Excerpt: Fishwicks

In the kitchen of their warm cottage, hidden in the hills above the valley of Wetledale, Michael Fishwick was leaning over the stove whilst warmth trickled back into his upper body. His partner, Michele Fishwick, who had returned a good hour before him, sat at the kitchen table, crushing dried leaves in a pottery bowl.

Michael Fishwick turned around from the stove, his body poised in complaint, and said, 'I left the lake whilst there was still mist across the waters. It was dark enough to fish for longer with my lantern.'

'The message from the Warehouse Manager said that the Transporter would call this morning,' replied his companion.

'How can the Warehouse Manager know this? The rain is heavy across the mountains and the roads are uncertain.'

'The Warehouse Manager knows every cargo and every communication that passes through the Armdale Warehouse and crosses the Last Mountains.'

'There was foraging to be done beneath this morning's heavy mist. The shelves of this cottage still carry precious little food to see us through the winter.'

'We should be foraging for colour in this valley, not for winter stores. The colours of autumn are advancing. I saw the colour mushrooms starting to appear in the lower meadows, and you know better than most that all the colour of the earth is held in the colour mushrooms.'

'We cannot forage if we cannot eat.'

'The Warehouse Manager offers us the provisions we need to get us through to the spring. He is sending us his Transporter to express his support. You are the best of foragers, Michael Fishwick. But the Fishwicks need to forage for the autumn colours. It was the Warehouse Manager who showed us how valuable Fishwick colour can be when concentrated and transported to those who value it. He now sends us his Transporter — and we will receive his Transporter.'

'What will this Transporter expect in return?'

'He will expect to have cargo to take back to Armdale and then, if the mountain gods permit, down to the Flatlands beyond the Seven Valleys.'

The knock on the door, when it came, was expected, but still unnerving.

'That is the knock of a Transporter,' said Michele Fishwick.

Michael was still leaning against the black stove, his fingers wrapped around the steel towel rail that crossed the front. Michele stared at him for a long minute. Then she rose from her bow-back chair of Wetledale ash and crossed to the door.

* * *

'It is a cold morning,' said the Transporter, removing his cloak and sitting down at the table at a polite distance from the warm stove. Nobody had invited the Transporter to sit down, but it was commonly understood that a table is meant to be sat around.

'You have come far this morning?' asked Michele Fishwick.

'I crossed from Armdale in the night. I think the wind has gone back to the sea although the rain has yet to follow. But the high roads were passable with a heavy cart, and my work is to pass.'

The Transporter looked around for a moment at the tidy cottage, its walls decorated with kitchen tools, fishing rods, traps and baskets. This was certainly a Fishwick cottage, and there was food filling the shelves; although not as much as you would expect so close to winter.

The Fishwicks waited until the Transporter looked in their direction, for it was the Transporter's turn to talk.

'I was asked by the Warehouse Manager if I would call on you. Let me assure you that it was convenient for me to call.'

The Transporter loosened the belt that held his coat tightly about his waist and then said, 'There is a lot of colour in this room. It is good to see this much colour as winter approaches.'

'Nature appears colourful, because Wetledale is grey,' replied Michael Fishwick. 'There is not enough forage in this room to see a Fishwick through to spring. The two rivers once made this valley a fine place for foraging. We could always see winter through with the greens of Wetledale.'

'Wetledale is full of autumn colour,' said Michele Fishwick. 'The mountain waters and rippling air of Wetledale produce pure colour. This is why we return to this valley through the summer and autumn. We will concentrate the colour through winter and process it ready for the return of spring.'

'The mist was perhaps light this morning,' said the Transporter, 'for I am sure I saw a Fishwick on the edge of the water where the river has been dammed. It is of no concern,' he added quickly, 'for I spend much time staring down into the valleys. A Transporter searches for value. He hopes he will see the places where new cargo might lie.'

