Prologue

June 2003

 

T

he first rays of morning sun filter through fresh summer leaves, dappling the banks of a secluded lake in patterns of light and shade. Mist rises from glass-smooth water with the smoulder and glow of pale fire. Reeds sparkle with dew, willow branches drip and reflections distort. All is quiet. Only birdsong breaks the silence. Nothing moves but ripples of liquid and light. 

 A lone figure enters the hushed scene. A shadow in the mist then briefly, a silhouette against the diffused sunrise. In that moment, the shape is clear and defined. Human, male, and unmistakeably a fisherman. Rod and net betray his purpose, fused to his backlit profile. A wide-brimmed hat, frayed and misshapen, completes the picture. 

The angler creeps silently to the water’s edge, cautious and watchful, fox-footed. His movements are slow, heron-like, his senses sharp and receptive. A blackbird calls from the woods and he pauses to listen before a jarring, more urgent sound snaps his attention back to the water and his eyes swivel in their sockets like a lizard’s. Along a tree-lined margin, by an old decaying boathouse, lily-pads rock and sway as bubbles break the surface. A big carp is on the feed.           

The man - white-haired, bespectacled, an old man but fit and wiry - kneels behind the reeds, rolls up his shirtsleeves and prepares. He adjusts his float, checks the swan-shot five feet below and tests his knots. He adds weight to the braided hook-link with a pinch of tungsten putty, then with a jeweller’s file, hones the hook to a needle-sharp point. From his bait tub he selects the liveliest lobworm and impales it on the barbed size six.

He casts. An underarm flick, 20 yards, maybe more. So familiar to his touch, the split-cane rod and vintage fixed-spool reel respond as if with instinct. The delivery is precise, discreet and seemingly effortless. The bait lands delicately and the float settles, poised, inches from the pads. Within minutes he deceives and hooks a fish. A big fish, which makes a powerful dash for safety. The rod bends and creaks like a willow in a gale...