The Legacy

[Traditionalist]

Once upon a time, in a magical land now long ago and far away, indeed, almost lost in the wavering shimmering mists of time, a small boy sat on a summer afternoon, at the side of a small stream below a weir, with his father, watching entranced, as glinting silver fish were landed with a magical wand, and sundry other esoteric and fascinating implements, and were carefully transported to several large jam-jars for his closer inspection, wonderment, and delectation. The Sunday afternoon seemed like an eternity, and more or less fulfilled the boys vision of paradise.

What could possibly be better than this? He had been to this spot several times already with his father, and each trip had been a revelation, and a source of endless interest, excitement, and delight. His father telling him which birds were which, and how one could tell by their song, and the way they flew, how to tell which trees where which by looking at the leaves, and all sorts of interesting and fascinating things.

At last the afternoon drew slowly to a close, and the boy lifted one of the heavy jars, preparatory to removing these fascinating and colourful creatures to his place of dwelling for further study and enjoyment. "Well", said his father, "You can take them if you like, but they will only die, there is not enough space in the jar for them, and they need more oxygen than the water in the jar can supply them with."

The boy was very disappointed at this information, but knowing that his father was always right in these matters he carefully took the jar to a shallow place a little further down the bank-side, and released the fish slowly from the jar, watching entranced as they flashed away into the faster current above. His father released the contents of the other jars and the two slowly packed up their equipment, placing it all carefully in the ingenious special boxes and containers designed specifically for the purpose, and stowed them in the large seat box.

Some of the drawers in the large seat box had not yet been opened in the boys presence, and he was all agog to know the secrets of their contents. "Next time we will try for some perch "said his father, "are they as big as those we caught today " asked the boy, "Oh they are often much bigger" was the hardly credible reply. "But some of the fish today were four inches or more" the boy exclaimed, not wishing to be disrespectful to his father, but hardly able to believe that even larger and more interesting denizens could be charmed from the tantalizingly close but nevertheless unreachable depths of the stream, "I have caught a couple of three inchers with my net, but those were the biggest". "You will see" said his father.

"When will we go again then father ? how many will we catch? How much bigger are they, what colour are they, are they silver as well?", the boys imagination was so fired by the prospect of even greater pleasures that his stream of questions became almost unintelligible with pent up excitement and joy. "Next Sunday, we will try to catch a couple, and then you will see for yourself" his father told him smiling, "in the meantime I will give you a book to read which describes all the fish and animals in the stream, how they live, what they look like, and how to catch them". "Next week on your birthday I have another surprise for you as well".

The week crept slowly by, seeming like a lifetime of torture to the small boy, the book full of unimaginable, incredible, and hardly understood secrets, was devoured several times over, and not being new in the first place, became rather tattered by the end of the week. His father worked away, and so he was unable to ask any of the thousand questions burning in his mind. His mother simply replied "ask your father, when he comes home", and this was no help at all.

Then at last on the Saturday his birthday finally arrived. He had gone to bed unable to sleep for excitement and anticipation of the coming day, determined not to fall asleep in case of missing something. The chapter on Perch had been read and re-read a dozen times and then he had somehow unaccountably fallen asleep.

He awoke to find his parents at the foot of the bed and across the bed was a long thin package wrapped in red cloth. He was immediately wide awake and looked for quite a while almost in awe at the package knowing full well that it must contain the object of all his dreams, a wand as magical as his fathers. He slowly unwrapped the package revealing the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his whole life, a lovely yellow rod of cane with brown blotches and red and black whippings, silver rings, and a special fitting to attach a reel.

He was speechless with happiness, and was hardly able to tear himself away from the rod to even get dressed. The next couple of hours passed in a sort of haze, as even more objects of wonder and delight unfolded to him, a reel with cotton line from his mother, a set of floats from his elder brother, several small packets with split shot, and float rubbers and a host of other things, and then to crown it all a seat box with drawers and boxes just like his fathers.

He could hardly believe it, his parents were quite poor, and he knew such things must cost a veritable fortune, how was it possible that they had obtained such treasures? He thanked them as best he could, and spent the rest of the day sorting his treasure into the drawers and boxes of the seatbox, rearranging and replacing every single item, caressing and savouring each one before placing it so that it was just so in its rightful place. He knew the contents of his box off by heart, the exact position and description of every single piece of tackle, and even what most of it was for.

For some unknown reason,  the boys father did not take him fishing on the Sunday, and although disappointed, the boy was not too upset as he had his treasures now, and there would be other Sundays. He knew his father sometimes had to do things which grown-ups do on Sundays, and was content to wait, although a week seemed like forever to him then.

It would be nice if the story had a happy end, but for reasons which have nothing at all to do with the story, and which at the time were quite incomprehensible to the boy anyway, he never saw his father again, until almost twenty years later, as his father lay on his deathbed, and the boy, now a grown man, was called to his side. He was instantly recognisable, although old and worn and very ill.

It was difficult to say anything at all, and the boy stood in silence for several minutes before the man in the bed asked him "Do you still enjoy your fishing?" The ban was broken, and it seemed as if the sunlight and joy and birdsong of that far off summer afternoon had entered the dark and gloomy room. The old man?s eyes lit up, and the two spent a long time talking of fishing and other things, until the nurse came to shoo the visitor away.

The boy visited his father every day for a week, and plans were made for a fishing trip as soon as he was well enough. This trip too unfortunately never materialised, the old man died on the following Friday night, passing away peacefully in his sleep. Some of the boy?s relatives came to the funeral, and afterwards at the funeral lunch, bemoaned the fact that the old man had left the boy nothing. The boy kept his silence, and many thought it odd that he just smiled.

"If they only knew" he thought, fingering the old and tattered book in his suit pocket, seeing again the sunlight dappling the water, and the bright minnows flashing in the current...........................

TL
MC