by Tim Winton
He wet the bag afresh and picked his way to the beach.
. . . it’s a devil
That afternoon, Jerra took three of the bigger fish in the bag, and made for the rocks at the other end of the beach. He followed the crowded little marks, and ran a wide perimeter around the beam half-way. There was still a stink, green as ever, in the sand where the seal had been. It would be there a long time yet. Sand cracked under his feet.
No sign of the old man from the front of the humpy, only a humming from somewhere behind, and the gulls in the trees around. He went round the back. In the few yards between the rickety back wall and the bush, there was a moist, black strip of soil, stirred and turned in heavy sods. The old man crouched in a net of flies.
‘G’day,’ said Jerra, swinging the bag.
He looked up, blood wet on his hands.
‘How’s things?’
Wiping his knife on a tuft of grass, flies clinging, the old man looked over.
‘Not too bad.’ Smiling with blood in his beard. ‘A good mornin’. Got this big bastard.’
The hindquarters of a roo, fur tarred with blood.
‘Not bad goin’,’ said Jerra, feeling foolish about the headless little fish in the bag. ‘A big buck isn’t it?’
‘Buck orright. Hairy ol’ bastard. Snared ’im in the hills. Most of ’em give it a wide miss – smell me on the snare – but this ol’ hopper wasn’t the full quid this mornin’. Fall for things like that when you get old.’ Flies dug into the corner of his mouth, a twitching scab.
‘How’ll you keep him?’ Jerra asked, eyeing the neck and head on the grass a few feet away, glass eyes open.
‘String ’im up in a spud sack an’ let ’im bleed for a day or two.’
‘It’ll go off.’
‘This weather? Nah. One fine day in a hundred. Flies only out with the sun.’
The old man ran the knife up the stomach from the anus, letting the coils spill onto the ground. Steam from the opened abdomen.
‘One way to get yer hands warm.’ He laughed.
A bit revolting, really, smelling the steam, the bowels open. Jerra noticed that the knife had only half a blade, but it looked sharp, very sharp.
‘Caught a few fish this morning. Six. Thought you might like a couple. Too many for me on my own.’
‘Wouldn’t be right.’
‘They’ll only go off.’
‘You got ice?’
‘No room.’
Rubbed his bloody beard. He peeled off a section of fur, flesh pink underneath.
‘Do you a deal.’
‘Orright.’
‘I’ll take a couple of ’em, and you take some o’ this bugger.’
‘Fair enough.’
Jerra reached into the bag.
‘You don’t have to give me the meat, you know.’
‘Deal’s a deal.’
He lay the smooth, softly boned fish on the grass. Something else in the bag. He pulled out the half-crab.
‘Any good to you?’
The old man looked up, a strip of sinew in his teeth.
‘Good for the brew.’
‘What brew?’
‘Good things grow outta shit.’
‘That brew.’
‘Keep it in a drum up the back. Got all the produce in there. Anything comes to hand. Bled this fella in there, ’smornin’. Drop what’s no good in as well, after. All good ammo. Plenty o’ rain. Good for the carrots an’ spuds.’
‘And they grow orright?’
‘Enough to keep the scabs off me arse. She always told me to eat me greens, like me mother.’ He chuckled. ‘No bloody choice now.’
‘Was she good?’
The stunted black blade opened flesh in the flank.
‘Good lookin’, orright. Spent our weddin’ night on a boat we borrowed, a launch with a big open afterdeck. Married in December, hot as hell. We slept out in the open on a big kapok under the stars, with some bottles and a sheet.’
‘On a boat.’
‘Didn’t sleep, that night.’
‘And stayed with boats.’
‘Reckon we liked ’em better ’n each other. An’ her little pianner. Couldn’t play it.’ He relaxed on his haunches. ‘Was a goodun, our boat.’
‘Big.’
‘Enough for us.’
‘And the fish.’
‘Yeah, the fish, orright. We lived like bloody royalty. Thought we was the only people in the world. Gawd, I believed in ’eaven, then. But it was a bugger when it went no good. So she had the licker. And her friends in town.’
‘Lousy.’
