Read Online An Irish Christmas Feast by John B. Keane - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John B. Keane
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intermittent light, the kind of light beloved by poachers and others whose business runs contrary to the laws of the land.
The ideal situation, as far as Ned and Fred were concerned, would be long periods of darkness interspersed with short periods of moonlight. The pair sat on dry stones not daring to utter a word. Sometimes they would nudge each other in appreciation of the nightâs own distinctive sounds such as the distinct rooting of a badger or the far-off yelping of a vixen summoning a dog fox to earth. From the opposite bank came the unmistakable call of a wandering pheasant, husky yet vibrant. They listened without comment to the furtive comings and goings of the smaller inhabitants of the undergrowth and to all the other lispings, chirpings and stirrings common to the night. They listened, most of all, to the gentle background music of the running water, savouring its eddies, its softer shallows-music and leisurely, lapping wavelets. These last were almost inaudible but as distinctive, nevertheless, to the silent pair seated on dry stones as the frailer strains of a complex symphony to the alert conductor.
Gentle breezes fanned the coarse river grasses and rustled in the underbrush whilst overhead, when the clouds gave the nod, the stars twinkled and the bright moon shone. Never had Ned entertained such a sense of sublime security. His cares had melted away under the benign influence of the accumulated night sounds. The same could be said for his friend Fred over whose face was drawn a veil of gratification, rarely enjoyed by the human species. Truly they had become part of the night. Truly were they at one with the riverside scene. There were times when they leaned forward eagerly in anticipation and times when they partially rose to their feet but it was no more than the river changing its tune as it did when the levels began to lower themselves and the lessening variations presented a different concert.
From the belfry of the parish church the midnight chimes rang pleasantly and clearly. Ned and his friend made the sign of the cross. As the final chime sounded they were both on their feet, ears strained, their faces taut.
âDid you hear a splash?â the whispered question came from Ned.
âI heard something,â his fellow poacher responded.
âThen,â said Ned Muddle, a note of confidence in his tone, âwe had better take a look!â
They waded through the shallow water and there, gleaming far brighter than any of the stars over their heads, imprisoned in the cage, was a freshly arrived salmon. It turned out to be a splendid cock fish unblemished as far as they could see and shining with a radiance that belongs only to creatures of the sea. Such lustre would inevitably be dulled by a long sojourn in the upper reaches of the river but now the sea silver flashed and glittered. For a moment the creature explored its new surrounds and finding no escape began to thresh and flail for all it was worth. All, alas, was to no avail. Once a salmon enters a properly designed cage its fate is sealed.
âHeâs ten pounds!â Ned Muddle exclaimed with delight.
âHeâs twelve if heâs an ounce,â his companion insisted.
Without further argument they lifted the cage and between them brought it ashore. It was Ned who extracted the struggling fish by its gills and it was Ned who located a large stone with which he smote upon the creatureâs poll after he had laid it on the gravelled shore and restricted its movements by holding its tail in a vice-like grip. Hands on hips, a stance copied by his companion, he stood for a while admiring the symmetry of his capture. Apart from an occasional, barely perceptible spasm, there was no movement from the fish.
âHurry,â Ned Muddle urged his partner, âhurry because where thereâs one thereâs more.â
âWe should go while the going is good,â Fred contradicted.
âNo!â Ned was
The ideal situation, as far as Ned and Fred were concerned, would be long periods of darkness interspersed with short periods of moonlight. The pair sat on dry stones not daring to utter a word. Sometimes they would nudge each other in appreciation of the nightâs own distinctive sounds such as the distinct rooting of a badger or the far-off yelping of a vixen summoning a dog fox to earth. From the opposite bank came the unmistakable call of a wandering pheasant, husky yet vibrant. They listened without comment to the furtive comings and goings of the smaller inhabitants of the undergrowth and to all the other lispings, chirpings and stirrings common to the night. They listened, most of all, to the gentle background music of the running water, savouring its eddies, its softer shallows-music and leisurely, lapping wavelets. These last were almost inaudible but as distinctive, nevertheless, to the silent pair seated on dry stones as the frailer strains of a complex symphony to the alert conductor.
Gentle breezes fanned the coarse river grasses and rustled in the underbrush whilst overhead, when the clouds gave the nod, the stars twinkled and the bright moon shone. Never had Ned entertained such a sense of sublime security. His cares had melted away under the benign influence of the accumulated night sounds. The same could be said for his friend Fred over whose face was drawn a veil of gratification, rarely enjoyed by the human species. Truly they had become part of the night. Truly were they at one with the riverside scene. There were times when they leaned forward eagerly in anticipation and times when they partially rose to their feet but it was no more than the river changing its tune as it did when the levels began to lower themselves and the lessening variations presented a different concert.
From the belfry of the parish church the midnight chimes rang pleasantly and clearly. Ned and his friend made the sign of the cross. As the final chime sounded they were both on their feet, ears strained, their faces taut.
âDid you hear a splash?â the whispered question came from Ned.
âI heard something,â his fellow poacher responded.
âThen,â said Ned Muddle, a note of confidence in his tone, âwe had better take a look!â
They waded through the shallow water and there, gleaming far brighter than any of the stars over their heads, imprisoned in the cage, was a freshly arrived salmon. It turned out to be a splendid cock fish unblemished as far as they could see and shining with a radiance that belongs only to creatures of the sea. Such lustre would inevitably be dulled by a long sojourn in the upper reaches of the river but now the sea silver flashed and glittered. For a moment the creature explored its new surrounds and finding no escape began to thresh and flail for all it was worth. All, alas, was to no avail. Once a salmon enters a properly designed cage its fate is sealed.
âHeâs ten pounds!â Ned Muddle exclaimed with delight.
âHeâs twelve if heâs an ounce,â his companion insisted.
Without further argument they lifted the cage and between them brought it ashore. It was Ned who extracted the struggling fish by its gills and it was Ned who located a large stone with which he smote upon the creatureâs poll after he had laid it on the gravelled shore and restricted its movements by holding its tail in a vice-like grip. Hands on hips, a stance copied by his companion, he stood for a while admiring the symmetry of his capture. Apart from an occasional, barely perceptible spasm, there was no movement from the fish.
âHurry,â Ned Muddle urged his partner, âhurry because where thereâs one thereâs more.â
âWe should go while the going is good,â Fred contradicted.
âNo!â Ned was
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