Only three times had he made it to the river in
the whole season, each time with little luck. On the first occasion,
a near gale made casting nigh on impossible. On the second, a
torrential downpour the day before, turned the river into a chocolate
brown torrent. On the third, he flailed away all day without a
touch, and now tomorrow, Sunday, was the last day of the season.
But how could he get away on Sunday? In his line
of work Sunday was counted as a day you just had to front up.
His boss made that fact very plain at the outset. It was a very
important, non-negotiable part of his job specification and contract.
So each Sunday he would front up, breathing fire
and brimstone, praising the virtuous, and damning the sinners.
Father Flutey waxed long and lyrical on the subject of resisting
temptation, for resistance to temptation was the only true and
straight road to the pearly gates. Father Flutey’s ranting
had achieved almost cult status amongst the faithful. His sermons
were guaranteed to prop up the will of those yielding to the devil’s
dark designs.
But now Father Flutey approached a test of his strength
against the blandishments of a near overwhelming temptation. He
struggled mightily, but finally he was overcome. He picked up
the phone, rang the Bishop’s office, and arranged for a stand-in
Priest to cover his duties for tomorrow, Sunday, as he had to
"travel to the bedside of an ailing close-relative."
The next morning he was as usual up before dawn,
but definitely not as usual he skipped his morning prayers. Opening
up a communication line to his boss was a risk he just could not
bring himself to take. He collected his gear, grabbed some bread
and cheese for lunch, filled the Thermos with tea, filled his
hip flask with a fortifying Scottish wine, and deposited all this
in his car and set off. He was headed to a river over 200 kilometres
away, hoping that distance would clear him from the possibility
of recognition.
The drive was made doubly long by the pangs of guilt
that erupted continually along the route. Several times he thought
to turn back, but committed now, he drove on to the river.
At the river, conditions were just perfect. The
sun shone, there was no wind, and no other anglers. Heaven. There
were trout feeding voraciously on insects all over the pool. He
began fishing, and soon was into fish. Absolutely brilliant fishing,
all day, until he was nearing the time to return home.
Above, God was interrupted by a knock on the door,
and an angel came into the office.
"Excuse me," said the angel, "have
you seen what Father Flutey is up to?"
"Of course," answered God, a tad testily.
"Shouldn’t he be punished?" enquired
the angel.
" Oh, he is about to be," replied God
grimly, "watch the wrath of God in action."
Father Flutey was about to stop fishing when his
eyes spotted the biggest trout he had ever seen. It was quietly
moving just below the surface, sipping insects off the surface.
Now, trembling, not from the guilt of desertion from duty, but
from sheer excitement as he watched the magnificent fish, he prepared
to cast. He nearly prayed that his cast would be perfect, but
just in time he remembered that this might give the game away,
so he relied on his own resources.
The cast was perfect. The fly drifting down onto
the surface of the water just a metre in front of the fish. The
fish glided up from beneath the fish and sipped it down. Father
Flutey uttered the obligatory, "thank you God," to give
the fly time to be fully pulled inside the fish’s mouth,
and then struck.
The fight was a long one, over 40 minutes. It raged
up the pool, down the pool, across the pool and back again, sometimes
the fish dogged down deep, sometimes it broke the surface. It
never jumped from the water it was simply too big. Finally the
fish began to tire, and slowly Father Flutey edged the fish toward
the shore, he knew he could not use his net, it was too small,
so he hoped to gently ‘beach’ the fish in the shallows.
But each time the fish felt the bottom it bolted, and each time,
Father Flutey, now beyond guilt and thoughts of punishment, prayed
that the fish would stay hooked.
Finally the fish gave up all resistance and allowed
itself to be gently moved into the shallows till it lay there
on its side quietly, body heaving.
Father Flutey gazed down at the fish, in stunned
amazement. The fish was well over 7 kilos, the fish of a lifetime.
He simply could not take it all in, his heart pounded at the enormity
of the fish, and his achievement. His only regret that fact that
there were no other anglers to share in his moment of fishing
glory. Briefly, he considered killing the fish and having it mounted,
but deciding against it, reached down, and twisted the hook from
the trout’s mouth. Then gently he lifted and slid the fish
into deeper water and watched as it slowly swam away.
Even on high above, the radiance of the Priest’s
satisfaction warmed the office.
"I thought you were going to punish him,"
pouted the angel, petulantly.
"I am just about to punish him, severely,"
replied God.
"By letting him catch a fish that is the stuff
of dreams, a fish some fishermen would die for, to coin a phrase.
I simply do not understand," bleated the angel, "it
does not look like punishment to me."
"Oh ye of little faith, it is a punishment
all right," said God, smugly stroking her chin, " in
a moment he will realise, who can he tell?"