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“What are you doing down there?” called out old John Lafferty to a small boy he had just spotted way down by the stream below.

There was no response. The young boy was fishing – for John Lafferty could see the tell-tale sign of a fisherman at work: the line being tossed backwards and thrown in. But why wasn’t the boy in school? Why was he down by the stream first thing on a cold Tuesday morning? The young boy, John Lafferty decided, was a rebel of sorts – yet also a boy with some real experience with fishing. For only an experienced fisherman well practised by the water could cast like that.

“Boy, what are you doing down there?” John called out a little louder as he began to descend the scree slope towards where the boy was set up. The river was running fast this morning: fast and blue and cold looking. The rush of the water became louder and louder as John grew ever closer.

“Isn’t you supposed to be in school,” John shouted out, “… young man?”

It was no good. The boy was either dumb or deaf or both. Either that, John thought, or the river was so loud it was muffling his calling voice. John shook his head and continued to make a bee-line for the boy.

The way down was slippery. John was wary of the path – usually he would have descending by the north bank path that was a path well-trodden and easy work. The path the boy had come down was more difficult and taxing – particularly for John, who began to lament his old knees and stiff hips. To maintain his balance John was continuously having to lock his thighs, bracing for a slip. But no slip came, and his slow and steady progress down the scree slope in time brought him to the river bank.

“Boy,” he called out, a little out of breath after the descent, “boy I know you can hear me now. You a liar if you say you can’t hear me now, boy!”

Still the boy did not move but stood solid by the rushing waters. He was wearing large green wellies, blue shorts, a sports t-shirt and an old scruffy cap. He looked like a scrawny chicken, John thought who had, by now, become enraged to the point of bewilderment by the boy’s seemingly absolute and total disrespect and disregard for his protestations. Just what was the boy doing down here at this time of the morning? On a Tuesday!

Old John Lafferty shook his head in bafflement and trundled onwards towards the boy’s back, calling out as he stepped, “Young man. I said, young man. I said boy!”

To the side of the boy stood a large and ancient looking river birch tree; its large thin branches swayed gently in the breeze. Its trunk was white and tough looking, gnarled by time. Just then, a goldfinch appeared from nowhere, its jet yellow plumage striking against the green foliage as it landed uneasily on one of the outstretched branches of the river birch. It had been a while since Old John had seen one and he admired its bright colours and happy song for a moment before looking back down to where the boy was stood.

But the boy was gone.

Confused, Old John Lafferty looked up and saw the goldfinch fly away. The bird flew away across the river and lost itself in the forest beyond, to a spot where Old John could see the faint grey curling wisp of smoke emanating from a top of an almost hidden log cabin.