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“Old Warrior”

(By Andrew Stewart.)

“Old Warrior,” Kendrick had christened him when, over a week before, he had glimpsed the mighty fish deep down in a shady pool close to a bend on the Waiau. “The Hermit” might have been an equally suitable name, for the old fish—and old he must have been— lived alone.

Evening after evening Kendrick had lain there in ambush among the flax, watching the trout feeding, yet not daring to try a cast. Once, he had seen its great head—as wide as a man's hand—as it rose to take the fly. But usually only a swirl indicated its presence; a swirl that showed even above the ripple.

Evening was spreading its long shadows across the valley of the Waiau, when Kendrick halted near the edge of the river, his heart throbbing, a queer dryness in his mouth—that strange sensation that only the angler can understand.

For there was a wind—a breeze that sighed among the flaxes, set the kowhai buds a-nodding, but what was more important—sent ripples of liquid silver scudding across the water.

Somewhere out in the chuckling water—orange and red in the reflected rays of the dying sun—was a fish that might yet be his; a splendid fish, about which a man could dream, long after his arm had become frail and too weak to longer wield a rod.

He lowered the rod—a thing of finest green heart, English-made, and examined leader and lure, then changed at the last moment for a finer gut. From the corner of his eye he saw a sudden disturbance on the water—a strong movement apart from the ordinary ripple.

The old fish was feeding.

His fingers trembled as he knotted the gut. Excitement gripped him—a mixture of elation and despair. The fish would be old, wise, cunning; but the water was perfect, and the wind just right.

Wading into the water, he stripped silk from the reel. He raised the rod, poised a moment. The silk flashed out. Like thistle-down the lure kissed the placid water above, then floated slowly down on the ripple.

The water swirled again, Kendrick's heart leapt to his throat. But the lure floated on, unchecked. He cast again and again, deliberately, carefully, drying the fly in the air, and waiting for the little puffs of wind that whipped the water's surface.

Seemingly disdainful of the man-made lure, the old veteran continued to feed. Kendrick's arm grew tired, but he felt it not. His lips were set, his body tense, his eyes sparkling at thought of combat.

Once again the huge trout bulged from the water. Kendrick moved outwards until the cold Hauroto water raced above his knees. Kendrick knew he was not a good enough angler to deceive the old fish, but there was the possibility that with the wind causing just sufficient ripple, the trout might make a mistake.

Then suddenly, without warning, the great fish struck.

The line snapped back, taut as a steel cable. A dorsal fin slashed the surface in a sweeping circle. Kendrick heeled the butt, sharply, savagely. His blood was on fire. His heart was singing. Not for a throne and untold riches, would he have exchanged that moment.

Seemingly puzzled at its predicament the old fish stopped, affording Kendrick a momentary respite and time to brace himself for the coming struggle.

And then, swift as lightning, the line leapt out and across, slicing the water; a slurry of foam marking the trout's mad rush. Kendrick let him go, steadying the line and desperately stripping more line from the reel.

Fast as he was, the fish was faster. The line tightened and the reel screamed. Kendrick's right hand held the rod—arched like a bow behind him —tight back against his shoulder. With his left hand he tore more line from the whistling reel.

The fish stopped suddenly and sounded, sulked for a moment, then flashed back to the surface, savaging the hook from side to side in a desperate effort to free itself.

The line went suddenly slack. He drew it back through the snake-rings, recovering as much as he could. He suffered a momentary qualm. The line still came back, running without resistance.

Had he lost the fish?

No! The water boiled. The line scorched his fingers as it hissed through the rings. Kendrick gave line! he could do nothing else. If he attempted to check that terrific rush, the gut would part like a rotten strand. And still the fish continued its head-long flight—straight as an arrow towards the dense flax and submerged stumps near the opposite bank.

Kendrick shot a swift glance at the reel. It was almost empty. He could do nothing but hope. The sweat burst out on him. If the fish continued, it was finish.

He breathed again as the racing trout turned suddenly, fighting its way up stream, seeking a snag. With all of his line out, Kendrick turned and raced after the fish, the rod whipping and straining above him.

He stumbled through the shallows and over the boulders, the water splashing out from his waders. He hurdled a fallen totara, plunged into water that took him to the waist, charged furiously across a sandy spit, and back into the water again.

Kendrick was gasping for air when finally the fish stopped, and, where the page 39 river ran wide, it cut straight for the opposite bank again. Kendrick deserted the shallows and followed till the water frothed around him, breast-high.

The fish was fighting now; fighting as though it knew for its very life. And what a battle! Kendrick was recovering line slowly, checking the trout's short, furious rushes; gradually wearing him down. Though Kendrick didn't realise it, he was yelling hoarsely.

“C'mon, old timer! You beauty! Oh, you beauty!”

In the uncertain light Kendrick saw the extended tail lashing the water to foam. The fish might have sulked then and regained some of its lost strength, but Kendrick goaded it into activity, while he worked slowly back into the shallows.

The valiant fish was gradually tiring; his splendid strength fast failing. Its rushes were shorter, but none the less savage.

A fighter till the very death!

Kendrick had him now, his nose against the current, gradually drawing him in. In his moment of triumph Kendrick couldn't but feel a twinge of pity for the game old warrior. The trout's extended tail broke surface, lashing feebly. Kendrick reached for his gaff.

Then it happened!

The old fighter streaked off again, taking reel and line in a joyous, furious rush; boring close in to the bank farther up stream.

It happened in a flash. To Kendrick, caught unawares for a split second, it seemed incredible from what he thought was a done fish. But maybe the old battler knew of the submerged log, and that it was perhaps, that spurred him to a final desperate effort.

Kendrick heard the twang and saw the leader flash up as it snapped. He waded to the bank, drew a packet of sodden cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them away. Then he glanced back towards the river—a silver sheet in the dusk—and grinned ruefully.

“You beat me fair, old timer. And— and—well, I reckon you were too game a fighter to die.”

He shouldered his rod and went back to his camp among the flax.