Read Online The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gordon Kent
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thermosand started down. The sense of opennessâfreedom, evenâPiat couldnât think of the origin of the tag, but the words above him, only sky ran around and around his head. TheBible? The Beatles?
It was three-thirty before he arrived on the gravel and setup his rod. He fished the shallow water between the graveland the crannog for fifteen minutes, hooking and releasinga half-dozen minute brown trout. Then he put on the light,stocking-foot waders, a wet task in the rain, and pulled hisboots on over them. No choice there. His boots were in fora pounding.
He worked the seaward end of the gravel, moving slowlyinto the deeper water. The loch itself was quite deep andvery clear, so that when the watery sun made momentaryappearances, he could see the complex rock formations inthe depths. Right at his feet was a hollow cone of rock thirtyfeet across and so deep in the middle that light couldnât penetrateit, some sort of ancient volcanic vent. He cast to theedge of the vent and immediately caught a strong browntrout, perhaps a pound, which he watched rise from thedepths to seize the sea-trout fly. As far as he could see, theloch was short on food for fish and long on fish, but watchingthe predatory glide of the brown to his fly was pure joy.
A younger and braver fisherman could walk out along theventâs top ridge to fish the deeper water. Piat actually consideredit for a moment while he landed the brown trout beforedeciding that the creeping cowardice of age was going to winthis one. He released the brown. Heâd eat in a restaurant forhis last meal on the island, and they wouldnât want to cookhis fish.
The crannog rose like a temptation, only fifteen or twentymeters off shore, the perfect platform from which to fish thevent, and whatever further wonders might lurk in the lochbeyond. Piat climbed out of the water on the shingle andeyed the crannog. The water was too deep to walk outdirectlyâheâd be over the top of his belt at the midpoint,soaked to the skin and cold. But there were stones underthe surface of the water, two sets of stepping stones. Thestones themselves were well down, but he thought he couldmove from one stone to the next without going over hiswaders.
Piat knew he was going to attempt it. He laughed athimself while he drank some tea, because his failure toaccept the lure of the vent ridge meant that he was goingto try and prove himself on something just as ridiculous.Partlow had thought he was crazy for fishing in the rain.Piat raised his cup of tea to Partlow. Then he stowed it, puthis pack under a particularly large clump of grass as thebest shelter from the rain available, and studied the stonesone more time.
The left-hand stones looked more accessible. They startedin deeper water but stuck up higher and seemed to havelarger and flatter tops. Piat waded out to the first stone andstepped up. The surface of the stone was covered in a darkolive slime and his hiking boots slipped badly. He movedcautiously to the next stone. The water came to the middleof his knee. He used his rod as a staff, heedless of the wettingof his reel, and took a long gliding step to the third stone.It was less slippery, and he paused to rest, sweat alreadypouring down his chest under his sweater.
The fourth stone was clearly visible now, a darker andlarger stone that marked the halfway point. Piat knew themoment his boot touched the surface under water that thisstone was slippery, and then he was in the water, his wadersfull and then his mouth. The water was coldâso cold thatit hit him like an electric shockâand the bottom was ooze,not rock, so that his feet were sinking and he had no purchase.
Piat had long experience of his own panic reflex and hebeat it down, kept hold of his rod and kept the other handin contact with the stepping stone until he had control ofhis brain, and then he used the strength of his arms to pullhimself up on the rock, heedless of the temperature of thewater.
It was three-thirty before he arrived on the gravel and setup his rod. He fished the shallow water between the graveland the crannog for fifteen minutes, hooking and releasinga half-dozen minute brown trout. Then he put on the light,stocking-foot waders, a wet task in the rain, and pulled hisboots on over them. No choice there. His boots were in fora pounding.
He worked the seaward end of the gravel, moving slowlyinto the deeper water. The loch itself was quite deep andvery clear, so that when the watery sun made momentaryappearances, he could see the complex rock formations inthe depths. Right at his feet was a hollow cone of rock thirtyfeet across and so deep in the middle that light couldnât penetrateit, some sort of ancient volcanic vent. He cast to theedge of the vent and immediately caught a strong browntrout, perhaps a pound, which he watched rise from thedepths to seize the sea-trout fly. As far as he could see, theloch was short on food for fish and long on fish, but watchingthe predatory glide of the brown to his fly was pure joy.
A younger and braver fisherman could walk out along theventâs top ridge to fish the deeper water. Piat actually consideredit for a moment while he landed the brown trout beforedeciding that the creeping cowardice of age was going to winthis one. He released the brown. Heâd eat in a restaurant forhis last meal on the island, and they wouldnât want to cookhis fish.
The crannog rose like a temptation, only fifteen or twentymeters off shore, the perfect platform from which to fish thevent, and whatever further wonders might lurk in the lochbeyond. Piat climbed out of the water on the shingle andeyed the crannog. The water was too deep to walk outdirectlyâheâd be over the top of his belt at the midpoint,soaked to the skin and cold. But there were stones underthe surface of the water, two sets of stepping stones. Thestones themselves were well down, but he thought he couldmove from one stone to the next without going over hiswaders.
Piat knew he was going to attempt it. He laughed athimself while he drank some tea, because his failure toaccept the lure of the vent ridge meant that he was goingto try and prove himself on something just as ridiculous.Partlow had thought he was crazy for fishing in the rain.Piat raised his cup of tea to Partlow. Then he stowed it, puthis pack under a particularly large clump of grass as thebest shelter from the rain available, and studied the stonesone more time.
The left-hand stones looked more accessible. They startedin deeper water but stuck up higher and seemed to havelarger and flatter tops. Piat waded out to the first stone andstepped up. The surface of the stone was covered in a darkolive slime and his hiking boots slipped badly. He movedcautiously to the next stone. The water came to the middleof his knee. He used his rod as a staff, heedless of the wettingof his reel, and took a long gliding step to the third stone.It was less slippery, and he paused to rest, sweat alreadypouring down his chest under his sweater.
The fourth stone was clearly visible now, a darker andlarger stone that marked the halfway point. Piat knew themoment his boot touched the surface under water that thisstone was slippery, and then he was in the water, his wadersfull and then his mouth. The water was coldâso cold thatit hit him like an electric shockâand the bottom was ooze,not rock, so that his feet were sinking and he had no purchase.
Piat had long experience of his own panic reflex and hebeat it down, kept hold of his rod and kept the other handin contact with the stepping stone until he had control ofhis brain, and then he used the strength of his arms to pullhimself up on the rock, heedless of the temperature of thewater.
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