The Webster boys were fishing with their nets in the shallows for minnows, freshwater shrimps—anything that moved—when they found a freshwater mussel that was not just a pair of empty shells.
Dan Webster found it. He said: “Do you want this shell? It’s double.” While Laurie Webster was saying, “Let’s see,” Dan was lifting it and had noticed that the two shells were clamped together and that they had unusual weight. “They’re not empty shells,” he said. “They’ve something inside. It’s alive.”
He stooped again to hold the mussel in the palm of his hand so that the river water washed over it. Water creatures prefer water.
Laurie had splashed over to him. Now he crouched with the river lapping near the tops of his Wellington boots. “A freshwater mussel!” he said. “I’ve never owned one.” He put out fingers to touch it—perhaps to take it—as it lay on the watery palm of Dan’s hand.
Dan’s fingers curled up into a protective wall. “Careful,” he said.
Together, as they were now, the Webster boys looked like brothers, but they were cousins. Laurie was the visitor. He lived in London and had an aquarium on his bedroom windowsill, instead of a river almost at his back door as Dan had. Dan was older than Laurie; Laurie admired Dan, and Dan was kind to Laurie. They did things together. Dan helped Laurie to find livestock for his aquarium—shrimps, leeches, flatworms, water snails variously whorled; whatever the turned stone and scooping net might bring them. During a visit by Laurie they would fish often, but—until the last day—without a jam jar, just for the fun of it. On the last day they took a jam jar and put their more interesting catches into it for Laurie’s journey back to London.
Now they had found a freshwater mussel on the second day of Laurie’s visit. Five more days still to go.
“We can’t keep it,” said Dan. “Even if we got the jam jar, it couldn’t live in a jam jar for five days. It would be dead by the time you got it back to the aquarium.”
Laurie, who was quite young, looked as if he might cry. “I’ve never had the chance of a freshwater mussel before.”
“Well…” said Dan. He made as if to put it down among the stones and mud where he had found it.
“Don’t! Don’t! It’s my freshwater mussel! Don’t let it go!”
“And don’t shout in my ear!” Dan said crossly. “Who said I was letting it go? I was just trying it out in the river again, to see whether it was safe to leave it there. I don’t think the current would carry it away.”
He put the mussel down in the shelter of a large, slimy stone. The current, breaking on the stone, flowed past without stirring it. But the mussel began to feel at home again. They could almost see it settling contentedly into the mud. After a while it parted the lips of its shells slightly, and a pastrylike substance crowded out a little way.
“What’s it doing?” whispered Laurie. But this was not the sort of thing that Dan knew, and Laurie would not find out until he got back to his aquarium books in London.
Now they saw that they had not merely imagined the mussel to be settling in. There was less of it visible out of the mud—much less of it.
“It’s burying itself. It’s escaping,” said Laurie. “Don’t let it!”
Dan sighed and took the mussel back into the palm of his hand again. The mussel, disappointed, shut up tight.
“We need to keep it in the river,” said Dan, “but somewhere where it can’t escape.”
They looked around. They weren’t sure what they were looking for, and at first they certainly weren’t finding it.
Still with the mussel in his hand, Dan turned to the banks. They were overhanging, with river water swirling against them and under them. The roots of trees and bushes made a kind of very irregular lattice fencing through which the water ran continually.
“I wonder…” said Dan.
“You couldn’t keep it there,” Laurie said. “It’d be child’s play for a freshwater mussel to escape through the roots.”
Dan stared at the roots. “I’ve a better idea,” he said. “I’ll stay here with the mussel. You go back to our house—to the larder. You’ll find a little white plastic carton with Eileen’s slimming cress growing in it.” Eileen was Dan’s elder sister, whose absorbing interest was her figure. “Empty the cress out onto a plate; I’ll square Eileen later. Bring the plastic carton back here.”
Laurie never questioned Dan. He set off across the meadows toward the house.