'Three years ago, you would not have seen me there; and you would have heard the water chanting from the edge of the valley. The lakes were dug, and the dams formed, to ensure there was power for the wood mills. Where I now fish from a steady boat there was once a lively river, with all the opportunities for those who knew every rock and stone it flowed over.'

Michael Fishwick paused for a moment, his eyes distant as if he was back in the Wetledale of his youth, and then continued.

'The rules have made cabinets valuable, whilst bark, mushrooms, roots, rocks and berries are not. The Conformance Council, and the Chairs of the Fraternities who sit on that Council, have decided that there cannot be both colour and cabinets. The first will distract from their valuable concentration on the other.

Every full moon there are new rules that have formed across the valley floor. I can see my way in the moonlight through the woods on the lower slopes, but I will often trip over new rules that I cannot see. A Fishwick can do himself much damage falling in this way. The Enforcers are forever following the rules across the valley floor. I must forage under the cover of the mist; and I dare not use more than one lantern on the lake.'

'Well, good Fishwick,' said the Transporter with impolite haste, 'your stove is warm. Let me take off my coat, so that we may all sit at the table and allow our thoughts to flow a little.'

The Transporter opened his book of cargos and slowly turned the first few pages, licking his finger for additional friction as one edge of the pages had become moderately damp.

He looked up from the book and said, 'I stopped at the warehouse in Armdale Valley as the Warehouse Manager asked of me. I picked up cargo that he asked me to carry into Wetledale. I have that cargo on my cart. I will leave you with those provisions that I carried across the Last Mountains this morning.'

'You must ensure that the Warehouse Manager knows that his friendship is valuable to us,' said Michele Fishwick. 'Such provisions leave us free to forage for colour. Our Brothers have made up a little autumn colour to add to your cargo, but further colour must wait until the spring when the higher passes are clear of ice. It is dangerous to carry colour along the valley roads, now that the Ruling Council is no longer a friend of the Fishwicks.'

Moved by these memories, Michele paused, allowing Michael Fishwick to seize control of the dialogue.

'It was never like this when the Fishwicks first migrated south. We first came here to forage for food that had grown alongside the colour of summer and autumn since the start of time.

In Wetledale, we discovered decorators still using ancient colours. Their blacks were derived from charcoal, yellows and reds from iron oxide, browns from iron and manganese oxides, and whites from the mineral kaolin. These decorators understood the possibilities of Fishwick colour, which does not impoverish the light, but filters it through transparent layers, showing all the depths of reality, and conveying intense emotion through rich, deep hues.

The decorators learned how to use the transparent purity of Fishwick colour, and the Fishwicks learned the real value of colour; colour that we could purify and combine against the pure white of our Northern lands.'

Michael spoke quickly, but a look from Michele Fishwick immediately silenced him. She then continued the conversation, her words unhurried and precise.

'All was well until five years ago, when the Wetledalians were taught to be fearful of such colour. That was when the Persuaders for the newly-valuable Cabinet Makers addressed the Wetledale Conformance Council. “We have seen such colour before,” they said, “in the translucent skies that carry the corrupting winter storms across the Last Mountains and down into Wetledale”.

The Fishwicks live in the white teeth of the north. We know that colour emerges from a storm; but these unsettled Wetledalians were persuaded to believe that the storm arises out of its colour. This perspective conveniently served the cabinet makers, as a colourless Wetledale, free from other distractions, was the ideal place for the fabrication, storage and transport of their valuable cabinets.'

'I see that you have a delivery for the Decorators,' said Michael, having moved behind the Transporter as quietly as only a Fishwick is able to move.

'The Decorators' Fraternity is a good customer of this Transporter and I think that, in time, they will be better. The Decorators are good friends to colour. Wetledale is grey, Mr Fishwick, but many Wetledalians are more colourful than you could imagine.'

'The Fishwicks are grateful to the Warehouse Manager,' said Michele before Michael could continue. 'Make sure he knows that.'

'We are all in need of help, Mrs Fishwick.'