by A. J. Betts
Once the hub was opened, six strong men would stand around the circle’s edge and lean forwards, held safe by harnesses connected to perimeter walls. There, they would yank up the ropes from the hole of the hub, working in unison to lift the wet nets that had been lowered, empty, after the catch before. Behind the six men, six women wound in wet rope as it slackened, and behind these women were boys and girls who spooled the rope onto hooks on the walls.
The rest of the netters would crowd around, keen to see what was hauled up from the opened hub. To them, every catch was a spectacle, each net capable of surprise. No-one could predict which kind of beautiful, silver-slim meat a heavy net might contain, or, occasionally, which odd kind of beast.
The other houses left the netters to it, occupied with their own jobs and glad to be excluded from the noisy, messy rituals and the blustery camaraderie. No-one else really cared about the details of the catch, just as long as there was fresh meat for dinner that evening.
But that day, Celia cared very much about the catch. Without even a crinkling of her nose or complaint of salt underfoot, she coolly led me between the now-abandoned tanks towards the hub where every netter was now clustered. Standing on tiptoe, they swayed and peered over each other’s heads.
With my hand held tight, Celia weaved us through knots of men and women, boys and girls, before finally emerging near the front, close to the edge. At the yellow safety line, children were sitting cross-legged for a lesson. Two boys griped when Celia wriggled herself between them, but the teacher, observing the ring on Celia’s finger, merely nodded and instructed them to shuffle along. I kneeled behind.
As a child, I’d been shocked at my first lesson of a catch. I’d gaped at the six men who wore no shirts. Not even aprons! I’d never seen so much skin. Their nipples were small and compact, not like the mothers’ I’d recently fed from. Under the pink growlights, their bare torsos sparkled with salt and scales that made me think of tiny, shiny fingernails. Their biceps bulged and shifted like firm tomatoes under the skin.
I’d marvelled even more at the meats that were brought up tangled in nets, kicking and flicking with stink and anger. They were different shapes to the meats bred in tanks, and most were bigger. Some were bigger even than me. I’d watched, enthralled, as netter uncles and aunts shouted out words, identifying each meat with a name I’d never heard of, before deciding its future: cook, keep or return.
Later, after the sixth and last net had been pulled up and its contents emptied into the examining tank, we children were led to the cold room where a meat had been laid out on the table, still flapping and breathing. I was bewitched by its fleshy eyes, which moved as if with meaning.
‘Can it think?’ I asked.
The butcher woman with the big blunt knife replied, ‘It’s only meat.’
But even so, its eyes looked upon each of us in turn, as if we were the strange ones.
You’ve come from God’s tank, I thought. If you could speak, you could tell us all about Him.
Its scales were shimmery; its insides even shinier. The butcher’s fingers separated the liver, heart, stomach and bladder. She named every part and explained its purpose as she slapped it on the table. With slippery hands, she told us which bits were best for salting, smoking, pickling or stewing. The eyes, which were now a creamy-white, were the only parts not eaten, but they were good for compost.
‘Worms love ’em,’ she said.
Celia stepped back faintly, but I was drawn in, curious. Laid out, the meat reminded me of a jigsaw puzzle. If I could put the pieces back together, I wondered, would it suddenly come back to life, flapping and flicking and judging me?
‘Does it feel?’ I asked Teacher Theo. ‘I mean, did it? Before?’
‘It’s only meat,’ he reminded me, and it appeared he was right, for all that was left were chunks of white and pink and red, ready for the kitcheners to cook in the oven. ‘It’s meat for the feast. A gift from God to commemorate the life of Laura, the aunt who died yesterday.’
‘So why didn’t God give us a feast already cooked?’ I asked. Why would he send meat kicking in fight? In fright?
The butcher laughed as she swiped her red hands across her apron. ‘Straight from the horse’s mouth, hey?’
I looked to Teacher Theo for explanation – a horse’s mouth? – but he didn’t explain the old saying. He simply crouched beside me and said, ‘Life, Hayley. Life is God’s gift. What we do with it is up to us.’
At ten years of age, I was glad to be housed in the garden and not as a netter. I would rather rake my fingers through dirt than pry apart the bodies of meat. I’d rather tend flowers for the bees than jostle and shout at an opened hub, calling bets on what might get pulled up next. I’d prefer my wonders to reveal themselves gracefully, like plums, than to arrive violently with danger.
For a netter girl had died, I heard, after her hand scraped a meat’s barbed fin in the examining tank.
‘Why would God send a killing meat?’ I’d asked at the time.
‘God works in mysterious ways,’ Teacher Sarah had answered.
‘Is it a bad sign from God?’
‘Hayley, you have so many questions,’ she’d said before sweeping us back to the nursery.
Since then, I hadn’t given much thought to what the netters pulled up in their catch.
Until that morning with Celia.
It came up in the last net.
‘Steady . . . steady,’ called the netter elect.
Murmuring grew. The children and Celia leaned forwards, peering towards the centre of the hub from where wet ropes were rising, the net still too far down to see. The men moved their arms in time like parts of an engine.
When the net broke the surface I heard a gasp – a teacher’s – then the word beast rippled through the crowd.
