I live just downstream of Tullyrusk Bridge. It’s an exciting stretch of the river in which torrents tumble, bubble and swirl joyously as the river rushes towards Lough Neagh. It’s a place of great beauty with tall trees, cool stone, gurgling water and filtering sunlight. A dense carpet of fallen leaves lies all year round. Many creatures share my home with me: kingfishers who streak past overhead; yellow wagtails who flick their way across the river stones; herons who frighten me as they stand statue-still at the water’s edge; squirrels who scamper along the fallen trees that traverse our river.

Then there are the visitors, the people. Most of them don’t visit for very long. They appear on the bridge and stare downstream, then cross to the other side and glance upstream. Five minutes and they’re gone again. Only daydreamers, lovers and children linger. They squeeze between lines of barbed wire and slide down the bank to wander among the trees, paddle in our river, gaze at the sky and look longingly into each other’s eyes. They savour the beauty of our river for a while and disappear again.

The Man is different. I see him by our river every single day. He spends a long time here each time he comes. I catch a glimpse of him as I swim by. I startle at his appearance and swim away to hide behind a rock. From there I can watch him in safety. The Man lies on a flat piece of ground that juts out into our river and scans the surface with his eyes. I notice that he is staring right at the rock where I am hiding. I dart back behind my rock and hold my breath. I don’t need to juke out again; I know that he is watching me. I can sense it.

Then I feel him calling me. He speaks to my heart. I don’t know how I understand him; I just know that I do. He calls to me, asks me to come to him, asks me to give myself to him, to be his. Giving myself to him is something that I want to do; it’s what I was made for. I long to give myself to him and I try to give myself to him and yet I hold back. Every day The Man calls me. He asks. He doesn’t demand or force. He asks, gently, patiently, persistently. For some reason it is important that I go to him of my own free will. I am afraid. I don’t understand. I flee.

Yet even as I swim away I know that I can trust The Man; I have been with him already, a long time ago. Word had spread that a mink had come to our river and was hunting all of the small creatures. I had never seen him but I knew how merciless the mink can be, killing even when he is not hungry. When I swam in the river each day anxiety overwhelmed me. No matter where I went there was always the chance that the mink would appear; nowhere was safe for me. I lived in constant fear. I grew thin. I stayed in the deep pools of the river, afraid to venture out.

Rain fell for days on end and then finally stopped. As I hid, resting, in my pool a shadow fell across the surface. I panicked, convinced that the mink had come. Terror coursed through me and I swam as fast as I could to escape. In my panic I tried to swim upstream. The river had swollen and I was swimming against a strong current but I was determined to flee from that mink. I swam as hard as I could but made little headway. I felt the river take hold of me and slowly carry me downstream again, towards the shadow. In my weakened state I couldn’t resist the pull of the current.

The river carried me back into my pool and I lay at the bottom, exhausted and helpless. I felt the shadow as it passed over me again and glanced upwards. To my relief I saw that the shadow wasn’t the mink after all. My relief was short lived. I realised that the shadow was that of The Man and that he was stretching his arm down into the water right beside me. I was absolutely terrified. I had seen The Man many times. It seemed as if he had always been by the river and many times I had heard him call to me. But I had always been too frightened to go to him. I knew what men did with fish. They tricked them into swallowing cruel hooks that tore their mouths apart. Then they dragged them out of the water. The lucky ones were killed instantly by a blow to the head; the others suffered the longer death of suffocation. The Man reached down into the water and slid his hand beneath me. I felt him raise me slowly to the surface. I made one last attempt at escape, but all I managed was a barely visible flick of my tail. I was powerless.

I waited for the moment when I would break through the surface of the water that gives life to me, for the moment when I would gasp and in desperation breathe in that deadly air. That moment never come. The Man cupped his hands together and held me, gently, just below the surface of the water. He peered down at me and I heard him murmur, “Wee Fish, Wee Fish, what have you done to yourself? Look at the state you’ve got yourself into!” The Man continued to gaze at me with twinkling eyes. “Have you not heard me calling you? All you needed to do was to come to me; I would have given you rest; I would have protected you.” He continued, “Wee Fish, you can trust me, you know. I will always be here for you; you only have to call”. The Man held me there, in his cupped hands, safe and sound in the water. I felt my body relax against his hands. I slept. When I awoke I was back in my pool. The Man had gone.

The Man comes to our river every single day. I sense him watching me. I feel him calling to me. I see him as he stretches out on the river bank and looks down into the water. He rolls up his sleeve, reaches his arm down into the cool water and calls to me. He calls me to come to him, to give myself to him, to be his. I can think of one word that describes The Man perfectly: irresistible. Another word describes me perfectly: called. I hear his call and I swim over to him. I swim around the hand that reaches down to me. I brush against it on all sides as I swim around it. But somehow I’m still afraid and I hold back. I find it so hard to give myself to The Man, this gentle man, who gives himself to me.

Every day The Man calls to me and every day I try to give myself to him. And I hope that one day I will have the courage to place myself where I belong; at rest, in the palm of his hand.

© Claire Murray  (Date unknown)