‘Nothin’ else to keep us from each other’s necks. Nothin’ to share ’ceptin’ the boat. A boat can only be a boat, said and done, only a boat. Not the same. I just couldn’t give ’er what she wanted. We went bad. Her worse. But I didn’t stop her, she was her own girl. She got what she wanted in town.’
‘Hard.’
‘An’ some days I dunno nothin’.’
Scaly fingers peeled back the limp skin. It sounded like sticking plaster coming off as the old man sliced upwards, holding the stumpy knife like a pencil, and laid two long pink fillets on Jerra’s bag.
‘There’s a fair swap, seein’ I’ve got a weak spot for leatheries.’
‘’Squits.’ He looked at the long tongues of flesh, side by side on the bag.
The old man continued his cutting and peeling.
‘Thought you’d go gogglin’ today. Good day for it.’
‘Bit cold.’
‘Not as cold as yesterday.’
‘No good yesterday.’
‘Get it while yer can. Bad weather comin’ soon.’
Gulls stirred, bitching in the trees.
‘Take long for a roo to die when you snare it?’
The old man stretched a flap of skin, seeing the sun through it.
‘Not if you do a good job. There’s ways.’
‘What do you do for a snare?’
‘Pianner wire.’
‘Must be painful as hell.’
‘If you make a mess. Bad to mess up an animal. Killin’s bad enough without mutilatin’. This one went down with his legs caught, see?’ He showed Jerra the raw patches in the fur. ‘Lucky I heard ’im go down, or I wouldn’t’ve found him till later in the day. Just slit ’is throat while he was stunned. Didn’t take long.’
‘Still, a pretty awful way to go, especially if you don’t hear. Could lie there for hours.’
‘You can only try to be around.’
‘And if yer not?’
‘Some things ’ave to be done.’
He laid some organs on the grass.
‘If yer want ’im bad enough, yer do everything you can and still do the best by him.’
Liver jellyfish-wobbling.
‘Ever go into town?’
‘Questions.’
‘Bloody hard life.’ Jerra shrugged.
‘Said before.’
‘Ever thought about goin’ back to town? To live. Normally.’
‘This is normal enough.’
‘What about when you get too old to look after yourself?’
The old man bit an intestine in half.
‘Too old to look after meself?’
Jerra covered his steaks. Flies were bad.
‘One day you’ll be too old to fish or hunt any more.’
‘Reckon I’ll know what to do.’
‘And you could die trying to think of something.’
‘Not too many choices.’
‘And just die?’
‘Others are dead an’ still walkin’ around. You know why I won’t go back.’
‘If anyone had any idea they would’ve been out years ago.’
‘They’ve been out, orright. They must’ve seen the driftwood the day they came – wouldn’t’ve known she sank it before – they think I’m drowned, both of us. Sometimes they’re right. I take the punishment every day. Why the hell go back for more? Any’ow, they wouldn’t make much fuss
over the like of her. Better out’ve the way, for some. One bastard ’specially, if he knew. Why go back for more?’
‘And lockin’ yourself away here, isn’t that runnin’ away. Chuckin’ it in?’
‘Not chuckin’ it in. Any’ow look who’s tellin’ me.’
She kissed him, gown open, by the hedges at the south end of the gardens.
‘I’ve been writing poems, again, Jerra.’
He nodded. It was hard now. She wasn’t getting any better. Sometimes she was worse, carrying herself like a queen, dainty in slippers that scuffed the lawn.
‘About my babies. The ones you never saw. You never knew them, Jerra. They loved me. Brothers for Sean. He’d have liked brothers I think. His father didn’t want them, though. Not even the last one. It was his. I was an animal, Jim said. But I was only a mother, Jerra.’
She pulled Jerra to her breast. His tears wet her, but she didn’t seem to notice. There was nothing he could say.
‘But he doesn’t do it on purpose, Jerra, I know it. He couldn’t. It hurts.’
He cried.
‘My baby,’ she whispered.
He looked up. She was smiling. She liked talking about her babies now. Jerra couldn’t bear it. He decided, then, in her arms, that he would go away. A job. Anything.