Dan and the freshwater mussel were left alone to wait.
Dan was holding the freshwater mussel as he had done before, stooping down to the river with his hand in the water. It occurred to him to repeat the experiment that Laurie had interrupted. He put the mussel down in the lee of the slimy stone again and watched. Again the current left the mussel undisturbed. Again the mussel began to settle itself into the mud between the stones.
Down—gently down—down … The freshwater mussel was now as deep in the mud as when Laurie had called out in fear of losing it, but now Laurie was not there. Dan did not interfere. He simply watched the mussel ease itself down—down. …
Soon less than a quarter of an inch of mussel shell was showing above the mud. The shell was nearly the same color as the mud embedding it; Dan could identify it only by keeping his eyes fixed continuously upon its projection. That lessened, until it had almost disappeared.
Entirely disappeared …
Still Dan stared. As long as he kept his eyes on the spot where the mussel had disappeared, he could get it again. He had only to dig his fingers into the mud at that exact spot to find it. If he let his eyes stray, the mussel was lost forever; there were so many slimy stones like that one, and mud was everywhere. He must keep his eyes fixed on the spot.
“Dan—Dan—Dan!” Laurie’s voice came over the meadows. “I’ve got it!”
He nearly shifted his stare from the spot by the nondescript stone. It would have been so natural to lift his head in response to the calling voice. He was tempted to do it. But he had to remember that this was Laurie’s mussel and it must not be lost; he did remember. He kept his gaze fixed and dug quickly with his fingers and got the mussel again.
There he was standing with the mussel in the palm of his hand, and water and mud dripping from it, when Laurie came in sight. “Is it all right?” he shouted.
“Yes,” said Dan.
Laurie climbed down the riverbank into the water with the plastic carton in his hand. Dan looked at it and nodded. “It has holes in the bottom, and we can make some more along the sides with a penknife.” He did so, while Laurie held the mussel.
“Now,” Dan said, “put the mussel in the carton with some mud and little stones to make it comfortable. That’s it. The next thing is to wedge the carton between the roots under the bank at just the right level, so that the water flows through the holes in the carton, without flowing over the whole thing. The mussel will have his flowing river, but he won’t be able to escape.”
Laurie said, “I wish I could think of things like that.”
Dan tried fitting the plastic carton between the roots in several different places, until he found a grip that was just at the right height. Gently he tested the firmness of the wedging, and it held.
“Oh,” said Laurie, “it’s just perfect, Dan. Thank you. I shall really get it back to the aquarium now. My first freshwater mussel. I shall call it—well, what would you call it, Dan?”
“Go on,” said Dan. “It’s your freshwater mussel. You name it.”
“I shall call it Fresh then.” Laurie leaned forward to see Fresh, already part buried in his mud, dim in the shadow of the bank, but absolutely a captive. He stood up again and moved back to admire the arrangement from a distance. Then he realized a weakness. “Oh, it’ll never do. The plastic’s so white. Anyone might notice it and come over to look and tip Fresh out.”
“We’ll hide him then,” said Dan. He found an old brick among the stones of the shallows and brought it over to the bank roots. He upended the brick in the
water, leaning it in a casual pose against the roots, so that it concealed the white plastic carton altogether.
“There,” he said.
Laurie sighed. “Really perfect.”
“He should be safe there.”
“For five days?”
“I tell you what,” said Dan, “we could slip down here every day just to have a check on him. To make sure the level of the water through the carton isn’t too high or hasn’t sunk too low.”
Laurie nodded. “Every day.”
The daily visit to Fresh was a pleasure that Laurie looked forward to. On the third day it poured with rain, but they put on anoraks as well as boots and made their check as usual. On the fourth day they reached the riverbank to find a man fishing on the other side of the pool.
