In the largest of the old peat-holes with their dark brown water, a
single large fish could be seen, in bright sunshine, lying motionless
among the rushes under the bank.
From time immemorial it had lived in this bog-pool, and seldom left its
waters. A wild duck, carrying pike’s roe among its feathers, had
planted it there long ago.
_Terror_ was not quite so big as Grim, but was longer and leaner, with
the head and teeth of a shark.
Many a time had she and Grim fallen out with one another, and fought
viciously in their struggle for food. The scars left by their bites lay
in deep furrows down their flanks, and were covered with colourless
scales arranged in spirals and circles.
Of late, however, they had wisely avoided one another, keeping each to
her own large pool.
During her first year in the bog, Grim had been followed by several
powerful male fish, and a number of younger males swam round about. The
second year there were only a few of them left, and in the spring, when
the heavens again began to give light and warmth, both she and Terror
had been obliged to finish their spawning alone.
Many a happy bridegroom had slipped down their throats; and now,
between them, they had cleared the whole bog.
Languid and emaciated, they had now gone into deep water to rest, until
the desire for good and abundant nourishment suddenly became intense,
and inflamed their courage and foolhardiness.
One morning, before daylight had penetrated into the water, Grim
catches a glimpse through it of the swarthy belly of the old fish.
Driven by hunger, she has come a little way out of her hole, and is now
lurking at the edge of the vegetation just above.
Large pieces of ice and slushy snow are drifting about in the pool, but
along the banks and the edges of the tussocks, whither the spring has
brought flocks of frolicsome peewits, the heat of the midday sun has
already made open water and currents.
Suddenly Grim is unpleasantly reminded of her rival’s presence by
seeing her orange-coloured flanks gleam as she makes a charge, and like
a dart she shoots up. As they now meet, after their happily-accomplished
delivery, they are both fully aware of the purpose of the meeting:
they mean to devour one another.
Fin by fin they set off, scowling maliciously at one another. Grim is
close to the body of her rival, and as they move on she pushes her in
over the edge of the reeds.
During the winter the reeds have been cut, but the crooked-edge,
sharp-pointed stumps are left standing just below the surface, like a
stiff brush. The marsh-pike keeps getting her body over the brush,
which with every movement tears her tail and belly, and all at once
rouses her dull, sluggish nature out of its indifference. She blows up
her gills and angrily extends her fins, while a thick shower of
sparkling gold and silver scales whirls through the water to the
bottom.
She slips away from the reed-bed, and swift as lightning turns upon
Grim, but the old pirate is not to be caught by a bog-trotter. She
sacrifices half her dorsal fin, which is mercilessly torn into
streamers down the spines.
Then Grim takes a turn under Terror, dashes up from below with open
mouth at her opponent, and fastens her teeth in her adversary’s belly.
Terror tries in vain to make use of her teeth. Again and again she
makes the attempt, her saw-toothed jaws opening and closing with a
snap. But Grim goes on shaking her, while shower after shower of scales
flutter around them in the water.
They roll over one another, the ice-floes break, and thousands of small
crystals clink and tinkle. Now they are up in the slushy snow, where
the dirty, yellow water seethes and bubbles round their lashing tails;
now they disappear in a flickering zigzag down to the bottom.
With the tenacity and energy with which Grim is always animated when
after prey, she now wrestles with Terror. She pinches the unfortunate
fish, tortures and worries her, and keeps it up without interruption.
It is not the sort of battle to weary her. She holds her prey between
her jaws all the time; it strengthens her purpose, lights the fire in
her eye, and encourages her to unceasing perseverance.
The greater the opponent, the greater is her reward and satisfaction.
Her stomach desires what tongue and teeth already feel so near; she
_must_ succeed in getting this huge morsel--as she once did with her
little brother--to lie unresistingly in her mouth, so that she can have
the pleasure of turning it about and begin to swallow it.
Terror twists and turns in her efforts to get a bite; but Grim has been
fortunate in taking hold so far forward that there is no room left for
her to bite. Terror has only her tail-end to strike with, and with it
she sweeps up clouds of mud sufficient to hide an elephant.
The battle lasts for more than three hours, and all the ice in the pool
is broken into fragments. By this time Grim’s miry opponent is
exhausted: success has crowned the efforts of the old fratricide, as it
has always done in this kind of contest, ever since she was the length
of a darning-needle. Then in a trice she turns the harassed victim
over, and suffocates her by wedging her head into her own throat. But
it takes her four days to get Terror through the mouth of her draw-bag.
At last she had a fish again that went some way!