The Usk runs between curving banks, and broadens here and there into dusky pools with gay, one-storeyed homesteads set at intervals along it; their thatched roofs a joy to the eye.
Pointer thought of the reams of paper covered by rhapsodies about the beauties of other lands, beauties far below those of this little corner of Britain.
The town of Usk is a charming nook in summer, but it looked rather forlorn on a wet November day. Fishermen by trade, or inclination, seemed to be its only male inhabitants.
Pointer went first to the police station. No one of the name of Headly was remembered there. No photograph of the Riverview circle awoke any recollection in Inspector or constable. Remained Father William.
The day was fine, yet not too fine. A perfect angler's day. Pointer followed his Ollie down to the hurrying river, where he speedily put his rod together. It had not been used for over a year now. He tested it, limbering his wrists, and snapping them to get the right flip, the little flip which would send the fly dancing up again when almost on the water, to alight as though by its own volition.
He took out his book of flies. The gillie pointed to one, and mumbled something about its being from Father William, oh, yes.
Pointer knotted on one of the local celebrity's masterpieces and set to work. It was over an hour later when he got his chance. There came a surging plunge, a tug, the line flew screaming off the reel. Pointer was fast in a salmon. Whir-r-r went the line as the fish tore in a mad rush down the stream. Then up he came. A mighty form that rose with a swirl. One of those strange, mysterious creatures who live in an element, a world of their own, where men die, and who die where men live. He shot clear of the water in a great leap. More beautiful than anything that breathes in the open air. Beautiful as a fairy's dream. His whole splendid length one curve of glistening silver with mauve shadows, a twirling, splashing, like a living water-wheel. Almost translucent he looked, showing purple and azure, and green, and always that molten, living silver.
Again and again he leaped, sending the water high into the air. Each time Pointer dropped the tip of his rod, and so saved the cast. This salmon knew the game. There was a last year's spawning ring marked on those bright flanks. He struck a smashing blow with his tail to free himself. Another scream from the reel, and off he flew. Pointer had to race to keep below him as he made down-stream with what seemed the speed of an express train. From slippery rock to mossy stone Pointer jumped, and scrambled.
Then the salmon took a breather. He burrowed, trying to free his lip from the barb. He sulked. He circled heavily round and round this new pool with a vigour that told the rage in his heart.
Again came the flash of silver lightning, swirling, diving, leaping, shaking, in a frantic effort to get free, then came another rush that bent the rod like a bow, that cut a feather of spray as the line ripped through the water.
Skilfully Pointer parried each stroke, his finger on the snapping reel to check the play. At every turn, and tumble, and toss, Pointer's rod held him, played him, wound him in or reeled him out. Then came a rest, Pointer wiped the sweat from his eyes. The fish was not sulking now. The line was too taut for that. Like a cross thoroughbred in a dull stable, he was thinking out some fresh devilment for the next round. It came suddenly. The salmon rose like a whirlwind. The water seemed lifeless compared to the beautiful lights and shadows of him. Living light, and living shadow.
With a break that was like a punch he was off. This time there was even more method. He was trying to catch the gut between two sharp stones. He gave another wonderful exhibition of a silver Catherine's wheel on the churned and broken surface of the water. The very sun came out to watch, and turned him to gold. The rod quivered under the strain. Pointer stood, or ran, or leaped, calm-eyed, watchful, alert, trying to think with the fish below. Then came the last round. Pointer was keeping him in rough water to tire him out. The fish realised this, and came upstream at such a rate that he all but shot past. The rod was bent down, and down, and down still more in a mighty pull. But the strain told on the salmon. Shorter and shorter grew his rushes. Less and less wonderful his leaps and whirls. At last he rose on his side. Spent. Done.
Pointer towed him to the side. The gillie drove the gaff home, and lifted him ashore.
"Well done, sir!" came a voice—not unexpected by Pointer. He had played for it more than for the fish. "A fine, fresh run, twenty-pounder."
Pointer looked at the fish on the bank. The sight was not pretty. Sunken and glassy those bright eyes, open that close-clipped jaw. Gone was the wonderful iridescence of the scales. The wild and savage creature, an Apollo's bow of energy, was straight and still now. He was, to what he had been, as a two-days' cut flower it to its growing sister.
Pointer was no sportsman in the sense of slayer. He had to hunt men. He did so with the certainty that he was doing the best work possible for the world, and even, in reality, for them. But to lift this beautiful thing out of its element, to kill it, gave him no pleasure. He had landed what he was after, however, and that was Father William's attention.
"Twenty pounds, you think? He looked the size of a motor-bus to me awhile back, and pulled like one."
"You've made a wonderful beginning," the man on the bank went on approvingly, "and if that ain't one of my flies—I'm William Morgan, Father William, they call me—why, I'm prepared to eat it."
Pointer assured him that there was no necessity for such an extreme measure. He added that he would not dream of beginning his first fishing in Wales with any other cast. Father William, plump as a ball of butter, smiled, well-pleased.
"It was a fine fight. Newcomer to these waters, you say, sir? But done a good bit of salmon fishing, I can see." Pointer mentioned his name, only his name.
"A woman taught me to cast my first fly. Came from near here, I believe."
"Came from around here? What name, might I ask, sir! I know all the rods O Gaergybi i Gaerdydd, as we say. These years and old years back. Sixty years back."
"She was a Miss Headly when I knew her. I believe she married afterwards. I don't know what the name of her husband was."
"Miss Headly? Not a name I've ever heard. No." Father William shook his head.
"But she used to buy her flies off you, when she could afford it. Big, tall, handsome woman. Carried herself well. Used to fish hereabouts fifteen years ago, or a little less. Left-handed."
"Left-handed! Oh, you mean, Mrs. Hart! Only left-handed person I've ever known. She was a wonder, she was. And tall, and handsome, as you say. Dark, too. Dark as one of us. Yes, Mrs. Hart is who you mean, sir."
"Very likely. I knew her before her marriage. Does she still live here?"
"Drowned, sir. Drowned with her husband off Newport. Caught in a tempest. Boat upset. Neither of them ever heard of again. Silent sort of lady, but her rod could talk. Being left-handed was no bar to her. Let me see, she must have been drowned going for ten years ago. Or more still. More like thirteen it would be. Yes, the years go past like the water in the river, and mean no more. They always were, they always are. Well, I've had plenty for my share. Seems one of the few things you can have your fill of, without doing other people out of their share. Years, I mean. Yes." And Father William led his companion to the Angler's Rest, for the day was over. Here the fish was weighed, and the tale of his killing told to the little knot of the fraternity sitting around the fire, their clothes steaming like the mist in the valley when the sun shines, their long glasses steaming too.
It was a wonderful old kitchen. Six feet up, around this mighty hearth with its ingle-nook seats, and well away from the blazing logs, ran a large brass half-hoop on which a red curtain hung. The curtain in many divisions was only pulled shut when all the "club" had assembled. Then it was not only pulled close,