20070124

The rays of sunlight filtered down through the canopy of the woods, incandescing motes of dust, making them gleam with golden fire like filaments in a lightbulb. It was dark and cool and humid down by the roots, and Timothy walked slowly along the path that led down from the back of his garden to the stream at the bottom of the hill. He swished his fishing rod at the undergrowth, imagining that he was slaying dragons, and then froze when he saw the little old man.
The little man was seated on a particularly large root, perched up on the wrinkled knee of wood, and puffing away contentedly on a long silver pipe. He was, Timothy gauged, perhaps little over one foot tall, had a wonderfully flowing white beard and was dressed in rich, subtle greens and alarming reds.
"Hello," said Timothy. The little man cracked open an eye with a vivid emerald iris in it, and examined Timothy.
"Hello," replied the little man.
"You're very small," said Timothy, and then covered his mouth with his hand.
"Aye," said the little man, nodding in agreement. He closed his eye and returned to puffing his pipe.
Timothy ground the toe of his shoe into the path. It would be polite to keep walking at this point, to mind his own business and not force conversation. He shifted his fishing rod to his other hand, and then frowned, trying to decide what to say. He couldn't come up with anything witty or clever or interesting.
"I mean, you're really really small," said Timothy, deciding to press his point.
The little man cracked open his eye again and looked at Timothy with mild disaproval. Deciding that Timothy's comment was not worth responding to, he took a puff of his pipe, blew out his cheeks, and then exhaled a white stream into the air. The smoke curled about him, grew thick and opaque, and when the wind dispelled it a moment later, the little old man was gone.
Timothy's frown deepened. He quickly looked in all directions, but saw only the old wood spreading in all directions, moss green and dark and still. Perhaps he had been rude? Sighing, trying to figure out whom he could tell amongst his friends that would believe him, Timothy hiked up his rod and continued walking down to the stream.
The woods stopped just at the slippery bank of the narrow little stream, allowing the bright sunlight to cover the water with a dancing sheen of leaping diamond glints. The brook babbled excitedly as it rushed along, undercutting the bank in certain places and splashing itself to pieces on certain large, dark rocks that emerged above its surface. It was quite shallow - Timothy had waded across it and gotten wet only to his knees - but there were some deep parts where it curved to the left or right, and in one such well he had seen an incredibly large trout.
Walking along the bank, shielding his eyes with the blade of his hand, Timothy peered into the water. For the most part it was impossible to look through the crinkling brilliance of the quickly flowing surface, but where the brook curved the depths grew pellucid and clear, the water's surface still and serene. Looking down, Timothy guessed that the stream's bed might be a full meter below, or even more. Humming happily to himself, pole swinging on his shoulder, he walked along the bank, searching for his trout.
He didn't really believe he'd find it again. When he'd told his dad and mum about his plan, they'd indulgently agreed that they would cook up his catch and assured him that they believed in his fishing prowess. Timothy knew that they were just being nice, but that was fine because he didn't expect to catch anything anyway. It was just nice to be out in the warm sunshine, smelling the sharp mineral smell of the stream and the deep, leafy mold smell of the woods. He would probably sit down in the shade soon enough, eat his sandwich and pull out the latest Superman comic he'd bought that morning.
There it was. Timothy stopped stock still. The stream curved away from him quite sharply, and in its elbow the stream's bed dropped away into the darkness. The water's surface was still, completely untouched by the hustle and bustle that churned the surface a mere meter or so away. And hovering in the depths, gleaming a brilliant silvery white, was a trout as long as his arm.
Timothy gaped down at it. The water was so clear the trout seemed to be hovering in the air. Tendrils of river weed rose from the depths like ruined greek columns, burnt into amber by the sun, and Timothy realized that he was holding his breath lest he alert the trout and cause it to dart down and away. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought the rod off his shoulder, and without pausing, without thinking, cast his hook into the water and watched it sink down towards the fish.
It was only when the hook was a mere foot from the trout that he realized he had completely failed to bait it. His stomach clenched, he groaned aloud, but rather than real the hook in he decided to play it out and see what happened. He'd probably ruined the whole thing. The little hook danced and fluttered down into the water, and then paused before the trout. Timothy watched nervously. Would he go for it?
With a casual lunge, the trout eased forwards and inhaled the hook. Timothy let out a shout, and began to haul the rod up and back, pulling the trout towards the surface even as he frantically reeled the line in. The spine of the rod began to bend, forming a perfect parabola towards the water's surface. God it's heavy, thought Timothy, pulling and stepping back up the bank. Slowly he forced the reel round and round, and then with a splashing flop, the trout leapt out of the water and onto the bank itself.
It gleamed in the sunlight, a brilliant metallic white, easily as long as his arm and as thick as his leg, glittering and seemingly made of silver and ivory. It didn't dance and flop like most fish would, but instead lay still, gills flaring and revealing the delicate pink flesh beneath. Cautiously, Timothy approached the massive fish, unsure as to whether he should bash it in the head like his father did.
It was a beautiful fish. Looking down at it, Timothy was struck by the bright green color of its eyes. They seemed like little chips of emerald pressed into its skull, glowing brightly as they reflected the sunlight. They swivelled and latched onto Timothy, and then the trout spoke.
"Return me to the water, young master, and I shall grant you a wish."
Timothy gaped, rubbed his hand over his face, and then stared down at the fish again. It gazed serenely back up at him.
"You're a fish," said Timothy, unable to believe that he was speaking to it.
"Aye," said the trout, with a trace of annoyance in its otherwise august voice.
Timothy didn't know what to say. The trout was talking to him. Was he dreaming? Nobody would believe him now. He couldn't tell anybody about this at all. If he told his parents he'd been talking to a fish, they'd either laugh or send him to bed.
"I mean, you're really a fish," said Timothy, almost stammering, "A talking fish."
The fish's gaze grew cold. Then it flopped on the back, jackknifing as if trying to find a more comfortable spot to lie on. It spasmed again, and suddenly the trout was gone and the little old man was lying before Timothy on the bank, sopping wet and carefully removing the hook from his mouth.
"By crook and hook you are a damned stupid boy," said the little man crossly. "I've not the patience to treat with you, no matter that you cast an iron hook without bait in the middle of Samhain Day. I'll not follow the rules if it means dealing with a clod like you!"
"You're the little old man!" Exclaimed Timothy in surprise, and then said nothing but gaped as the little man stamped his foot furiously and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
There was complete silence in the woods. Timothy slowly rubbed his face again, and then peered into the water. He looked back into the woods, and scanned the length of the bank. There was nobody there. Scratching his head, he walked over to a patch of grass by the base of a large tree, and sat down. A little old man and a talking silver trout. How strange! Nobody would believe him though. He didn't quite believe it himself. Shrugging, he drew forth his sandwich and his comic book, and lay back into the worn bark of the tree to enjoy the golden sunshine.