The Water Nymphs

River Flow

“Bit frisky down ‘ere, ain’t it?” the larger comments. He looks a pompous man of about forty years, with  the protruding, tell-tale belly of someone who indulges in beer far too often, and a mere blonde tuft of hair atop his head.

His companion is quiet, spindly fingers tightening around his fishing pole. He, too, seems to notice that the flow of the river is particularly rapid today as they sit in their usual spot on the grassy bank.

“You got sumfink!” the large man cries, clamping his hand down on the other man’s shoulders, startling him. Regaining himself, he begins to reel his catch in, but it doesn’t take long for him to realise that his tries have no effect.

“It’s not budging, Harry!” Frantic now, he clutches the rod in both hands, forcing it back. Exasperated sounds slip from him; this is so abnormal.

“Ben, gimme it,” Harry barks. Ben can’t afford to look at the man who addressed him, but that does not matter. Harry grabs Ben’s face, holding it inches away from his own. “Gimme the rod,” he spits.

Once the straining rod is in Harry’s possession, his face pales. “Nothin’ in that river of ours could be that strong!” he exclaims whilst battling with the bucking creature; all the while the water rages, frothing angrily.

“Maybe,” Ben starts, a thoughtful expression crossing his young face. “Maybe it’s not…..” Thinking more sensibly, he decides not to continue, and returns his gaze to his frustrated uncle.

“Maybe what, boy?” Harry demands, irritated.

“Maybe it’s not a fish!” Immediately he regrets having spoken out of turn, and glances up at Harry sheepishly.

“What you talkin’ about? ‘Course it’s a fish!” But even as he says this, the wheel of the pole is spinning out of control. “I think we’d better get out of here, lad,” he says slowly, peering into the river. His breathing is laboured as he spots something and begins to rise.

It’s getting dark. The moon is hidden by the trees surrounding them, but every now and again gaps appear between branches, and that is what lights the river up. That is what illuminates a face, unmoving in the water, though the current is frenzied, and that is what Harry sees.

“We can’t go, can’t leave the fish!” Ben argues.

“Boy,” Harry says carefully, “ain’t you noticed the current?”

He has. Ben sees that the rapid current is no more.

“Ain’t you noticed that it’s gone all quiet?”

He has.

“I’m going now,” Harry says, dropping the rod that Ben also notices is straining no longer, “and I ain’t waiting for you to follow me.”

His uncle begins his trudge along the bank, going carefully so not to alert whatever it was in the river that he had seen it. “That ain’t no fish,” he mutters under his breath.

Thinking the boy had followed him, he doesn’t falter until he hears a scream – swallowed by the water.