A beast? I leaned to the right so I could peer past the children, but the side of my head knocked against another’s.
‘Watch it,’ a gruff voice said. A boy’s.
‘You too,’ I replied.
‘Steady . . . steady!’ warned the elect. ‘It’s a beast! Be careful.’
The net rose higher until it was in line with the floor. I leaned again, bumping the boy for the second time.
He grumbled. ‘Would you stop your moving?’
‘You’re moving just as much.’
Under his breath, the boy told me to shut up, followed by, ‘You shouldn’t even be here.’
‘I’m getting married,’ I lied, hoping he wouldn’t check my finger for the ring. He didn’t. Unlike the other netter boys, this one didn’t smile or fix his hair at the mention of marriage. He didn’t seem to care at all. ‘I’m supposed to be here today,’ I continued. ‘I’m choosing –’
‘A beast?’
I glared across at him – fired daggers, as aunts would say – though he didn’t notice this either. His attention hadn’t shifted from the catch.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘if the beast is attractive enough. If I could get a good look, I’d know.’
Above the hub the net was widening, its six corners pulled outwards by the men. I caught a glimpse of something writhing inside. Oddly, it resembled skin.
The boy’s shoulder nudged mine as he leaned, so I stuck out an elbow, prompting him to push back even more.
‘I’m working,’ he grunted, and I looked down to see that he was. One hand held still a sheet of paper while the other briskly worked a red crayon across it, making loose shapes.
‘You’re the diarist?’ I asked.
‘Shh.’ His gaze flicked quickly between the paper and the hub, and all the while his hand never slowed in its drawing. When I studied the paper, I saw the beast was clearer there than it was in the net. I could see an eye. Arms.
‘What is it?’
‘An octopus,’ he murmured. ‘They’re my favourite,’ he added, as i
f I’d asked.
‘It has five arms?’
‘Eight. I’m not finished.’
‘It’s ugly.’
‘So don’t marry it.’
‘It’s not me,’ I confessed. ‘It’s Celia. But I’m her friend so I’m helping her choose. I’m the next in line, after her.’
The diarist carried on, indifferent, as the net was lifted higher over the hub. Inside, the heavy, dripping contents pushed against the ropes. Four netter aunts and uncles now stood at the edge, inspecting the thing as it flailed.
‘How can you tell there are eight arms?’ It wasn’t a good angle to see and, besides, the beast was moving too fast to count them.
Continuing his drawing, the diarist simply shrugged. ‘They’re called tentacles. And octopuses always have eight.’
‘But why?’
‘All the better to play marbles with.’
It sounded like a riddle, though his voice was plain. I wondered if he was always this irritating.
The beast jerked savagely, flinging water over the laps of shrieking children.
‘But why do they have eight arms . . . tentacles?’ I pressed.
‘For the same reason bees have six legs.’
‘To collect pollen?’
‘Because they do.’
‘You’re not making any sense.’
He shrugged again, uncaring.
Around the hub, younger netters were standing to get a better look. The children jumped up too, while teachers shouted orders to hold hands and not lean forwards. The diarist swore and stood, as did I, now riveted by the beast. I suddenly wished someone else would call its name and prove the smug diarist wrong.
The announcement came from one of the oldest aunts. She was using a long-handled sickle to prod the beast and examine its features more clearly. ‘An octopus!’ she called, the word eliciting a fresh surge of cheers.
‘Told you,’ muttered the diarist, whose red crayon was now making tight circles on the underside of tentacles.
The boy reminded me a little of Roxanne, my earliest friend in the nursery. Little Miss Know-it-all, a teacher once called her. Because of her persistent boasting I’d relished every chance I had to beat her, at chess or card games or marbles. I remembered how she’d cry when I won.
Like the others, I stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the beast. I thought I saw its head turn. An eye?
‘Is it a good sign or a bad one?’ I asked the diarist, thinking of Celia. More netters had filled the space between us and I couldn’t find her face, but I knew she’d be worrying about the kind of omen this must be for her marriage.
‘It’s just an octopus,’ said the boy as he added texture. The beast seemed to come alive on his page.
‘It’s not so ugly,’ I said, forgiving. ‘It’s just strange.’
‘An octopus isn’t strange.’
The diarist exasperated me. Why must he contradict everything I said?
‘It’s obviously strange,’ I countered, ‘and I’ve seen plenty of strange –’
‘No you haven’t.’
‘Yes I have.’
I sounded childish, but so did he. This boy had no right to tell me what I’d seen and what I hadn’t. He knew nothing of me.
‘I’ve seen more kinds of strange beasts,’ he said, ‘than you’ve seen flowers in your garden.’
I scoffed. ‘You have not.’ It was impossible. Flowers were innumerable. Beasts like this one were oddities, rare and bizarre.
‘Strange,’ the diarist challenged before I could, ‘is a beast with a long head like the one on the rocking horse, and a tail underneath that coils around like a vine. Can you even picture it?’
I tried to, but couldn’t. The rocking-horse was brown and made of wood. How could something like that merge with a plant and come to life?
