The Ice King (The Witch Ways 0.5)(2)
“A wren…” Hettie pointed as the bird settled on a log nearby. Vanessa liked to watch birds, hence the present of binoculars last Christmas.
“Troglodytes Troglodytes” Vanessa murmured to herself and Hettie smiled as they walked onward. Vanessa, after a Romans project at school, had learnt the Latin names for everything that lived or grew around the lake.
Hettie Way had always made it clear during her residence at Cob Cottage, to anyone putting any kind of bait on any sort of hook and chucking it into the water at Pike Lake; it is not fishing, it is not angling - it is poaching and it is not allowed. Most residents of Woodcastle obeyed this by-law.
These particular fishermen, however, both wearing waxed green jackets and waistcoats and floppy green waxed hats, had made a sort of camp. They had pitched a tent and two deckchairs reclined beneath a vast green umbrella alongside a selection of fish baskets, nets and angling equipment. They could, at a pinch, have caught a shark.
“You’re poaching. There’s no fishing here.” Hettie Way’s voice was strong and steady as she stepped towards the two men, one tall and lanky, the other short and stocky. Hettie was holding Vanessa’s hand very tightly.
The stocky fisherman looked unfazed.
“I don’t know who in the Girly Guides gave you your Gamekeeper’s badge love, but they were mistaken.”
“There is no fishing allowed at Pike Lake. You should pack up your kit and head on your way homeward.” Hettie Way’s voice was having a strange effect on the tall thin fisherman; he felt soothed but eager to leave. It felt as if she was promising cake but it might be poisoned. His stocky companion seemed unaffected. Hettie withdrew her mental resources, all too aware of the presence of her daughter. This was not how she had hoped the afternoon would go. Stocky gave her a sly smile.
“As I have said love, if you can show me the by-law that says I can’t fish, in season, in a public lake the…”
“This isn’t a public lake. This is Pike Lake. This is my land.” Hettie was firm but Stocky stood firmer. Lanky was, by contrast, distancing himself from the conflict by knitting something with his fishing line and curling himself smaller and smaller by the second.
“I don’t know where you think you get off…” Stocky gave a sly laugh. Hettie stared Stocky down. A heron landed, stood motionless for a moment as if uncertain whether the fishing ban also applied to him. Stocky took this opportunity to turn his gaze to the water.
“My grandfather used to fish in this lake.” Stocky sounded wistful.
“Your grandfather was a poacher.” Hettie informed him.
“I think you need to take that back, lady.” he loved the way his tongue licked at the word ‘lady’. Hettie was unmoved.
“You cannot fish in this lake. More than cannot…you must not, shall not, will not.” she said it firmly and without drama and Stocky smiled and tipped his idiotic hat. The pair reminded her of old frogs.
“Thanks for the advice there sweetheart…” he gave Lanky a conspiratorial look that was not reciprocated.
“I am warning you.” again Hettie spoke in a flat tone, not hectoring or authoritative, just, factual. Stocky nodded.
“Yeah.Yeah. Run along and call the coppers then Sweetheart. You warn away…” he made a snicking sound with the reel of his fishing rod.
There were the lores and geis in place that crossed and plumbed the lake. Hettie Way was, as she had stated, there to act as steward and gamekeeper. To warn.
“There is no fishing allowed here.” as Hettie spoke Stocky made a yapping gesture with his hand,
“Yah-dah yah-dah yap yap.” he sneered and reached for a beer, the can popped open with a hiss. He took a glugging swig and the smell, sour and bitter, drifted up to Vanessa.
Stocky man gave a smirk “You fancy a crack at catching the monster pike yourself then? Is that it sweetheart?” he smiled, an unpleasant, greasy expression that was quickly hidden by the can of beer.
“There is no fishing allowed at Pike Lake.” her voice was stony. Hettie took a step nearer to them and Lanky took a step back, stumbling.
“We’re on our way missus…We are on our way.” Lanky said making an attempt to fold his deck chair and pinching his fingers. “Just a couple of cans before we go… We aren’t really fishing.”
Stocky sniggered into the beer can, the last dregs of bitter snorting out through his nose. He wiped his face and, with a purposeful look to Hettie, threw the can into the lake.
What Vanessa felt was a heat that prickled out of her mother. The can, heavy with lake water, flew back from the surface of the lake and clipped the man on the temple. He gave out a loud bark and glared at her.
“OW! What the…?” he looked at the water, looked back at Hettie, less sure of himself. “What…? For Pete’s…” Stocky did not finish his sentence, he rubbed at his head, unsettled. Lanky was by now starting to fumble his belongings into his bag. Stocky glared at him.
“We’re going nowhere.” he reached to tug a sandwich box out of Lanky’s bag, Lanky gave a small protest; Stocky glared.
“Poaching’s over. Time to leave.” the growl in Hettie’s voice was very low edged, as if there was a deeper noise underneath her words and it was hard to listen to, it started to make your head ache. Above them a gull had begun to wheel in sweeping circles, casting a deep shadow.