The Angler
He held The Fishing Rod with an iron fury. It was out there. The Wawalago, his white whale, his – nemesis. The titan of the waves called to him, its pining notes echoing across the eons. He didn't know what it was, not exactly, but he'd seen it in dreams and flights of fancy. He'd seen it in the salty sea and the sunless sea. Everywhere The Angler had cast his line, there it was always out of reach, never biting, a picotee blue phantom, swimming at the edges of lakes, rivers, and seas, even pools and puddles. Across the seven seas, thousands of lakes, hundreds of thousands of rivers, and millions of pools, puddles, and pints the Wawalago had evaded him. Worms, flying bugs, crawling bugs, meat, cheese, and even little swallows, the Wawalago refused to bite. Once he tried a sovereign, a coin of pure gold that could have bought him a plot of land, or sea, but even then the fish did not bite and the sovereign was lost to the sea. Now he consigned himself to The Bucket, the last sighting of the Wawalago. The angler gazed upon no other bodies of water, no glasses of water or beer, no bathes or pools. He closed his eyes to the rain, to the tea cup, to all damp and drizzle, save for The Bucket. The Wawalago was there circling the bottom with a swish of its midnight blue tail, forked as it was. Yet still it did not bite.
The Fishing Rod bore the scars of battle, like The Angler, the varnish worn, the mahogany gouged and pitted, the handle a deathtrap of splinters, and the brass dulled with age. The line was the same as it had always been, strong and sure, and the reel the same. He sat in his rocking chair, wrinkled and hunched with age, staring into the bucket and his Wawalago staring back as it loop about the bottom. Those marble black eyes, never blinking, never betraying, always staring. Just what was that fish thinking. The hook lay at the bottom, a fat juicy worm impaled on the end, but the Wawalago did not eat and did not want for food, gold, or drink.
The Bucket had been an old beer keg sawed in half to become a bath for children. It was then he'd first seen the fish, swimming beneath the soap suds. The Angler had lunged for the king of the ocean then and there, dousing his Elder Son in soapy water and scaring him half to death. Wawalago had evaded his grasp and The Wife gave him a clip round the ear with her rolling pin. That was the last time he'd bathed his children. Forbidden from looking upon water in the house. The Bucket called to him. Whispered to him. Deep within it's one foot depth was the song of the Wawalago, a cry, a taunt, a promise. Each night The Wife had filled it up The Angler hid himself away, the call ringing in his ears. He'd tried the pub, the sea, the river near by, even the water trough of for the sheep, but the Wawalago only sang from The Bucket. Days, months, years went by. His children grew, the Elder Son apprenticed with the blacksmith and built his own cottage on the edge of town. Grandchildren were sired. Yet still The Bucket called, each night when it was filled, no longer to bathe children but for The Wife to wash in. Her knees couldn't take her to the river and the water was too cold beside. Late one evening, when The Wife had gone to bed and The Daughter and Younger Son were at their brothers, The Bucket sat by the stove, still full. The Wife had left it, forgotten. The Angler suffered the cost. He gazed upon the fouled water and lukewarm water to see the Wawalago circling the bottom. The Angler reached for his tackle and set a fat worm on the hook. He sat and cast into The Bucket, the hook and worm making a gentle splash, there he sat, there he stared.
The Wife arose to the rising sun, refreshed and revitalised, but the joy turned ashen upon her tongue when she turned to find an unruffled pillow where her husband usually lay. She hurried from the bed and burst into the main room to find The Angler perched on the edge of the rocking chair, his nose directed at The Bucket, fishing rod in hand. 'Oh no,' she exclaimed, and rushed to rid him of that infernal rod.
'Get back! My Wawalago will soon be in my grasp. Any moment now, see how it slithers at the bottom of The Bucket,' his eyes glassy and grey.
The Wife peered into the water, a greasy film shimmering on the surface, 'There's nothing in there but grime. Let me toss it and forget this nonsense.' She wrested The Bucket the brass handles and lugged it out the door.