The fisherman was minding his own business and only gave them a sidelong glance as they came to a stop on the bank above Fresh’s watery dungeon. (They knew its location exactly by now, even from across the meadow.) The man wasn’t interested in them—yet. But if they clambered down into the river and began moving old bricks and poking about behind them, he would take notice. He would ask them what they were up to. When they had gone, he would perhaps come over and have a look for himself. He was wearing waders.
“Not now,” Dan said quietly. “Later.” And they turned away, as though they had come only to look at the view.
They went back after their tea, but the fisherman was still there. In the meantime Laurie had worked himself into a desperation. “All that rain yesterday has made the river rise. It’ll be washing Fresh out of the carton.”
“No,” said Dan. “You’ve just got Fresh on the brain. The river’s hardly risen at all. If at all. Fresh is all right.”
“Why can’t that man go home?”
“He’ll go home at dusk, anyway,” said Dan.
“That’ll be too late for us. I shall be going to bed by then. You know your mum said I must.”
“Yes.” Dan looked at him thoughtfully. “Would you like me to come? I mean, Mum couldn’t stop my being out that bit later than you, because I am that bit older.”
“Oh, would you—would you?” cried Laurie. “Oh, thanks, Dan.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” said Dan.
Everything went according to plan, except that Dan, getting down to the river just before dark, found the fisherman still there. But he was in the act of packing up. He did not see Dan. He packed up and walked away, whistling sadly to himself. When the whistling had died away, Dan got down into the river and moved the brick and took out the plastic container. It had been at a safe water level, in spite of the rains, and Fresh was inside, alive and well.
Dan took Fresh out of the carton just to make sure. Then he put him among the stones in the river for the fun of seeing his disappearing act. As he watched, Dan reflected that this was what Fresh would have done if the fisherman had spotted the carton and taken him out of it for a good look and then by mistake dropped him into the water. The fisherman would have lost sight of him, and Fresh would have buried himself. He would have been gone for good—for good, back into the river.
The only signs would have been the brick moved, the plastic container out of place. And Fresh gone. That was all that Dan could have reported to Laurie.
But it had not happened, after all.
Dan picked up Fresh and put him back in the carton and put the carton back and then the brick, and then walked home. He told Laurie, sitting in his pajamas in front of the TV with his supper, that everything had been all right. He did not say more.
On the fifth day, the day before Laurie’s return to London, they went together to the riverbank. There was no fisherman. The brick was exactly in place, and behind it the plastic carton, with the water flowing through correctly. There was Fresh, safe, sound, and apparently not even pining at captivity.
“Tomorrow,” said Laurie. “Tomorrow morning we’ll bring the jam jar, ready for me to take him home on the train.”
That night was the last of Laurie’s visit. He and Dan shared Dan’s bedroom, and tonight they went to bed at the same time and fell asleep together.
Dan’s father was the last person to go to bed at the end of the evening. He bolted the doors and turned out the last lights. That usually did not wake Dan, but tonight it did. Suddenly he was wide-awake in the complete darkness, hearing the sound of his parents going to bed in their room, hearing the sound of Laurie’s breathing in the next bed, the slow, whispering breath of deep sleep.
The movements and murmurs from the other bedroom ceased; Laurie’s breathing continued evenly. Dan still lay wide-awake.
He had never really noticed before how very dark everything could be. It was more than blackness; it seemed to fill space as water fills a pool. It seemed to fill the inside of his head.
He lay for some time with the darkness everywhere; then he got up very quietly. He put trousers and sweater on over his pajamas, bunchily. Laurie’s breathing never changed. He tiptoed out of the bedroom and downstairs. In the hall he put on his Wellington boots. He let himself out of the house and then through the front gate. There was no one about, no lights in the houses, except for a night-light where a child slept. There was one lamp in the lane, and that sent his shadow leaping horribly ahead of him. Then he turned a corner and the lamplight had gone. He was taking the shortcut toward the river.
