"O.K." he said, "we'll go". So we went. He sat in the tree, knowing I would have to begrudgingly accept his better instincts. "There" he said, "cast there". I did as I was bid. "It'll be a chub, about four and a half pounds" he said, almost with disinterest. And I knew he'd be right. He always was. I wish he wouldn't tell me, I like surprises.

Perhaps I should go alone. But this was impossible - sooner leave your shadow than your soul. A chub of four pounds nine ounces was landed. "Well done - now there" he said, indicating with his pointed finger. Well done? Nothing good about it, I didn't even have to think it out. I wish he'd go away for a while, let me try by myself. I'm not even sure I enjoy going with him, he never fishes. But he always makes me go. Perhaps I should ignore him. I try, but as usual, don't succeed. "Three pounds six ounces" he chuckles. The Avons stop at exactly that weight. He grins smugly. I remember Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat. I get my own back for a while, turning him into a cat, but in my version, not even the grin remains! He brings me to my senses with a sharp command. "Over there, quick, roach - nearly two pounds!" I cast, sulkily. The fish is on. I play it, absent mindedly. Spitefully I try to lose it, but it won't come off. Roach, one pound fourteen ounces. More grins from the tree. I throw some groundbait at him but it misses, and falls into the water where it is immediately seized by a large chub. He doesn't say a word - he doesn't have to. Automatically I cast. Another chub - four pounds eleven ounces. A nearby angler comes up to see the fish, wanting to take a photo of me holding it. He wonders why I won't smile - wonders why I don't seem happy; goes off mumbling about successful specimen hunters being a miserable lot. Up in the tree "he" slips back into view. "Oh to hell with you" I say, and fling the rod down. His face darkens, his eyes hold mine. My head spins and I begin to lose my balance. Helplessly, and irresistibly I am drawn into the fast flowing river. Though I am a good swimmer, for some reason I don't even try. I just want to relax in a watery armchair, tumble and turn with the currents that wash over the backs of barbel and chub. Above me a circle of light, a face in the trees. Below a confusion of silver and green. I wait for my past life to appear before me, but it doesn't. A vague thought that I can't be drowning flashes through my mind. I can't drown without seeing my past life - everyone knows that. Then, suddenly, he is in the water with me, mocking me, pushing me. I lose sight of the sky, everything is green save his dark face, my own face in a mirror of water. The day is going, the light fading. Then it is gone, it is my night.
Still now, I am awoken by an intense cold. The stars are bright above me, flickering focal points in an endless sky. I stagger to my feet in a strange place. I don't recognize the surrounding landscape, lying in it's vague haze of moonlight. But I know the river. Then I stop short. There is only one voice in my head - no conflict, no commands. Turning to the river I gaze at the rippling currents, capped silver by lover's moonlight. Then slowly I realize. The water is a mystery to me. I don't "know"! I hurry downstream, half running, half stumbling, over the frozen tussocks. Soon I reach a small town, by the sea. A strange town, but a town full of people. I try to talk to some of them, ask them where I am. But they ignore me. Not surprising I suppose, a mud spattered madman from the night. But it doesn't matter, nothing matters except that he is gone. He is gone and I am myself again.
The people here don't even seem to see me. I can stay here and fish for whatever I want, be happy, put some of the lost magic back. Fish dark pools, not knowing what may seize my bait; tumbling rapids where every tug is at the heart. But I won't fish all the time. I'll take things slowly, look around me, relax, take in life. Free of him I can do these things. If I don't he may find me again, and what then?

Alan Tomkins

June 1986

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