come back out of me, warm but soon cold
like any other kind of water. It seemed like the whole world was sleeping and in the silence under the stars, under the Great Bear creeping down, I could hear everything, even the quietest things.
I can hear the worms, I said. I can hear the worms moving through the earth.
SALMON
The dog appeared just as the last of the voices faded away – a black, hungry-looking lurcher. It stood motionless at the lip of the tall riverbank, staring down across
the cold quick water at him. A faint call came from someone in the family of walkers he’d heard tramping and chattering somewhere out of sight, above him on the opposite side. The dog
quivered, yelped, then twisted away and back into the hidden fields of rough pasture behind it. He shrugged his pack higher on his shoulders and strode on. After just a few steps the dog burst back
into view again, scraping to a halt just inches from the high, undercut brink. This time it ignored the distant calls and whistles, staying to watch him labouring under his pack and fishing tackle
until he had long passed it and was out of sight around the wide sweep of the river bend.
He finally made the road bridge at noon, sweating and fly-ridden. He clambered wearily up to it from the river’s edge and was glad to rest there. The sun was punishing on his bare neck and
head and inside his boots his hot feet were soft and swollen, soaked with sweat and blister-water. He rested his rod against the stone parapet of the bridge, struggled out of his pack and creel and
leaned back on the low stone wall, his arms splayed to support him. After a while he stooped down and worked a plastic water bottle out of a side pocket of his pack, drank from it and then poured
some of the water over his head. It felt warm, like the fluid in his boots, he imagined, and the smell of hot tarmac from the road mingled queasily in his nose and throat with the plastic scent of
the water from the bottle. He twisted the top back on and re-packed it.
Turning away from the road, he leaned to look over the parapet into the river. He knew the bigger trout would be aligned just under the arch, out of sight, behind the shadow-line, but he could
see the occasional glint upstream of the younger, smaller fish as they turned to take food under the rippled surface, then as they turned again to find their lies in the open river, out in the full
glare of the sun. He wished he’d had the sense to stay near the bridge to fish, pitching the tent after dark maybe, instead of walking so far upriver to the quieter stretches. He would have
had plenty of chances under the bridge, even in this weather.
There was still another half-hour or so of walking before reaching the town, he guessed. He hoisted the rucksack up onto the lip of the parapet, tilting its weight from there onto his shoulders,
then hooking his arms through its straps and moving forward to take the strain. The fishing rod and creel he carried first in one hand, then the other, using the tip of the cotton rod-bag to flick
the sweat and flies away from his eyes and lips.
As he walked through the main street the little town seemed deserted. For a while he didn’t even see any traffic, then a loud, battered dirt-bike raced past him from
behind, turned at the head of the street and passed him again. The skinny, T-shirted boy riding it stared full into his face as he sped past.
At the empty bus-stop he set down his fishing gear and slid the pack from his shoulders. The long street, sweeping in a gentle curve down and away from him, seemed to channel a faint breeze and
he turned his back to it, letting it cool the aching wetness along his spine. At last a few cars sped past, and a small white camper slowed and parked outside the post office some fifty yards down
the street. A cafe was open just a few doors along from the bus-stop and leaving his gear he walked stiffly down to it.
The cafe was surprisingly cool inside. A girl in a
like any other kind of water. It seemed like the whole world was sleeping and in the silence under the stars, under the Great Bear creeping down, I could hear everything, even the quietest things.
I can hear the worms, I said. I can hear the worms moving through the earth.
SALMON
The dog appeared just as the last of the voices faded away – a black, hungry-looking lurcher. It stood motionless at the lip of the tall riverbank, staring down across
the cold quick water at him. A faint call came from someone in the family of walkers he’d heard tramping and chattering somewhere out of sight, above him on the opposite side. The dog
quivered, yelped, then twisted away and back into the hidden fields of rough pasture behind it. He shrugged his pack higher on his shoulders and strode on. After just a few steps the dog burst back
into view again, scraping to a halt just inches from the high, undercut brink. This time it ignored the distant calls and whistles, staying to watch him labouring under his pack and fishing tackle
until he had long passed it and was out of sight around the wide sweep of the river bend.
He finally made the road bridge at noon, sweating and fly-ridden. He clambered wearily up to it from the river’s edge and was glad to rest there. The sun was punishing on his bare neck and
head and inside his boots his hot feet were soft and swollen, soaked with sweat and blister-water. He rested his rod against the stone parapet of the bridge, struggled out of his pack and creel and
leaned back on the low stone wall, his arms splayed to support him. After a while he stooped down and worked a plastic water bottle out of a side pocket of his pack, drank from it and then poured
some of the water over his head. It felt warm, like the fluid in his boots, he imagined, and the smell of hot tarmac from the road mingled queasily in his nose and throat with the plastic scent of
the water from the bottle. He twisted the top back on and re-packed it.
Turning away from the road, he leaned to look over the parapet into the river. He knew the bigger trout would be aligned just under the arch, out of sight, behind the shadow-line, but he could
see the occasional glint upstream of the younger, smaller fish as they turned to take food under the rippled surface, then as they turned again to find their lies in the open river, out in the full
glare of the sun. He wished he’d had the sense to stay near the bridge to fish, pitching the tent after dark maybe, instead of walking so far upriver to the quieter stretches. He would have
had plenty of chances under the bridge, even in this weather.
There was still another half-hour or so of walking before reaching the town, he guessed. He hoisted the rucksack up onto the lip of the parapet, tilting its weight from there onto his shoulders,
then hooking his arms through its straps and moving forward to take the strain. The fishing rod and creel he carried first in one hand, then the other, using the tip of the cotton rod-bag to flick
the sweat and flies away from his eyes and lips.
As he walked through the main street the little town seemed deserted. For a while he didn’t even see any traffic, then a loud, battered dirt-bike raced past him from
behind, turned at the head of the street and passed him again. The skinny, T-shirted boy riding it stared full into his face as he sped past.
At the empty bus-stop he set down his fishing gear and slid the pack from his shoulders. The long street, sweeping in a gentle curve down and away from him, seemed to channel a faint breeze and
he turned his back to it, letting it cool the aching wetness along his spine. At last a few cars sped past, and a small white camper slowed and parked outside the post office some fifty yards down
the street. A cafe was open just a few doors along from the bus-stop and leaving his gear he walked stiffly down to it.
The cafe was surprisingly cool inside. A girl in a
Similar Books
