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Two Stories by Rod Marsden
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DOWN TO THE SEA
I was fishing along the shore of the mighty Clarence when Tom went floating by. He was making a successful entry into the bay and that was fine with me. It was his due and his eternity. I suppose I should have felt a lot sadder but I envied him too much. He was a man easily envied though I didn't know him too well. In fact, apart from hearsay, I didn't know him at all.
The name's Sam Watts but just call me Sam. I'm in my late forties and I've been going up north to Iluka, a pretty little fishing village, ever since I could hold a line in my hand. My parents fell in love with the place and so retired there. My youngest sister, Kim, lives at Maclean, a town also on the Clarence and not more than twenty miles away.
All my family is mad keen about fishing. We're a diverse lot but the sport we collectively love brings us together. Dad once brought in a dewy bigger than himself. Mom has caught flathead off Iluka beach which made the local papers. As for myself, I've hooked some nice bream but I've still to catch the big one that will enter me into the family hall of fame. But please don't get me wrong. I've been at it long enough to have many buckets full of wonderful fishing memories.
Late at night during a full moon, when I was fishing along the river, there was a rustling in a nearby tree. I turned toward the sound and found myself face to face with a young owl which had alighted on a branch not more than two feet away. I slowly turned back and got on with my fishing and so did the owl. I glanced back expecting to see an empty branch but there he was looking out at the water. And so we fished together for hours, me and this bird who somehow knew I meant it no harm. For a few hours we were mates and I for one, despite the eeriness of it, appreciated the company.
Another time, which occurred about ten in the morning some Saturday, had me bringing in off Shark Bay beach the oddest looking fish I'd ever latched eyes on. Everything about it screamed primitive. Its head was a solid block of bone about the size of a brick and its fins were rather underdeveloped. There was muscle in its tail but not enough to make it anything but a bottom feeder and a slow one at that. Its eyes were on top of its head rather than to the sides which was really weird. It weighed in at three and a half pounds. I looked it up in a book on fish species and found it to be a stargazer. I couldn't help thinking at the time what an absurdly romantic name for such a basic, no frills sea dweller.
Then there was the time I was afternoon fishing off the rocks on a lovely sun-drenched Sunday with my girlfriend. We were bringing in Long Tom after Long Tom. They'd put up some fight even springing out of the water like demented flying sea dragons. Time goes fast on such occasions and the setting sun was not a welcome sight. Naturally they weren't there the next time I visited the spot. Where they went only time and tide would know.
This reference to time and tide neatly brings me back to Tom. It was late in the afternoon and I was baiting my hook along the bank of the Clarence when a woman in her 50s came up to me. She was dressed like she was off to church but it was the middle of the week. She looked sad and contemplative. She was cautious in approaching me as if she were under a spell she didn't want broken.
"Have you seen some flowers drift by?" she asked me in a soft velvety voice.
"No," I replied. "Why?"
"They're my Tom, you see."
"Tom?"
"My husband. He died a week ago. I had him cremated. Up river I had his ashes scattered into the water. A friend of mine kindly threw in some flowers at the same time so that we could follow his progress down stream to the sea."
"Why?"
"He was a fisherman. The river and the sea were his life. It was a wonderful life he shared with me. We were so happy. This was in his will. He wanted to make his final farewell to the places he loved and the people as well."
"The people?"
"There are mourners all along the river hoping to catch sight of my Tom's flowers and to wish him well on his journey."
There was a lump in my throat and for a while neither of us spoke.
"Do you mind if I wait for him?" she finally said.
"No. Not at all," I said. I think the sight of me casting out and reeling in gave her comfort in that the life style she'd enjoyed with her Tom was continuing. Before long we did sight the flowers. They weren't much to see but her eyes lit up and a tear trailed down her cheek. Then she smiled a radiant smile. "Goodbye, love," she said.
Just being there with her had me remembering a lot of my own good times with bait and hook. Tom had been luckier than I. For a start there was this woman who cared deeply for him. To this day I don't know if what she and her friends had done with his ashes was legal or not and I don't care. Its enough that it was done and a more beautiful send off I can't imagine. Let the sea, always, take care of its own. Down to the sea, I say, down to the sea.
THE END
Two men sitting on a park bench, Ken and Ian. Both are ratty looking with long scraggly hair and grimy clothes.
Ken: "I tell ya, mate. With inflation and devaluation of the dollar the rats are gonna take over."
Ian: "No!"
Ken: "They really are gonna take over! They've been planning it for decades. Decades, I tell ya! Look! First there was rock-an'-roll - the devil's music. Then it got heavy! It began to bruise the minds of its listeners."
Ian: "Yeah?"
Ken: "Ever heard of a group called Deep Purple? What do you think the Rolling Stones' 'Black and Blue over You' was all about? I tell you it was diabolical."
Ian: "Diabolical you say?"
Ken: "Then came Punk, in protest. But it didn't work! Then came New Wave, also in protest, but that didn't work, either. I guess Madonna was just too much. You see, she used the ultimate weapon. Something we had no way of shielding ourselves against."
Ian: "What was it?"
Ken: "Sex. Oh, the fiend! And she played the appealing innocent so well until she whipped off her disguise to wildly applauding fans. And now...?"
Ian: "Now what?"
Ken: "No one's protesting anymore, Mate. Its too late for that. Back in the '60s they - the evil ones - used to pick guitar with their fingers. Now they pick with other people's digits and... their teeth!"
A hoard of rats swarm into the park.
Ian: "You irritate me with your hysteria."
Ken cries out in surprise mixed with anguish as he is attacked by thousands of rats who are, for the moment, not at all interested in Ian.
Ian: "And stop screaming at me. If you've got something to say, say it."
The rats, all of them, wander away leaving Ken a skeleton sitting next to Ian.
Ian: "And, Ken, you can take that silly grin off your face."
Rod Marsden, Australian: In possession of three degrees. He is a member of world fiction writers and a contributor to Night to Dawn.
Rod has a book, Undead Reb Down Under Tales out now. His novel, Disco Evil: Dead Man's Stand will soon be out and available through Barbara Custer at bloodredshadows.com
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