River Time

Fisher heaved a sigh at the river. It was a gentle day and the water, ever the loquacious presence, babbled pleasantly: Blub glub blub. No doubt it shared some great secret or an extraordinary story, but Fisher did not speak River so he listened in ignorance.

It had been long since the last catch and his line now quivered with impatience. The time had not yet come to pack up, though. Fisher always waited until the very last of the light, no matter how frustrating the day was. When the water began smouldering and night draped itself over the valley, only then would he begin to spool his line and pack away his lunchbox and catch.

He would heave his kit up the hill and bring it into the cottage where Annabel sat waiting. This was his favourite part of the day; the catch would be emptied on their scarred wooden table and they would sort through it together. Anything beautiful he would put aside for her beforehand and surprise her with after, all else found its way into their home and their life.

There were many things in the river and the catch always varied: odd socks, hobbyist equipment, unsent letters, and all manner else. In their home they had a whole mantelpiece constructed of ‘World’s greatest …’ mugs. Everything they found they gave a purpose.

Fisher felt a tug upon the line. He braced himself- expecting a stubborn surfacingbut it came easily, landing with a splat before him. The catch was a soft, sagging toy rabbit. It was a shade of grey that suggested it might initially have been blue, with the nose clinging to its snout by a single tendril of thread. Fisher felt his heart grow heavy looking at the sad creature and, picking up its water-leaden body, he wondered at its’ name. Feeling suddenly water-logged and frayed himself, he decided to stop for lunch.

The rabbit was propped against his cooler as an impromptu guest to the meal and, guessing that the former owner was likely a child, Fisher addressed it as ‘Bunny’. He had always found a child’s world to be wonderfully simple and thus observed that they rarely felt the need to call something by other than what it was.

Bunny was a stoic companion to the sandwiches and tea that Annabel had packed for him that morning.

Fisher used to scold her this effort and tried to circumvent it to no avail. Annabel had a preternatural ability to awaken before him. The remnants of a biological sensitivity long since passed its intended use let her awaken, always, just before him. ‘It’s in her body to care for people,’ Fisher told Bunny, ‘and her soul’.

He had accepted that Annabel’s lunches were non-negotiable and, in conceding his pride on the matter, had ever since had the pleasure of enjoying them. A treasured reprieve.

He explained as much to his guest, who listened soberly as their head lilted to one side by the weight of sodden ears.

After the sandwiches were done and Fisher’s stomach warmed by the tea, he cast his line again into the river. The sky was a gauzy blue and the sun dipped closer to the horizon, a sight abstracted on the face of the water. Always, these two expanses passed portraits of each other between them like love notes. Fisher wondered if they weren’t connected. He imagined his hook sinking below the flashing surface and dropping into the sky. should wear a helmet’

After a while, the pain that had become common in recent years began to bloom along his back. His companion, however, eased the onset of the usual gruff mood. He was reminded, achingly, of a time long ago when a different small presence would toddle round his legs at the riverside. Those had been louder days than these and long since past. There were moments, though, when the babbling of the river sounded almost like a familiar giggle in his ear.

Soon, the water began blushing and he knew it was time to make the journey home. He packed up his catch for the day, turning each piece over and imagining its use. A boot, a left sock, a sourdough starter jar, and then Bunny. Fisher pressed the soft, small body to his chest and imagined a phantom warmth. Flooded by remembrance, he sent the little thing back into the river as carefully as anyone could.

He did this, from time to time, though he knew not what was downstream or on the riverbed. He tried his best to find a new life for all the lost things in the river, but Fisher also harboured a secret belief. Some lost things, if set free, can indeed be found again.