ANCIENT SUNLIGHT

As the crystal night deepened around him, he brought each face and place of his recent life to mind in a private valediction. He would shed his old self. Nothing would remain but the precious manuscript of ‘The Star-Born’ to be reworked when he was strong enough. He adjusted his pack on his shoulders and, bending into the strengthening wind, set out across the shingle banks to the Sharshook to await Jimmy Chugg and the other salmon boats. As he said his silent farewell with a sadness only for what might have been, he turned his back on his past life and the westering sun, and took the first steps toward a new future.

Willie’s progress across the exposed shingle ridges was made easier by the light of the rising moon breaking through the advancing clouds; nevertheless, he frequently slipped on the weed and wet stones. Before long he was soaked through, and was glad his exertions were keeping him warm. He scanned the river, searching for a sign of the boats returning upstream. Occasionally he thought he could make out the light of a lantern against the low dark shape of the Northam bank. The flood tide had gathered pace, the current hissing over the shingle, twisting and coiling as it filled the pools and channels; the cold light giving the scene an unearthly quality.

Now and again, on the wind, came the cry of an oystercatcher or a curlew and once, just once, a sharp high creaking call he recognised but could not identify. The suck of the swirling tide was an eerie sound, and the plaintive birdcall sent a shiver of apprehension through him. He had not felt so desperate since being wounded and given up for dead in the shattered remains of Ploegsteert Wood. On that occasion too he heard the strange cry.

Then on the wind came the sound of a dog barking. His spaniel must be searching for him. Willie had left him with the vicar after the reading of the ‘The Star-Born’; he was to have made sure Mary looked after him. Now, there was nothing Willie could do, the dog would find his own way to Wildernesse. An intricate maze of ridges and channels stretched out behind him. He could not go back. Sadly, Willie turned again to his immediate predicament. It was clear that the shingle spit on which he was standing would soon be an island, and a rapidly shrinking one. He was stranded and retreating or continuing would produce similar results. Where were the boats? Why weren’t they returning with the tide? In the moonlight, the mud of the Appledore bank lay steep and glistening like the flank of a gigantic whale. Ten minutes ago there had seemed but a few yards of water between him and it. Behind him, the pools had merged to become one swirling expanse of water, writhing in the shivering light. His plight was becoming desperate.

He made his way past pieces of river flotsam to the edge of the stream, and carefully began to wade in. The power of the current surprised him, forcing him to pause and reconsider his situation. Perhaps if he could signal somehow he would be seen, and someone would pull across to pick him up. All the time the channel widened as the speed and strength of the flood tide increased. From his pack he took a few pages of his precious manuscript and put a match to them.

They flared briefly in the biting wind and burnt to his fingers. Again and again he tried, each time the same brief illumination, blinding him with its glare, and then total blackness, but as his eyes readjusted to the darkness he saw no answering light. Nothing was moving in the village or on the river. No dark shapes gliding upstream, no Jimmy Chugg calling to his mates.

His predicament was serious. He could not understand it, but for some reason there were no boats on the river, therefore the choice was simple. The Appledore bank was closer now than Crow, and Appledore was where he wished to be. A short swim and he would soon be relaxing in the comfort of a hot bath at ‘The Prince of Wales’. There was no time for debate; the longer he delayed the more difficult the swim would be. Willie took off his clothes, packed them into his rucksack and strapping it loosely onto a piece of driftwood, waded out into the river, pushing the makeshift raft before him.

The cold cut through him but he was more concerned with the strength of the current. He had always been a powerful swimmer, yet he was finding it very hard to make any headway and had been carried a hundred yards up stream before he felt the current slacken at all. Trying to keep a hold on the heavy timber that supported his pack was hampering him considerably, and the cold was beginning to take its toll. The eddies and surges of the tide twisted and turned him, sapping his strength and sweeping him further and further into the widening expanse of the deep water anchorage until he realised he was tiring very quickly, much too quickly. He prayed for the reassuring touch of the river-bed but none came.

After a time the cold no longer troubled him. There was no panic; and he began to yield to the press of the tide. He had lost his grip on his raft, but even so his attempts to swim against the current were becoming more and more feeble and ineffectual. If only he could rest for a short while, his strength would be restored.

The lights of the village began to grow dim as they span away and the river closed over him. He was at the mercy of the current, and had become part of the flooding tide. A deep feeling of peace flowed through him as he submitted to the will of the river spirit. The last sensation he experienced was the powerful grip of its embrace, he got no further than thinking about resisting before the thought faded and any conscious grasp on life was relinquished.