Tench

There is a water glint, just shining through the copse beyond. Autumn's sinking sun, barred by spindle trees and the last of summer's brindled reeds and sedge and rush that fringe this stilling pond. . Damp leaves hide a pathway to the lilies where green silky weeds sink lower, and morning and now evening air mists from the water's chill, to soften stalk and frond until the warming day breaks through the morning still. This pond had no name to me, its murky depths unknown, one cooling autumn afternoon when a schoolboy friend and I came seeing where the fish might lie. A rod, a reel, a homemade float, worms dug and mossed from compost heap, bread crusts snuck from the kitchen pantry, just three hooks in the tackle box this year carefully corked amongst the gear. There were no fishing swims, no boarded, numbered platforms on which to place a folding chair, or a landing net and rest, though enough for lads, if not the best. Most likely we should not be there, in this secret place, with scarce a spot on which to stand beside the waters edge. This was a boy's adventure, to cast our lot with wits and skill, to catch, to thrill, or not. A porcupine, that was the quill used for a float, with fuse wire ring to the base and a punctured piece of rubber band to grip. One shot, and one shot to try to cast to the promise of a spot. It stood too proud above the water and swivelled while I watched, and watched the slightest tease, while rat bumped a clump of bankside reeds and sipping birds came close beside to drink their evening water, stilled at the dying of all breeze, as eyes tricked in failing light, skimmers zipped, a dragon fly topped the quill, and skaters skipped and braked to still, meniscus tipped to slender legs along their zig zag tacks. Was that a fish? Did something move the quill to a wobble and a ripple, to a slide a little to the left as every muscle tightened to the rod now gently lain to rest? Then under. So fast a disappearance in evening's fading light, though young mind to hand's reaction found line to rod pull tight and scythe the glassy water as all gentle life took fright. Fish! An urgent call to the other, down the nearside bank, while holding bending rod to steer his catch and clear the snags as one foot sank in mud and reel drags latch-hold from the cork-bound shank of split cane, and now all that waiting, all silent anticipating, might all be found in vain. But fish holds, as the line restores to tight, and to and fro the darting fight is on. Cane shudders in its bend, and snag and tail all play the tune of pull and thrust and lunging might until at last the struggles wain now heading to their end, head up, line gained, head lifting to the surface though paddle tail still turns, still churns up muddy water flumes, and quill ascends, and sinks, now here, now there, as fish strength starts to disappear. Drawn flapping to the muddy bank, a tench, hoiked safely on to land. Green skin, lined pectoral to the shank, a bead red eye, and paddle tail, to stroke and wonder with a snot-slimed hand, a while to ponder this first of bigger fish, by far, not lifted up to scanning eyes with others in a jar. Two, three pounds, no experience to tell, but slipped back to the stilling pond, and with darkness drawing near, a run to mothers' suppers, and excited tales to hear.