Mist Over the Water

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It was raining. It had been raining all day and most of the day before. Now the temperature was dropping as light faded on the short, late October day and the incessant raindrops were turning into hard, spiteful little pellets of ice.

The man stared wistfully up the muddy, puddly track along which the last of his companions had lately disappeared. He wished more than anything that he could down tools and follow. The lodgings might be bare, basic, chilly and mean, but anything was better than standing hopelessly out in the cold rain. He sighed and once again hefted the long pole, noticing how the light of a flare up on the abbey wall caught the vicious, hooked barbs of the trident on its end. Then, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he stood right on the edge of the steep bank above the stream and, focusing his mind, tried to seek out the dark, secret place where the eels lay burrowed deep in the black mud.

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