Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

“Aye, she may be just that,” says Mickey. “Sure, I’ll let you know when I catch one an’ get a good look at her.”

Roddy does no more than glance at Mickey’s fishing gear, then he laughs. “Mickey, me little tater, you’ve got more chance of of seein’ O’Hara’s goat singin’ in the church choir than ye have of catchin’ the creature. What makes you think there’d be such a thing in this ould river?”

“Because I saw one here not an hour since,” says Mickey.

“I think you’ve been sittin’ out too long in the sun. So where did ye see it, pray tell?” says Roddy.

So little Mickey explains. “Me ma sent me for a duck egg, for me da’s tea. I was walkin’ along the footpath by here when I sees Mulligan’s dog. Sure, he was creatin’ an awful racket, barkin’ an’ howlin’ at somethin’ in the water. So I goes to see what all fuss was in aid of. That’s when I saw the Nye Add swimmin’ around under those bushes by the far bank. Well, she saw me, an’ dived straight down an’ hid, so she did!”

Roddy looks over to the spot Mickey had indicated. Something occurrs to him which gives him pause to chuckle. “Are ye sure it never had a fish’s head an’ a lady’s bottom?”

Little Mickey does not like being made fun of. “Arr, away, ye great eejit, I saw it with me own two eyes. The top was woman, an’ the bottom was fish. ’Twas a Nye Add, she looked just like Barney Gilhooly said she should!”

The lad seems serious, and Roddy is getting curious. “Just over there, ye say?”

As Mickey nods, Roddy picks up a stone about the size of his fist. He heaves it out into the river and hits the very spot where Mickey had seen the creature.

The stone had scarce struck water, when a great fluke-shaped tail rises and slaps down hard on the surface of the river, drenching them both with spray.

Little Mickey Hennessy wipes the water from his eyes. “That was her tail. Now will you believe me, Roddy Mooney?”

The All Ireland Champion Fisherman grabs little Mickey’s shirtfront, causing half the buttons to pop off. “That’s no Nye Add nor water banshee! All I could see was its tail, but that’s a fish, the biggest ever seen in Irish freshwater, I’ll bet. A shark, or a dolphin, or some kind of deep-sea big-game fish found its way upriver from the ocean. Mickey, ye darlin’ little man, will ye do somethin’ for me?”

“I will if ye stop tearin’ the shirt from off me young body,” says Mickey. So Roddy tells him the plan.

“Stand guard here an’ watch in case the fish moves. I’m goin’ home for my anglin’ tackle. I’ll be back before ye know it, so I will!”

The good Widow Mooney is chucking turf bricks onto the fire when in dashes her son like a nun with a bee in her bonnet.

“Sit ye down, me luvly son. I’ve mashed some grand taters an’ buttermilk up for your tea,” says his ma.

But the All Ireland Champion is already packing all his tackle in a wicker creel. Maggots, hooks, lines, ledgers and floats. “Sure I haven’t the time t’be sittin’ round feedin’ me gob, Ma. There’s a fine big ould fish needs catchin’!”

He seizes a selection of rods and sundry other poles, then grabs his lucky hat, the one with all the bright-coloured flies stuck in it. Jamming it on, Roddy knots the hat strings under his chin and goes tearing out of the door, with his ma shouting after him, “I’ll put it in the oven to keep warm for ye, son!”

So then, there’s Little Mickey marching up and down the bank with his twig over his shoulder, keeping guard over the spot, as Roddy arrives in a cloud of dust. Mickey salutes like an Enniskillen Dragoon. “Sure I’ve not seen it move, so it must still be there!”

Roddy Mooney starts unpacking tackle, talking to himself the way that All Ireland Champion Fishermen do. “Now, will the beast be takin’ a woolly nymph, or a red hackle weaver? I’d best use me good split-cane rod, an’ a heavy line. Where’s those musket ball ledgers, an’ a decent float? Mickey, will ye stop pacin’ up’n’down like a half-paid officer? Get that maggot tin an’ sling some ground bait out.”

