The river came down from the mountains in joyous leaps and bounds, tumbling from ledge to ledge and pool to pool. When the boys came across it, it was flowing purposefully over a wide bed of gravel. Stones and rocks rippled beneath the sparkling water. It was shallower than the river they had forded two days earlier, and – thankfully – calmer. The water’s flow was a quiet hurry, rather than the deadly rush that had presented them with such difficulties.
‘Fish,’ Beck said.
‘Rod and hook?’ Tikaani asked sceptically.
Beck smiled. ‘Who needs ’em? Look.’ He pointed over at the bank where the river flowed around a number of small boulders. The spaces between the rocks made natural little pools. ‘Let’s check to see if there are any fish caught over there. I’ll look over here.’
There weren’t any fish in the pools, which didn’t really surprise him. Fish got caught in pools when the river level fell – for instance in the heat of summer. At this time of year the river would be rising constantly, swollen by the meltwater.
‘Right. For my next trick, ladies and gentlemen, I will require a couple of water bottles.’ Beck delved into his rucksack and dug out two of their spares. They had once held lemonade, but he had poured that out back at the plane (it seemed almost a lifetime ago). The bottles were cylindrical and plastic and transparent, perfect for his needs.
He looked up at Tikaani. ‘Could you see if you can dig out some grubs or worms or something?’ he asked. ‘Bring ’em over here.’
Three days ago, Tikaani would have rewarded him with a blank look or an expression of disgust. Now he just shrugged. ‘Sure.’
Beck used the knife to cut each bottle in half across its width, and sliced off the tip where the cap twisted on. It made the spout just big enough for a fish to get through. Tikaani used a pointed rock to dig into the soil of the river bank and came back a moment later with a couple of writhing worms.
‘Perfect!’
Beck dropped them into the bottom halves of each bottle and forced the top halves in after them, upside down. Now each bottle was something like a double layered cup, with the worms squirming around in the gap between the two halves.
‘There’s nothing fish like more than a bit of worm,’ he told Tikaani. ‘Now we just need to decide where it’s going . . . And that is over here.’
They went back to the rocks they had just been checking, which were on the outside bend of a wide curve in the river.
‘Fish get carried round the bend on the outside,’ Beck explained. He leaped onto the nearest rock from the bank and carefully studied the channels where the water flowed. Yes, he decided, this would do. He knelt down and plunged the first bottle trap into the water, with the open end facing into the current.
Freezing water splashed against his hand but he made sure the trap was wedged into position before letting go.
Then he did the same with the second bottle trap on the other side of the rock. The water stripped the warmth from his arm and cold seemed to gnaw at his bones. He was just grateful that he didn’t have to put more than his hand in.
‘And now we wait . . .’ he said. ‘Stay there and stay still. They can’t see us clearly but they can tell when something moves . . .’
Shapes moved under the water in the pool, graceful and sinuous. They flickered over the gravel bed from shadow to shadow. Beck remained perfectly motionless.
‘Lovely, lovely worm . . .’ He tried to project his thoughts telepathically at the fish. ‘Yum yum yum . . .’
‘How long does it take?’ Tikaani asked.
‘Depends on how hungry they are.’
‘They can’t be as hungry as I am . . .’
Beck smiled. ‘If they won’t take the bait then we can try and drive them in. Get in the water upstream and wade down here. They’ll hear us coming and try to get out of the way.’
‘You mean, get wet again?’
‘Exactly, which is why I don’t want to do it. Or I can try tickling them.’
‘Huh?’ Tikaani looked baffled.
Beck grinned. Mindful of the fish in the water, he still didn’t move. ‘You lie on the bank with your hand in the water. You do it very, very slowly so the fish doesn’t notice you’re not just a branch or a piece of weed. You slowly move your hand under the fish . . .’
‘That’s not tickling, that’s assault!’
Beck chuckled, though he never took his eyes off the water.
‘. . . and then you flip it out onto the bank. And you make sure it does go on the bank. First time I tried it, I just managed to flip the fish further into the middle of the river.’
‘Then it told all its friends not to go anywhere near the hungry human on the bank?’
‘Exactly . . .’