The garden of resurrection

by E. Temple Thurston

Then it is really true, so far as she is concerned. She really thinks of it as of some definite event that will ultimately take place. Upon my soul, the wiles and ways of women exceed the steepest flights of my imagination. I had told her it was out of the question; she declares to Cruikshank it is a certain fact.

However, there was no time to wonder about it then. We had come up the cliff road, past the fishermen's cottages and there, beyond the pier, by the steep purple rocks of sandstone, of which all this coast-line is composed, there was the boat putting out with the nets, racing through the water, the great sweeps bending from their wooden rowlocks with the sudden power of every stroke. It is this, this moment of casting the net at the stentorian command of him who stands high upon the cliff above, it is this moment which is the most critical of all. For hours they may have waited, knowing that fish are in the bay. For hours—I have seen them since, with the boat lying idly on the tranquil waters, the men dozing lazily at their oars, while high above them is that watchman the one man alone in all the village whose keen eye can follow the passage of the school—for hours they will wait in easy idleness as he sits there on guard about them, his chin resting rigidly upon his knees, his sombrero hat pulled heavily down above his eyes, motionless and silent as a piece of statuary which the rough hand of Nature has carved out of such living marble as is only hers to mould.

I have sat by his side and spoken to him, but he never answers. I have tried to see with his eyes the intangible tone upon the water which these myriad creatures make in their frightened passage to escape from the thousand enemies pursuing them, but never a sign have I seen. The eyes of God are set in the hollows of his head, for so it seems to me must the Omnipotent Power sit silently upon the great cliffs of Time noting the struggles and the passages of all the countless little creatures that fill the vast sea of this world.

But he is not silent, this watchman, for long. A moment in his vigil comes when the muscles of his face begin to twitch and tremble. Another instant and he is upon his feet, shouting in guttural Gaelic to the men in the boat below. With his hat, now crushed within his hands, he waves, gesticulates and cries his orders from the cliffs above the sea, and in swift obedience to his voice that echoes and re-echoes from the giant walls of rock, the men put out from the shore. In a moment the mighty sweeps are straining back to the long, deep stroke, the little wave of water rises at the nose of the boat and swells and swells as she makes her speed, while in the stern there stands one of those swarthy fishermen, heaving overboard the coils and coils of dusky nets that sink down and away into the green water, leaving behind their little studs of floating cork to mark the circle they have bound.

That is a moment then! A moment when it seems the business of the whole world might cease to let this thing be done. And then the net is thrown at last. Without delay they set themselves to haul it in.

Cruikshank was not far wrong. It was a sight I shall ever remember, the casting and the drawing of those nets on that still May morning after sunrise, when even the sea was scarce awake. By the time we reached the rocks, that great circle of floating corks had narrowed down to so confined a space that the fish were leaping from the water in their efforts to be free. Every man there had the bright light of excitement in his eyes and, as he lashed the water with his oar, driving the fish far back into the relentless prison of the net, one of the fishermen sang the lilt of a strange, barbaric song below his breath. Splash—splash went the oar like a giant metronome, beating the pulse to his song.

And then the last phase of it, the boats surrounding that great basin of the net, men ladling out the fish from the hissing water, filling the boats until they stood knee-deep in molten, running silver, and the gunwales sunk lower down and lower into the sea. How exhaustless it seemed, that mine of glittering metal! Again and again they plunged their great ladles into the bright green water; again and again they brought them forth heavy with the burden of such glory of riches as I have never seen. My eyes were filled with silver and emerald—emerald and silver, they seemed the only colors in the world.

It is over and done with all too soon. All too soon the nets are shaken out and the boats go toiling back—barges of silver bullion—to their little market-place by the pier. And then those white-winged scavengers of the sea, the shrieking, hungry gulls are all that are left to mark the spot where God has given one mighty handful of His treasure for the needs of men.

I stood there for a moment watching them as they flung themselves upon the water for the crumbs of silver which had fallen from the rich man's coffers. Again I turned my head for the last sight of the heavy-laden boats as they swung out of view around the corner of the pier. The next moment they were gone. The whole place was quiet once more. I looked about me. It was hard to believe that what I had just beheld was anything other than a waking dream. Then Cruikshank stooped down, and from a pool of water collected in the hollow of a rock, he picked up one of the little fish that had escaped. With a gentle hand he flung it back into the sea, and we both watched it as it floundered for a moment helplessly upon the surface.

"That gull's getting it!" said I, as I saw the great wings swoop down, but with an effort the fish turned and dived. We saw it shooting down, a little glittering arrow of light, into the unfathomable depths of green. Deeper and deeper it went until it was but a twinkling silver point, then the shadows swayed over it and it was gone.