Prick of the Spindle: Fiction: Bertolino: Fish from the Sky

Fish from the Sky
By Rosaleen Bertolino

Paki was five years old and small for his age, with coffee-colored skin and long-lashed eyes. He arrived at the lake on a bus with the fisherman, Zavion. He wore a large pink T-shirt with a cartoon mermaid stenciled across the front and held a plastic bag containing a green T-shirt bearing the name of an American beer and a pair of flowered shorts. He was proud of his clothes because they had come from the sky, from a bundle dropped into his home village by an airplane.

By the time the bus ride was over, Zavion had claimed the green shirt for himself. “This will pay for your bus ride,” he told Paki. “Besides, the shirt is too big for you.”

Every morning long before the sun rose, Zavion nudged Paki awake with his foot, kicking if the boy did not stand up quickly enough. Wrapped in a bed sheet against the chill, Paki stumbled behind Zavion down to the boat in the dark.

Paki’s jobs were to bail water, to help paddle, and to stun the fish. Because he did not know how to swim, he was unable to dive into the lake like the other boys to untangle the nets when they caught on submerged tree stumps.

As they climbed into the boat and pushed off, Zavion complained about this fact. “What good is a fisherman’s son who can’t swim?” Zavion said. “I should ask your parents to return my money.”

I am good at bailing water, Paki thought. His heart moved up into his throat when the water rose. He was afraid of the lake and what it hid, the water seeping into the boat like liquid fingers.

Paki saw no reason to believe him. Zavion had lied from the start, telling Paki’s parents that he would treat the boy as his own son. Instead, while Zavion snored in a pile of blankets, Paki was made to lie in the net room with the fish bait listening to the noises of wild animals that made it hard to sleep.

It seemed to Paki that he had lived this hard life with Zavion forever, though he could still remember his family: his mother with her ripe, salty fragrance, the babies at her breast, his somber father (a fisherman also). One by one his older brothers and sisters had left: the boys hired to fishermen, the girls as domestic servants in the capital.

“It will be better for you,” his mother told him sternly when he’d clung to her bony leg. “You will learn a trade.”

“Yes, sir.” Paki chopped at the water. I don’t like you, he thought. His thin arms felt helpless against the enormous bulk of the lake.

“Push, don’t slap,” Zavion commanded, demonstrating a smooth and powerful stroke. “The water is not a mosquito. How many times do I have to tell you?”

Paki tried to do as he was told but he was afraid to lean over the edge of the boat, afraid to dip his paddle too deep. Boys had drowned in the lake. Mats of water hyacinth floated on the surface, dense tangles in which one could get caught, where snakes could hide.

Across the lake they glided, westward, toward the spot where Zavion hoped to find fish. Here and there boats emerged through the mist, and ghostly figures—other fishermen and boys. Most of the boats held two or three boys; and fishermen with two or three boats had many more boys than that. Zavion was the only fisherman with just one boy, him. Paki wished that he had another, someone to keep him company in the net room at night.

Paki wondered when they would eat. Breakfast was always later than and less than he hoped. Handing Paki’s mother a roll of money, Zavion had promised that he would feed Paki hot fried fish for breakfast. Another lie. The fish was always dried, the rice cold.

I wish you would drop dead, Paki thought. Then he clenched the paddle and silently told the sky that he did not mean this. If Zavion died, Paki would be stuck in the middle of the lake and the boat might sink.

As they reached the inlet, a thin crack of light appeared along the horizon, the day opening its eye. Already the mist was dissolving.

“Okay then,” said Zavion, putting down his paddle. He gazed about royally, sniffed the breeze. “This will do.” He lowered the anchor, a large stone tied to a rope.

Zavion waited for the water to settle, then cast the net. He watched it billow and sink, then lay back in the boat and cracked his knuckles. He was a strong man with one eye white and blind from a fight long ago. His opponent, it was said, had not survived. Paki studied his recumbent form warily. Inside Zavion’s pockets was food.

“Yes, sir,” said Paki. To distract himself, he studied the sky, which had turned the oranges and pinks of ripe fruit. His disobedient belly gave another growl.

The sun rose and the water turned golden, then silver and shiny like the cooking pot that his father had once bought for his mother.

“Two bad things happened,” Zavion said, his eyes still half closed. “The fish are becoming smarter and hard to catch. The second thing is the devils in the big boats, who bring dried fish from who knows where, the stars perhaps, and sell it for nothing.” His eyes flew open and he scowled at Paki as if the whole thing was his fault.

