The
Warrior and the Nessy.
A
warrior came to the forest. He was tall and strong, a giant among men. With
bright armour and flashing blade he rode into the Clearing and greeted the
ranger Chief. Word of the Lake had spread far beyond the bounds of the forest,
and the fighter came seeking the Nessy that lurked in the lake’s depths.
At the laughter of the rangers there
assembled, the proud knight grew angry, demanding to know the reason for the
mockery. It was pointed out that, should he wish to confront the Beast, he
needed first to land it. After all, what use would his armour and sword be in
the deep water?
He snatched the proffered rod and
line, and strode to the lake. All day he sat on the bank, his armour turning
from silver to steel, his rugged chin turning bristly. At sundown, he stormed
into the firelight of the guild, a stickleback the only trophy for his efforts.
Fierce glances from the noble swordsman silenced the sniggering amongst the
assembled scouts. Decrying the poor workmanship of the hook, he demanded a
larger one for the following day, cast down the cup of tea he was offered,
kicked over the clay boiling pot above the fire, and strode off to his sleep.
The following day found his armour
tarnished to dull iron, and his face turning furry. At sundown he strode into
the guild, angrily carrying a goldfish on the hook. He crushed his leaf cup of
tea before the Chief, threw the rod, hook and fish onto the fire, and shouted
his frustration to the assembled trappers, who could barely hide their
amusement. With a larger hook, he promised, he would land the monster.
The mists still clung to the reeds
on the morrow as the champion cast into the dark waters. It was all to no avail,
however and sunset saw the Chief feasting on a fine, if somewhat small, haddock.
The rusty and hirsute cavalier slouched back to his tent where he was kept awake
long into the night by the laughter of the hunters. The soldier swore that the
next day he would make them rue their mirth.
With a beard that would shame a
badger, the ill-oiled hero in corroded armour creaked back into the clearing the
next eve. The salmon that he wearily laid before the chief was indeed fine, but
it was hardly the monster. With the laughter of the clans ringing in his ears,
the crusader crawled back to his shelter a fallen man.
The following morning, the myrmidon
was surprised to find the Chief waiting for him. Calmly sipping tea in the early
morning light, the Head Ranger leant on a rod of epic size, the line ending in a
hook of anchor-proportions. The chief had taken pity on the guest, and
accompanied him to the lake. After a few moments of watching the man-at-arms,
the Boss smiled, then grinned, then snorted, then laughed brightly in the
morning sun.
“Friend, you need the right bait!”
The puzzled veteran watched as the
Headman weighed the hook thoughtfully in his hand, then turned to look at his
visitor…
The rangers sang long into the night
as they dined on Nessy and poured tea from a new iron kettle. To this day, no
ranger has ever landed another Nessy. They all live in hope however, that
another valiant angler comes to fish…