'NO! NO! NO!' The Angler cried and grabbed his Wife's arm. The water sloshed and spilt over the side, dashing against the rug and stone. The Wife fought back, wrenching one way while The Angler wrenched the other, and soon there was nothing but a puddle in The Bucket. Their clothes drenched. Their home sodden. The Angler peered inside the water to find... nothing. There was no Wawalago. No taunting fish. No legend to catch. 'It's gone! GONE! I must find it!' with fishing rod in hand he sprinted outside. He ran and ran until he was knee deep in the river, teeth chattering. There he saw it, the taunting fish, gliding beneath the crystalline rippling water, swimming away, away, away. The Angler pinched the line against the mahogany, reared back, and launched it ahead. The hook splashed into the river, ahead of the Wawalago, a juicy worm wriggling on the end but the fish swam by, ignoring the offering of food. The Angler fell to his knees, the soft silt of the river bed cushioning him, he hung his head and stared into the icy water, fresh off the snow capped mountains, and dreamt of his Wawalago.
The sunless sea shimmered above and The Angler had yet to see his legendary catch to be. The stars waxed and waned in the rippling water, dancing before his eyes while smaller fish, insects, and strange burrowing worms all wriggled and writhed about him. But he didn't see those, for they were not his fish.
The Bucket, that was where it would be.
The Angler lifted himself out the water, shivering and dripping, reeled in his line, the juicy worm long eaten, and traipsed home. Darkness greeted him from the cold hearth and empty home. The Bucket sat on the rug, still sodden with soapy water, and with a fury he went to the well and filled it. The moon's visage shone in The Bucket, glistening while the Wawalago swam beneath. 'Ahh my catch has returned,' The Angler wandered home, his eyes glued to his future catch.
With his Fishing Rod, Bucket, and Wawalago The Angler sat in his rocking chair and cast out his line. It was a matter of time, that was all, a matter of persistence. The fish had to bite, eventually, and The Angler could not lose to a fish.
The sun rose, the moon rose, the sun rose, the moon rose, the sun rose, the moon rose, and all the while The Angler sat in the dark of his cottage, the fire well and truly dead, while the Wawalago circled the bottom of the Bucket avoiding the tantalising hook ladled with worms, cheese, a rat tail, and a fly, yet still it ignored the feast. But The Angler was not defeated.
One morning, when the sun was still low in the sky, the door burst open and The Elder Son entered. 'Father?' it was a question, a demand, a request all at once.
The Angler looked up, his neck creaking, and gazed upon his bearded son, rugged and strong from hammering metal all day. 'It will bite soon, it will.' His voice was weaker than he remembered, croaking and frail.
'Father, have you been here all this time? I didn't believe Mother when she told me but I should have. I remember all those days you spent at sea, on the river, at the pools. You never allowed us to join you yet you always returned with a bounty.'
'This will be my largest bounty, the largest bounty.'
The Elder Son knelt beside his father, 'Father, you are old. Mother is sick, you must see her before...' his voice trailed off. 'And there are so many grandchildren you have yet to meet.'
'Wawalago is close.'
'I know, you say that every time I visit.'
'Every time?'
'Every time.'
The Angler could not remember the last time, nor the first, nor the second. How many had it been? Where was his Wife? It did not matter, at least not as much as his catch. It would bite soon. Soon. An ache plagued his wrist that burrowed into his hand and up his fingers of his reeling hand.
The Elder Son hung his head, 'Mother was right. Your left hand is married to The Bucket, the right hand to The Fishing Rod, and that leaves no room for Wife and Children.' He rose, his eyes downcast, 'The Bucket's empty.'
'No, no, Wawalago is there. Can't you see it. Swimming around my hook and the feast.'
'I see the hook and nothing else.'
'No, no, there's a feast.'
'Father, come and see Mother.'
'Can't she come here.'
'She can no longer walk and I fear next she sleeps will be the last.'
'But my catch is so close.'
The Elder Son grabbed the fishing rod, 'She's your Wife! Say goodbye to her, see her one last time, it's the least you could do. The fish will be there when you return. The fish is always there!' He wrestled but his Father, frail and old as he was, had a preternatural strength and soon the Elder Son relinquished his grip. 'Or don't and never see her, or any of us, again!'
The Angler recast the line. 'It's close, so close.'
The Elder Son stormed out, slamming the door as he went, without a glance back. He had to sit at his Mother's bedside, it's the least he could do.
The Angler looked up, 'What was that? Is anyone there?' but the cottage was empty. Gazing about he found the mouldering rug, the storm stained windows, and the cold grey ash but there was no one, no source of the banging. There, as he stared into the ash, he felt it. A tug. A gentle thing. The reel spun a few inches and then a few inches more. 'My catch! My Wawalago! I have it,' he seized the handle and began to wind in his fish.
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Not exactly scifi but it is the story that came to mind and wouldn’t let go.