Sun was gone from the trees. It lit the sky over the hills. Smoke and hints of mist hung in the boughs. Jerra sat looking into the fire, smelling the flesh cooking in the pan and pulling his coat about him. The cold shrank even the fire a little, though the flames sprang out at unexpected moments, the greens and blues so pure and inviting that Jerra sometimes longed to touch. A moment later, a tongue of flame would leap out and burn the hairs off his hand.
He turned the curling meat, sizzling in its fat, darkening. It was too fresh to cook. When it began to burn, he took the pan off the fire. It was hot in his mouth, still bleeding, and tough as hide; he could not tear a piece free from the rest. It tasted of smoke and blood. Spitting out what he could, he threw it into the fire with the piece he hadn’t cooked, and went for some water.
The tea was strong and scalding. He sat chewing the half-bitter leaves from the bottom of the mug, watching his shadow move in the pearly moonlight. He breathed the cold air deep.
Better out of the way. He wondered about the old man’s Annie and whether the old man knew what he was saying. How could anyone be better out of the way? Perhaps he was like all the rest. Sometimes the old man really got his goat.
‘Orright, eh?’
‘That’s how people get married.’
She smiled, long legs shining in the sun.
‘Yes.’
He took the ringbolt out of the VW, and sat by the fire, just looking, picking bits off. He hung it on a short branch and looked at it for a while longer.
Then he went to bed.
He would stay down till he exploded; bring it up to know, wrenching it out of its black watery recesses to end the whole thing. The pearls. He wondered.
. . . It’s all fishermen’s bloody superstition . . .
hunting
BIRDS WERE making cautious sounds in the half-light of morning as Jerra carried spear and bag through the trees. His feet were cold under the fleshy wet leaves, and he was hungry.
Smooth rocks colder under his feet. He felt his heels brushing the pores of granite as he hopped from shoulder to shoulder until he came to the flat rock where Sean and he had dived and caught their fish. He undressed slowly and was stung by the air, naked, fumbling in the big hessian bag for the wetsuit. He pulled it up over his legs, damp and mouldy from the last dive. The zip burped all the way up his chest and the black skin was tight on him. Stooping, he clipped the weights on, then the knife on his leg, cinching the little rubber straps over the hairs on his calf.
White feet in the water, he swilled the flippers and pulled them on. He left the flourbag with his clothes in the big brown sack. He wet the mask, spat on the glass, and washed it out. Leaning his head into the water, wetting his hair, feeling the cold fingers run down the back of his neck. He pulled the mask on, snug to his cheeks.
He pushed off into the icy green and it ran down his back inside the wetsuit, gripping him as he floated. The water was shallow with the ebb-tide. In about ten feet of water, Jerra saw the greenish shadow disappear behind a clump of rocks and weed. He dived steep, ears popping. As he neared the place a great tail, like a giant waving frond of weed, lashed out and was gone under a tight ledge. Jerra surfaced and dived again, but there were only a few small fish staring bubble-eyed. The ledge narrowed into darkness, too small to turn in, probably impossible to get out of. He followed the line of the fissure, gliding on the surface, to where it was obvious. A splattering of rain on the water. Drops perforated the glassy surface.
The crevice gaped in the side, shrouded with the palpitating weed that bristled around it. Jerra pushed down, weed brushing face and arms. Tiny cracks and holes in the encrusted walls shed spines of light into the twilight. On the bottom, the fanning blue-green tail. As Jerra sank closer, it moved into the darkness of a crack. Holding his nose through the mask, he cleared his ears and sank, settling on the bottom. Breath tight in his chest. He circled the flat, curving floor, pulling himself round with his free hand. The bottom moved under his hand. Peering carefully into the cracks, he saw small fish in most. In the biggest crack, under a sagging beam, was the big fish.
