The Wall: Eternal Day

by Brandon Q Morris

  He reached a tall coconut palm with a curved trunk that jutted out over the water of the north island and switched his engine off before casting his net. To do so, he had to clamber to the front of the boat, retrieve the net he had prepared in a spiral in the blue barrel between the two middle seats, and drag it over the smooth iron frame at the stern before sitting back down on his plastic box and starting the outboard motor with a mighty yank on the pull cord.

  The motor rattled swiftly back to life. He rotated his hand gently for a leisurely rate of speed, then clamped the handle and started to rapidly pull the net over the frame. Whenever one of the fist-size floats slid over the metal, it made a ‘plop’ sound—22 of them in all, and then the net was out. Now all he had to do was wait.

  Putra smoked another cigarette, then pulled his face mask back up over his mouth and drew his wide-brimmed hat slightly lower over his nose. He would typically now doze for a while, but he was worried that a Coast Guard ship might appear on the horizon, so he couldn’t relax. He climbed to the bow and kept watch.

  Some time later he woke with a start from a sleep that had taken him by surprise. Putra hastily looked around. First he saw the white sandy beaches, then the sea. His heart pounding, he looked around again, but he was alone. He shaded his eyes from the sun and glanced up at it, just to make sure it was already midday. A very impious curse almost escaped his lips as he staggered to the stern—a little unsteady on his feet as the sleep only slowly left his body. He took hold of the tiller, removed it from its retaining clamp, and turned the boat, his hands refusing to stop shaking.

  You shouldn’t have let that happen, you idiot, he thought. He stood up as tall as he could, looking for the red floats of the net. There they were! The swell had gotten a little worse, making the painted cork balls dance now and again behind the small peaks of the waves, but now he had found them and he headed directly for them.

  He was only a dozen meters away when he clamped the tiller handle again and grabbed the repurposed broomstick with the hook on its end. Then he clambered to the other side of the boat, jammed his foot under the bench, and stretched over the low rail. He held the wooden handle with its hook far out into the water and carefully fished for the end of the net, which had floated into the shape of a beautiful semicircle.

  “Sangat bagus!” he murmured as he hooked it at the first attempt and pulled both toward him. He felt stiff resistance when his hand touched the wet, swollen cord of the upper part of the net and pulled on it. “Tuhan itu Agung!” he yelled in pleasure and pulled ever harder and faster. My God, it is enormous! This is a big, fat catch!

  He pulled and pulled until he noticed that the center of the net had tangled into a ball. Usually he would have hung one end of the net on the iron frame and sailed the boat in a circle to pull the net in like a bag, but the resistance showed him he had already caught something big. Maybe a barracuda or a small swordfish. Perhaps Allah had been gracious enough to send some tuna into his net.

  Excited at the idea of, for once, not being the most unlucky fisherman in the world, he heaved and heaved with all his might. He could have used a winch, preferably electric, or even a hand winch, but being able to afford one would have meant making a catch, last year, like this one today.

  The heavy section of the net came ever closer, and he could already see the familiar glitter of fish scales just below the surface. His strength had almost deserted him when he grasped the net with both hands, braced his feet against the side of the boat, and leaned back with the entire weight of his body.

  He groaned as he heaved and heaved, until his catch finally toppled into the boat and all resistance was suddenly gone. Putra fell heavily on his back and coughed, half in fear and half because he was short of breath. He coughed again and rubbed his head. He would have a bump by tomorrow.

  His eyes fell on his catch, dripping with salty water, and he frowned and squinted.

  “What in Allah’s name is this?”

  He had caught a piece of scrap in the green mass of his net. It was spherical, about the size of a basketball, and was completely smooth. He cautiously leaned forward and tutted in disappointment as he removed the scrap from the net.

  Soon the sphere was sitting in front of him, and he noticed an ugly patina and several barnacles that had attached to the surface. So, it wasn’t completely smooth after all. It was only so on the parts that hadn’t become encrusted. After gazing at it awhile, he saw an indentation that went in a single line around its equator, very fine, perhaps half a millimeter across.

