Those two were as thick as thieves.
Whenever work allowed, Willem and Peter escaped into the countryside. Sometimes they travelled with friends, but more often it was just the two of them. They camped beneath the stars, hunted in the forests, and fished wherever river or canal promised a worthwhile catch.
But that summer had been a cruel one.
The fiery Queen of Summer had ruled the land with an iron hand. Day after day she strode across the sky in her blazing golden crown, and no cloud dared challenge her reign. The sun beat down upon the Netherlands until the earth cracked and sighed beneath its burden.
Rivers shrank.
Streams became trickles.
Ponds turned to muddy bowls where reeds stood dying in the heat.
Every plan for leisure was abandoned beneath the broiling sky. Even the fish seemed to have vanished from the waters.
At last, however, the old queen grew weary.
One morning the fields woke to find her green gown discarded among the fading leaves. In her place came another spirit, quieter and older.
Autumn.
She walked softly across the land draped in gold and amber. Wherever her fingers touched, leaves turned copper and crimson. Mushrooms emerged from hidden places. Morning mists crept across meadows and canals. The air carried the scent of earth and rain once more.
Best of all, there remained just enough time for one final fishing trip before winter arrived and the waterways froze.
So, in the last days of October, Willem and Peter hired a broad, flat-bottomed river boat on the Maas.
They packed enough supplies for the weekend: bait, tackle, scales, cameras, food and drink, along with brand-new rods they had been eager to try all summer.
Laughing like schoolboys escaping lessons, they pushed away from the bank and let the current carry them towards the centre of the river.
As evening approached, they dropped anchor.
Willem assembled his new rod and cast into the darkening water, silently thanking the spirits for granting them this chance after such a long wait.
Peter alternated between float fishing and ledger fishing, convinced one of the methods would surely tempt a bite.
The river looked perfect.
Yet nothing stirred below.
The sun disappeared.
The first stars appeared.
Then darkness settled over the Maas.
The two men sat in silence, listening to the gentle whisper of water against the hull. Time drifted past like the current.
Still not a single fish touched their bait.
It was Willem who noticed him first.
He nudged Peter sharply and pointed towards the bow.
Someone was sitting there.
Neither man had heard footsteps.
Neither had felt the boat shift.
Yet a third fisherman sat quietly at the prow, his line cast out into the black river.
“Do you see him?” Willem whispered.
“I do.”
The stranger did not move.
Moonlight gathered slowly upon him.
His clothes appeared ancient, though neither fisherman could have said from what age they came. His hands rested upon the rod like roots resting upon stone.
They wanted to speak. They wanted to ask who he was and how he had come aboard.
But a terrible stillness held them fast.
Then the moon emerged from behind the clouds.
The figure turned slightly.
His face was woven from cobwebs.
Dew clung to the silken threads and drifted across them with impossible slowness. Tiny droplets outlined eyes that never blinked, lips that never moved, and deep furrows cut into a countenance older than memory itself.
It was as though Time had fashioned a face from abandoned webs and morning mist.
Beneath the webbing there was only darkness.
The three fishermen sat together in silence.
The river remained utterly still.
Not once did a float dip.
Not once did a reel sing.
Not once did either man's bait attract so much as a nibble.
It was as though every fish in the Maas was holding its breath.
The bells of Saint Servatius struck midnight.
Then half-past.
Then one.
At the final stroke, the stranger rose.
The droplets hanging upon his cobweb face trembled.
He slowly reeled in his line.
Neither Willem nor Peter had seen him catch anything all night.
Yet the rod bent slightly, as though carrying an unseen weight.
The stranger turned.
For a single heartbeat Peter thought the dew gathered itself into the shape of a sorrowful smile.
Then the Third Fisherman stepped forward.
He moved between them without sound.
Without weight.
Without breath.
Reaching the edge of the boat, he stepped onto the water.
The river accepted him.
Moonlight gleamed beneath his feet as he walked across the Maas as though it were solid ground.
The boat never rocked.
Neither fisherman dared follow.
They watched as the figure grew smaller and smaller until only a few glimmering points remained, like drops of dew floating in darkness.
Then he was gone.
For several moments neither man spoke.
Then Willem's float vanished beneath the surface.
His rod bent violently.
At the same instant Peter's reel screamed.
The river exploded with life.
Fish struck again and again.
Pike.
Perch.
Zander.
More fish than either man had seen in years.
They fished until dawn, hardly speaking except to help each other land their catches.
By sunrise the boat sat low in the water beneath their success.
Neither man mentioned the fisherman with the cobweb face.
Neither wished to see him again.
Yet in the years that followed, whenever the rivers ran lean and other fishermen complained of empty nets, Willem and Peter would find themselves thinking of that lonely stretch of the Maas.
And when autumn's golden lady returned, and fog drifted across the water, and the bells of Saint Servatius Basilica echoed through the night, they sometimes came back.
Only as a last resort.
For they had learned a secret known to very few.
On certain autumn nights, the fish of the Maas belong first to the Third Fisherman.
The wise man waits until he leaves.