‘And that’s not even the strangest,’ he continued. ‘A beast with a light dangling from its head – try picturing that. Stranger yet,’ the diarist persisted, ‘is a beast the shape of a pumpkin . . . if a pumpkin were squishy and see-through, that is.’ Pleased with himself, he raised his eyebrows.
Our competition in strangeness was immature, but even so, I wanted to win.
How tempting it was then to reveal the things I wasn’t allowed to. I’ll tell you strange, I thought. How about the death of an uncle from a bee sting? How about a flame like magic in the son’s fist?
Then, as if I’d magicked him, the son was there. Across the other side of the gaping hub, amid the noise and jostling netters, I saw him. He stood motionless and quiet, taller than the other boys.
And it wasn’t the beast he watched. It was me.
My breath caught in my throat. What was he even doing here? Why wasn’t he in the upper house, lazing about while the rest of the world worked? Why was he suddenly everywhere that I was?
No-one else seemed to notice him. Aunts and uncles were declaring what was to be done with the octopus. They instructed the men how to manoeuvre the six poles so the beast was safely twisted in the net and unable to escape. Everyone else was speaking, moving, watching, marvelling – an octopus!
Yet the son looked at me with a concerned frown.
Are you well? I thought this was what he mouthed. Are you well? It was the standard question, though it felt anything but standard. It unsettled me. Was the son asking me about my headpains?
I nodded steadily. Matched his gaze. I’m well. Are you?
Then his eyes slid slowly down my front, resting on my apron pocket. That’s when I understood he was asking about my stomach: my wound from the broken collection box.
Are you well . . . there?
My pulse quickened, recalling the confusion in the dark, unused way. What had happened in there? I’d been hiding and so had he. I’d run then fallen and his hand had silenced me. It was an accident, whatever that meant. A secret, shared, born from two people treating their headpains in private.
You aren’t well, I mouthed.
His brows arched in query.
The way . . . how does it help us? I asked. Then, remembering, I mouthed, Why does it drip?
Drip? he seemed to say, so I raised my arm above my head, separating my fingers as if dropping something in air. In response, the son shook his head in confusion.
I tried a different approach. I twisted my thumb and fingers as he had when he’d made a flame come to life. Fire, I mouthed unmistakably. How do you make fire?
The son’s reaction was not what I expected. Ever so calmly, he lifted a hand and tapped at his temple.
Imagine?
No, I mouthed, stunned. Was he really accusing me of madness here in this throng of people?
His lips pouted with feigned pity. How convincing he was. How infuriating.
I’m well, I mouthed fiercely. I’m well. I wanted to scream – I didn’t imagine! – but that was how mad people behaved.
I hadn’t imagined the drip. I knew it and he did too. The drip had been real. His flame had been real. Geoffrey’s death had been real and I was glad of it then for it was undeniable proof of my saneness.
Wait, I mouthed, starting to go to the son. It was my best chance to ask about the drip, and more. We would be able to talk here, our words drowned out by so many others.
I pushed through the disbanding crowd. Some netters were vying to follow the net, which swung in the air as it was carried to the examining tank, while others were returning to their regular jobs of tending rice or meats, mending nets, cleaning floors, or butchery. Their movements were erratic, their chatter incessant. They reminded me of bees.
By the time I’d gotten around to the other side of the hub, the son had vanished as if he, too, had been just one more imagined thing.
I found the diarist by the examining tank. He’d started another drawing, though the subject was the same.
&n
bsp; The real beast had been lifted in its net and swung over the edge of the tank. The poles had been brought together and the octopus now hung high, lumpy as a bag of marbles. It no longer fought. A single eye was scanning us. What did it think of us? I wondered. What did it make of this world it had been hauled into?
The diarist sniffed when he noticed me. ‘You again?’
I stopped his arm. ‘Tell me more about the beast with the light.’
He glared at me sideways. ‘I’m busy.’
‘You said it has a light that shines on its head.’
‘Off its head. I said it dangles off the end and it flashes.’
‘Is it a growlight?’
‘Why would a beast have a growlight?’
‘Then is it more like fire? A flame?’
The diarist wrinkled his nose. ‘No.’
‘Do you think the light could be taken off and . . . held in your hand, so that you could make it come to life whenever you wanted?’ It may explain how the son had made fire, not with a tool or a dragon, but with part of a long-ago beast.
The diarist pulled a face. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘But is it possible?’
He pulled his arm from my grip. His cheeks were blushing, I noticed. When he next spoke, his voice was less brazen.
‘I didn’t exactly see it myself.’ He glanced either side of him, but no-one was interested in what a junior diarist might say. ‘It was only a picture,’ he admitted. ‘I saw it in the old diaries. The beasts are the best to practise on, and there used to be more of them, in the early days. All different kinds.’
‘Was it real?’
‘Of course it was real,’ he snapped. ‘Why else would a diarist make a picture of it and file it?’
With that, he strode off in the direction of the sleepers. I followed, catching up with him at the perimeter wall where diaries were stored. A shelf held new crayons and stacks of fresh paper that the children had made.
The diarist grunted his annoyance at being followed.
‘Diarist –’