  “You are not a tuna or a barracuda,” he said as his shoulders sagged in disappointment. All the risks he ran to fish in the national park, and all he got was this—a metal sphere!

  Disappointment spread through his heart, out to his limbs, and into his mind. The thought of going back home was hardly comforting—it was quite the opposite. He felt even more miserable at the idea of having to explain to his wife that he was better at collecting scrap metal than catching fish.

  “Oh no,” he said when he noticed several places in the net that had been torn where the sharp-edged barnacles on the surface of the metal sphere had cut it. That meant he wouldn’t be able to catch anything in the coming few days, either. Instead, he would have to spend time mending the holes in his net.

  “First, let’s get rid of this.” He stood up and grabbed the sphere with both hands in order to heave it overboard. He couldn’t. It was too heavy. He went down on his knees and tried again, this time using his back, and managed at last to lift the strange piece of scrap.

  “Why are you so heavy for such a small thing?” he thought aloud, and was about to heave it over the side with a swinging motion, but he stopped and instead lowered it slowly to the bottom of the boat. “Who would make such a massive lump of metal unless the shell had something valuable inside?”

  If it was valuable, it wouldn’t have been tossed into the sea, he suddenly thought, but his gaze was becoming increasingly sharp as his disappointment slowly turned to hope. Maybe it was some kind of secure container? Or perhaps a museum piece that somebody would pay money for?

  If I clean it up, it will look very nice, he thought.

  Now determined to keep the sphere, he grabbed a scaling knife to scrape off the barnacles. He was pleased with his work, but then he jumped in shock like a startled rabbit. How could he be so careless?

  He quickly pulled in the rest of the net, where a couple of fish were entangled, enough for supper and maybe the day to come, and then started the outboard motor again. He hurried to leave the national park’s waters and steered his swaying boat in the direction of his village, Badjo Kima.

  Putra knew he had to be more alert and keep a lookout for Coast Guard boats, but his gaze kept returning to the strange sphere at his feet. It was rolling from left to right with the motion of the boat and sounded somehow both hollow and massive. Maybe there was something valuable inside it, so perhaps all he had to do was open the shell, like getting a pearl from an oyster.

  Eventually he reached the bay at Badjo Kima, the village where his family had lived for so many generations and where he had been born. It sat at the central point of the bay with a chain of hills rising behind it, all hemmed in by dense jungle. The curved beach was strewn with large boulders that his neighbors used to tie up their boats. There were just about 30 brick huts with corrugated sheet-metal-roofing, interspersed with the more traditional bamboo shacks with banana-leaf roofs. Even from a distance he could hear birdcalls and the shouts of children at play, all against a background of the buzz and chirp of insects.

  Putra steered his boat through the turquoise water and slowed down so that he didn’t disturb the familiar boats of the other fishermen, moored to small plastic-canister buoys. He only accelerated again when he was almost at the beach, to get as far out of the water as possible. Then he jumped from the bow, landing on the sand with a crunch, and with all his strength he pulled the boat farther onto the beach.

  “Putra Buring Bul
e,” he heard somebody behind him say and turned exhaustedly around. It was his friend Roro, emerging from the shade of a coconut palm and waving to him. Wayan, the oldest son of the village chief, was with him.

  “So, how was the catch?” Roro inquired.

  “Don’t ask.” Putra waved the question away and grabbed the wet rope hanging from the ring at the bow of his boat. He took the loose end to one of the rocks, made a loop, and threw it over.

  Wayan puffed on a cigarette. He was wearing a white prayer cap, like people in Manado did, along with pristine jeans. Perhaps that was why he always had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “So, the same as usual,” he commented.

  “Yes.”

  “Leave Putra be,” Roro said in his friend’s defense, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Yes, maybe tomorrow.” Putra pursed his lips and looked back at his boat. Roro and Wayan followed his gaze and went a few steps until they could see over the side of the wooden sloop.