Paki longed to taste fish that came from the stars but he dared not say so. He bailed with the bottom half of a plastic soda bottle, scooping the water up and dribbling it gently over the side, quietly so that the noise would not scare the fish away.

Zavion laughed. “They row over the moon,” he said. He sprinkled some bait in the water, wiping his hands on his shirt. Then he pulled a bundle out of his pocket. Unfolding the handkerchief, he displayed a cake of rice smeared with fish paste. “Hungry?”

Paki said nothing, although the saliva flooded his mouth. It was a game Zavion liked to play. If Paki said that he was hungry, Zavion made him wait. Yesterday Paki had said he was not hungry, hoping that would get him fed but Zavion had chuckled and said mockingly, “I will eat it all then!” Paki hated the game because no matter what he said or did, it was the wrong thing. Always he was made to wait while Zavion teased.

“There now!” muttered Zavion, tossing him a scrap. He laughed silently as Paki lunged for it. Paki chewed and swallowed rapidly. Zavion grinned and tossed him another piece.

Zavion was no worse than the other masters so far as Paki could tell. Some were violent. Last week, two boys had run into the village with their foreheads split open.

“Ahh,” said Zavion, pleased. “Get ready now.” He crouched at the edge of the boat, ready to pull in the net that was suddenly thrashing with fish, while Paki stood nervously, clutching his paddle, prepared to beat them.

The harvest was exhilarating and terrifying. Zavion leaned over the side, drawing in the net little by little, struggling with his catch.

“Ready!” Zavion shouted. He yanked the thrashing net up and over the side, the boat rocked wildly, and Paki lurched and lost his balance, dropping the paddle as he clutched at air.

The water closed around him. Cold. Paki kept his eyes and mouth squeezed shut but the water tickled him everywhere. He could hear, dimly, Zavion shouting his name. He opened his eyes and saw above him glints of sun, the bean-shaped underside of the boat. Zavion’s face leaned over the side, his features distorted. Paki’s heart raced at the sight of his angry master. Wanting to escape, he sank deeper, until his feet grazed the soft muddy bottom of the lake.

The mud between his toes swirled up in smoky curls. Finger-sized fish shot past like birds. Above him, Zavion’s face disappeared. The boat rocked slightly, which meant that Zavion was likely hitting the fish in the net with the paddle to keep them from returning to the lake.

Paki could no longer hold his breath. If he surfaced, he would be beaten. If he stayed below, he would drown.

He began to cry. The water flowed in, soft and cool, filling his mouth, his throat, pushing insistently into his lungs.

The boat was hard and rough. Paki’s throat burned as he retched up water. A golden fish lay gasping next to his face. The yellow eye was still clear but beginning to film over.

They began the return journey, with just the one catch, Zavion silent and morose as he paddled, Paki lying in the bottom of the boat, water caressing his wet, puckered skin.

When they got to the beach, Zavion pulled the boat ashore, slung Paki over his shoulder and brought him to the hut. He wrapped him in an old army jacket, then left to tend the fish.

Paki’s teeth chattered. Underwater, the fish had flown past like birds—the ordinary fish of the lake—as though, to them, the water was sky.

Paki put down the cup and lowered his head to prepare for the blows. It would be worth a beating if it meant that he could return to his mother. Zavion cuffed him on the shoulder, a blow that stung.

“I was like you once,” he said. “Go to bed now. You can sleep here.” He pointed to the pile of blankets. “A dead boy will do me no good.”

Paki crawled among the blankets and slept. He woke in the afternoon, the sun coming in the other window. He imagined finding the boats that fished the stars. He would set off in the morning, after he rested. I will never go on the lake again, he told himself.

But that night, when Zavion lay down next to him, Paki, who meant to shrink away, found that he could not. Closer and closer he crept, nestling in the warmth of his master’s solid body, as Zavion snored.

Rosaleen Bertolino's short stories have appeared in the Chicago Reader, Hawaii Pacific Review, Stringtown, Marginalia, Dark Sky, and Tertulia. Work is forthcoming in West Marin Review and Tiferet. She has twice been a finalist for Glimmer Train's very short fiction award, and has received an individual artist's grant from the Marin Arts Council for her fiction. She is currently at work on her second novel.