Like most small boys, Mickey loves to play with maggots. Shoving his hand into the battered tin, he rummages about happily among the squirming mass of maggots. “Ah, sure, I don’t know whether or not Nye Adds eat these.”

Roddy squints as he knots the red hackle tight onto his line. “Will ye give over, there’s no such thing as a Nye Add. That’s a monster fish in there, big enough to take the gold cup at the Bantry Bay All Ireland Reel Off. Aye, an’ I’m the very man who’s goin’ to catch it. Now will ye give up messin’ with those maggots an’ throw them in the water!”

Mickey slings out two handfuls, shouting, “Lord ha’ mercy on your little maggity souls!”

Roddy whips his rod back and forth several times, then casts out expertly. The hunt for the creature is on.

But fishing, as you all well know, is a lengthy business. Three hours later the pair is still sitting on the bank edge, with no luck thus far, not even for an All Ireland Champion. Of course, not knowing the grand, exalted title held by Roddy Mooney, the honour of the occasion is probably lost on any fish swimming in the river.

Four, five, six hours go by. Apart from a small eel and a half-dead roach, nothing decent comes near Roddy’s hook. Little Mickey has lost interest in the proceedings. He’s trying to catch a dragonfly with Roddy’s keep net, but most dragonflies are craftier than most little boys. So Mickey gives up the chase and sits back down with Roddy.

“Do ye not think ’twould be better goin’ home for somethin’ to eat? It’s gettin’ dark now, we could come back tomorrow, eh?”

Roddy Mooney concentrates on his unmoving float. “Sure, ye stand a better chance at the night fishin’. That’s when the big fishes come up to feed.”

Little Mickey’s stomach rumbles like a cart going over cobblestones. “Have ye not got any ould sam-midges under that hat, Roddy? I’m fair famished for a bite!”

“All Ireland Champion Fishermen don’t need food when they’re fishin’,” says Roddy.

Suddenly, out of the dark waddles Bridgie Hennessy, Mickey’s fine big mammy. She fetches him a clout that knocks him sideways, and roars at him, “Where’s the duck egg for your da’s tea, ye Hessian deserter? Where’ve ye been all day an’ half the blessed night?”

Regaining half the sense he had before the clout, Mickey explains, “I been fishin’ for a Nye Add with your man Roddy Mooney.”

His distracted mammy lifts Mickey off the ground by the seat of the trousers. “Fishin’, is it? I’ll fish ye! Your da an’ your twelve brothers’n’sisters have been out scourin’ the country for ye!”

Mickey is hauled off home, keeping up a midair conversation with his mammy. “What’s for supper? I could eat an ould horse!”

They vanish into the darkness, with Bridgie Hennessy bawling like a Mullengar heifer.

“There’ll be no ould horses for you, ye hardfaced melt! A taste of your da’s belt an’ straight up to bed, that’s all you’ll be gettin’ for your crimes!”

Sitting alone in the dark night, Roddy feels happy as a donkey in a strawberry patch as he waits to catch the fish of his life. He wonders if anyone has ever gained the title of Double, Supreme or Majestic All Ireland Champion Fisherman. The summer night is quiet and warm, with not a breeze to stir the calm air. From behind the cloudbanks, a dusty gold moon emerges to dapple the river with pale shadows. Roddy’s eyelids droop. He stifles a yawn and settles his back against the cane hamper. Even All Ireland Champions have to sleep, ye know.

A plip and a small splash close to the bank where he is sitting causes Roddy to wake immediately. He never moves, but directs his gaze to the water, beneath which his feet are hanging over the river edge. He sees the huge flukes of the tail waving enticingly, a mere inch from the surface. Beyond the tail he glimpses a fraction of the thick scaled body underwater, but it is impossible to see more. By the sword of Finn McCool, this is one big fish!