It pinned itself against the back of the hole, gills rising and falling, the eye staring roundly, lip glinting as Jerra came in. It stirred. Jerra lunged and slammed the spear into its broad side, but it was too far back from the head. Too far! The fish lurched, buckled, and sprang out of the crack, ramming Jerra up against the far wall, bludgeoning breath out of him. The wall moved, he heard it creak. Pieces of grit fell, and flakes of rotten ply came off as the fish whipped its tail, pectorals and mouth twitching. Scales rasped against him. Frantic, he took out the knife, almost dropping it, and sank it into the soft place behind the gills, and there was blood; thick, oily stuff. It curled in whorls before him as he dug the knife in more, twisting, feeling the blades of pressure turning inside himself.
The great thing went limp, arched its back, sagged, gills pumping. Jerra dragged it up by the gills, his vision pulsating with a galaxy of spots. Feeble kicks.
Surface. Gobs of blood, crimson. Jerra whooped in the air, coughing his own gobs, gasping, treading water hard to keep his head out. He got the head to the surface, flat teeth gleaming. The tail thumped his legs. It was like wrestling in the schoolyard, he heard himself think, crazy with gasping, breathless. The spear bent and the prongs were tearing flesh, barbs exposing white meat under the scales. He thrust a whole hand inside the gill to get a grip and to give the groper pain. The fish steadied. He found the embedded knife somewhere in the body and shoved it in more. It trembled and shuddered, rolling him on his back. He fought to the surface again, screaming with panic, dragging up through the spirals and clouds in the water. The spear broke off, barbs left sunk in the meat. Clubbing him with its tail. Jerra found his feet on the bottom and pinned it to the rocks. Rain falling lightly, ruffling the sack and clothes. As Jerra was dragging it up the flat granite, shaking the water out of his eyes, the fish gave a grunt, snorted up a gout of blood, and died.
Jerra laid it out on the rock, a bellowing in his ears. His nose was bleeding and his hands were cut. Thick streams gushed from the gills and gouges in the side, pooling on the rock. Jerra heard gulls, but didn’t look up. The stub jutted from the flank, showing tattered white. He pulled the barbs out, ripping the meat as little as he could, and did his best to close the holes with his hands. He turned the fish over and smoothed the scales of the undamaged side with the back of his hand, feeling the little terraces settle into place. A little silver hook lodged in the upper lip.
He took the knife out and made a deep cut behind the head. He wished he had the old man’s stub of a knife as he pushed through cartilage and bone, through the black cavity, and then the flesh of the
other side. When the juices had run and gone, he cut around inside the head. He found nothing. Only the grey little brain and the black lining behind the eyes.
He sat back for a moment seeing the turrum of his childhood trembling in his arms, against his chest, and the fish’s mate scything loyally through the water beside the boat – just ruffling the flat surface in which Jerra saw his reflected face – until the fish grunted and died and the mate became a shrinking black diamond silhouette diving deep, beyond the limits of breath, with an old fisherman’s myth and something of Jerra Nilsam locked in its conical head.
Squabbling, the gulls settled on the rock as he made for the clearing, ignoring the figure moving up the beach.
Like water through sand,
– Nothing.
‘Didn’t have any choice, did I? It was bigger than me, almost. It wasn’t easy, you know, it wasn’t easy! I beat him!’ he yelled at the old man, knowing different.
The old man clenched his fists that were black with dried blood as he paced by the fire.
‘Bad enough you hack the poor bastard up; but you just left it there for the bloody bastard seagulls! A beautiful blue thing like that with those sad-lookin’ eyes pecked out.’
‘I was crook. Had water in me guts!’ Jerra couldn’t get close enough to the fire. He was freezing and his head pumped.
‘An’ the fish? You left it with no guts!’
‘Arr.’
‘Eh?’
‘I said —’
‘So, you got ’im – big deal!’
‘Yeah, I —’
‘Jus’ left ’im out there.’
‘Well, what —’
‘No head!’
‘Don’t be so bloody —’
‘With those bastard birds!’
‘Shit!’ Jerra shivered.
‘What are you? Gotta mutilate fish to find out what you want? Why don’t you hack yourself open?’
‘And what —’ He spat in the fire. ‘What the hell sort of animal are you? Talk about mutilation! Like burning women! And with what she was carryin’!’ He shouted with triumph and dread.