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It makes sense that canals would develop guardian spirits - the deities of rivers and streams and oceans and lakes have all been recognised for as long as people have told themselves stories - as long as people have been people, in other words. Given that the canals cutting through the edges of the town towards the old dock were all well over a century old, threaded with living trees and weeds and water plants, travelled by the small wildlife of the urban world, paths trodden over and over by workers and wanderers alike, it had never surprised her to feel that sensation of a watchful presence when she discovered the shortcut along the towpath, and when the lights had flickered brighter right when she'd started to worry about the heavy footsteps closing up behind her on a dark December afternoon, it had seemed only right to come back the next day, and spend some time picking litter and pouring out a small flask of rose water. Part of making a new place into a home was paying respect to the genii loci, after all.
What she hadn't expected, though, was to come off her bike coming down the gravelly bank onto the towpath in the cool grey light of early March morning, and land up vibrating with adrenaline and shock-distanced pain, somehow still more on the path than off, blood dripping from her torn left calf into the canal water, bike trapped awkwardly by her prone body. She let herself close her eyes for a moment, trying to centre her breathing. The morning was uncannily quiet - the road traffic barely audible, no wind to move the still-mostly-bare branches above her - and one of the reasons she took this route was that she rarely encountered runners or other cyclists at this hour. She blew out a deep breath, and then - the weight of her bike shifted, lifted, and something cool and firm brushed against her lower leg, where it was hanging over the edge of the canal.
She froze.
Her bike shifted again - lifted again - and she scrambled to tighten her grip on the handlebar with one hand, while trying to claw her way back from the edge using her other arm, and her breathing restarted with an uncomfortable hitch. It took a conscious effort to open her eyes, but when she did, the weight of her bike sagged back down, and the pain in her calf spiked, driving a muffled scream from her.
Keeping her eyes screwed shut, she focussed her efforts on wedging her lower heel against the edge of the canal side, and levering her bike frame up, and inland, determined to untangle herself, and not lose her primary means of transport to the canal. She couldn't work out how on earth she and the bike hadn't landed in the weed-laden water in the first place, but she was determined not to let it happen now.
Maybe it was the adrenaline, but the bike suddenly felt lighter, and it clattered free on the path beside her in a single jerky movement. Unencumbered, she was able to scramble backwards a foot or so, getting her whole body back on dry land.
This time, when she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of movement, something sliding back into the canal, and she heard the slosh of water against the concrete.
By the time she had picked herself up, and determined that she really did need to go and get her leg stitched up more than she needed to get to work, everything was still and quiet again. Her own voice as she phoned her manager seemed loud and out of place, and the throbbing pain in her calf intensified, keeping her focussed on the logistics of getting a lift to A&E, and where she could leave her bike, as she limped back up the slope towards the road.
Her leg was stiff enough that she took the bus - or bummed lifts from her housemates - when she needed to go into town for the next couple of weeks, but once the stitches had dissolved and she was back on her feet in a less limited way, she resumed her litter-picking on a more regular basis, investing in a grabber stick she could use to fish carrier bags and discarded plastic bottles from the water as well as the hedges.
When the opportunity came up to do a kayaking tour of the canal network, it took no persuasion at all for her to sign up - it seemed like a perfect way to spend a long, sticky, summer evening, and to get a different perspective on the town that she was coming to feel might well become her permanent home. The tour leader was good, and the group was small - just six of them, gliding along like splashy ducklings after their guide. Once she'd gotten used to the bulky flotation vest, and found her paddling rhythm, she could really appreciate both the history, and the sense of peace.
The world looked different from the waterline, but it sounded different as well, smelled different - cool, damp, swampy plant smells, the lapping of water on brick and concrete, the dip and splatter of the paddles audible even when the towpath was crowded with bustling pub and cafe tables, becoming dominant as they moved away from the docks and the town centre, and the paths became less populated.
"We'll pause here," their guide called out. "Float up together, and this is a good moment to take a drink."
She almost didn't recognise the familiar stretch of canal-side path that she walked or cycled along most days, distracted by picking her way through a curtain of weeping willow on the far side, which obscured the converted warehouse windows that were her usual path-height view.
Floating on the edge of the group, half listening to the conversation between the tour leader and the couple who'd been at the front of their flotilla, she took a deep breath, and stretched forward to pull out her water bottle from the front of the kayak. She paused with the bottle half-open in her hands, and then, with a soft smile, continued to unscrew the lid.
"Thank you," she whispered, pouring out a splash before swallowing down the still-cold water herself.
The late evening light cast long, golden shadows, and close to the water, the breeze was comfortably cool. Her shoulders and upper ams were pleasantly warm and tired after the unfamiliar paddling, and she felt a sense of deep calm. They drifted in place, and she allowed her fingers to drop into the water, tickle gently along under the surface, cool and tranquil.
This time, when she felt something brush up against her fingers she didn't flinch
The blue-green-steel-grey shape visible below the water was substantial - too large to be any of the animals their guide had said lived in the water ways - but also clearly not human. The figure of eight shape it was making, under her kayak and out towards the centre of the canal, was intentional, though, and she held her hand flat, just under the water. The sleek, shadowed, shape swum upwards, sliding under her palm, with a firm, smooth contact, once, twice, a third time.
"OK, everyone ready to head on?" the tour guide called.
She looked up, tipped her head to show she was ready, and when she looked back, the water was still, and the only movement visible was the regular wash of willow branches, and the ripples of her own fingers.