat after
beat of his heart, it feels like time has departed without him. She turns
and drops downstream. His rod tip remains unmoved.
She melts into the cover of weed, She has taken up Her Thrown. The knights
work their way upstream, searching for the breakfast that has aroused their
senses. She is happy for them to eat, breakfast for her is over.
His world, so optimistic and bright with happy energy: collapses. What once
was green, blue, yellow and red, becomes dull shades of grey. His heart sinks,
from high in his chest, to deep down in the pit of his stomach, it turns to
lead. All the butterflies have fluttered by. All he is left with is the thought
of what may have been, the bitter taste of defeat. In the battle between thought
and Instinct, there was only ever one victor.
Darren George
August 2004