No moon tonight. No stars. Darkness…
He had been born here; he had always lived here; he knew these meadows as well as he knew himself, but the darkness made him afraid. He could not see the familiar way ahead; he had to remember it. He felt his way. He scented it. He smelled the river before he came to it, and he felt the vegetation changing underfoot, growing ranker when he reached the bank.
He lowered himself into the water, from darkness into darkness. He began to feel along the roots of the bank for the upended brick. He found it quickly; he had not been far out in the point at which he had struck the bank.
His hand was on the brick, and he kept it there while he tried to see. In the darkness and through the darkness he tried to see what was going to happen—what he was going to make happen. What he was going to do.
Now that he was no longer moving, he could hear the sound of other movements in the darkness. He heard the water flowing. He heard a drip of water into water somewhere near him, a long pause, another drip. He heard a quick, quiet birdcall that was strange to him; certainly not an owl—he used to hear those as he lay snug in bed in his bedroom at home. And whatever sound he heard now, he heard beneath it the ceaseless watery whispering sound of the river, as if the river were alive and breathing in its sleep in the darkness, like Laurie left sleeping in the bedroom at home.
It was within his power to move the brick and take hold of the plastic carton and tip it right over. Fresh would fall into the water with a plop so tiny that he might never hear it above the flow of the river. In such darkness there would be no question of finding Fresh again, ever.
If he meant to do it, he could do it in three seconds. His hand was on the brick.
But did he mean to do it?
He tried to see what was in his mind, but his mind was like a deep pool of darkness. He didn’t know what he really meant to do.
Suddenly he took his hand from the brick and stood erect. He put his booted foot on one of the lateral roots that extended behind the brick. He had to feel for it with his toe. Having found it, he pressed it slowly downward, then quickly took his foot off again. He could feel the root, released from the pressure, following his foot upward again in a little jerk.
That jerk of the root might have been enough to upset or at least tilt the carton. It might have been enough to tip Fresh out into the river.
On the other hand, of course, it might not have been enough.
Dan flung himself at the bank well to one side of the brick and clambered up and began a blundering run across the meadows. He did not slow up or go more carefully until he reached the lamplight of the lane and the possibil
ity of someone’s hearing his footsteps.
He let himself into the house and secured the door behind him. He left his boots in the hall and his clothes on the chair in the bedroom. He crept back into bed. Laurie was still breathing gently and regularly.
Dan slept late the next morning. He woke to bright sunshine flooding the room and Laurie banging on the bedrail. “Fresh! Fresh! Fresh!” he was chanting. Dan looked at him through eyes half shut. He was trying to remember a dream he had had last night. It had been a dream of darkness—too dark to remember or to want to remember. But when he went downstairs to breakfast and saw his boots in the hall with mud still drying on them, he knew that he had not dreamed last night.
Immediately after breakfast they went down to the river. Laurie was carrying his jam jar.
They climbed down into the shallows as usual. Laurie made a little sound of dismay when he saw the brick. “It’s lopsided; the current’s moved it!”
Dan stood at a distance in the shallows while Laurie scrabbled the brick down into the water with a splash. There behind it was the white plastic carton, but at a considerable tilt, so that water flowed steadily from its lowest corner. “Oh, Fresh, Fresh!” Laurie implored in a whisper. He was peering into the carton.
“Well?” said Dan, from his distance, not moving.
“Oh, no!” Laurie exclaimed, low but in dismay.
“Well?”
Laurie was poking with a finger at the bottom of the carton. Suddenly he laughed. “He’s here after all! It’s all right! It was just that burying trick of his! Fresh is here!”
Laurie was beaming.
Dan said, “I’m glad.”
Laurie transferred Fresh from the carton to the jam jar, together with some mud and stones and a suitable amount of river water. Dan watched him.
Then they both set off across the meadows again, Laurie holding the jam jar carefully, as he would need to do—as he would do—during all the long journey to London. He was humming to himself. He stopped to say to Dan, “I say, I did thank you for Fresh, didn’t I?”
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