  “Hey, what’s this?” Wayan sounded more confused than spiteful, which didn’t happen often. “Is that a ball?”

  “No, I think it could be a museum piece,” Putra replied with a shake of his head.

  “A museum piece?” Roro frowned. His gaze seemed to add, ‘If you say so...’

  “I know scrap when I see it. Your boat is scrap.” Wayan waved his hand casually in the direction of the metal sphere, which had a brown glow to it in the evening sun. “And that? That’s scrap too. ‘Putra Buring Bule, scrap fisherman of Badjo Kima.’ At least you’re the first one to have that title.”

  Wayan took a puff on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the lazily breaking waves.

  Putra’s gaze followed the remains of the cigarette, but he forced himself not to comment. The last thing he needed was trouble with the village chief, so he just shrugged and shook his head as Wayan went snickering away.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Roro said, attempting to comfort him, his crooked teeth splitting his dark brown, thinly-bearded face in half. He put a hand on Putra’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the village. The first row of houses was right behind a narrow gravel road that went along the beach and had several old bikes and scooters parked alongside it. To the far right, next to the only two-story building in Badjo Kima—a minimart—was a rusty Toyota pickup.

  “Oh, Mego is here in the village?” Putra asked in surprise. The mechanic from Manado didn’t come to the village very often—pretty much only when enough money had been scraped together to pay him to repair the power lines, for example, or something more complicated like the bridge over the river.

  “He has offered to take me to Manado tomorrow. I’ll ask him if he can take you, too. Then you can show that thing to a scrap dealer.” Roro gestured at the metal sphere in the boat. “If it’s good metal, it might bring a fair price.”

  Putra gave his friend a doubtful look, lifting his hands defensively.

  “At least he’ll give you a price. You can’t say the same about uncaught fish.”

  “You’re right,” Putra sighed as he climbed into the boat to heave the sphere out. “Thanks, Roro, you’re a good friend.”

  “So, see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes, thanks again. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock! Don’t be late!” The other fisherman waved and went off in the direction of the road.

  Putra’s family house was in the third row, a little up the hill from where the first huge almond trees of the forest spread their branches out over the edges of the village. A few macaques hurried overhead from branch to branch, quarreling in bleating cries, as he struggled with the sphere. He imagined he made quite a comic figure, with a smallish sphere cradled in his hands and forcing him to stoop and hurry, his face growing red.

  He paused briefly at his door and lowered his burden to the ground. The pitted brick structure had a plywood door he had made a few years ago that was now turning green. The sheet metal extended outward a little, far enough to bring the roof over the shallow groove that took the runoff from the monsoon rains down to the sea. It was currently the dry season, so the channel was filled with leaves and plastic trash rather than water. He would have to burn it early the next morning before going to Mego’s pickup.

  “Indah, I’m home,” he called out, and he smiled exhaustedly as his wife came through the door. She was just tucking in the last corner of her headscarf lengthwise under her chin, her massive body emerging from the building, as Rudy and Binta sneaked past her and raced toward him.

  “Ayah! Ayah!” they yelled in excitement and threw themselves at him, each hugging one of his thighs.

  His little Binta leaned her head back and grinned up at him. “Did you bring us something?”

  “Yes, a ball,” he said, with a mysterious expression. Binta’s eyes immediately went wide, and he also captured Rudy’s attention when he pointed to the metal sphere beside him. With the same speed they had rushed to greet him, his children now let go and crowded around the new object of interest.

  “Oh, it’s heavy,” Rudy remarked as he unsuccessfully tried to lift the sphere with his slender arms.

  “Yes, because it’s full of gold,” Putra said, looking up at his wife, who was gazing back with raised eyebrows and a serious expression.

  “Fish?” She silently mouthed the word. He almost imperceptibly shook his head as he suddenly remembered that, in all the excitement, he had left the two fish in the bottom of the boat.

  Her gaze stayed on him a moment before she disappointedly turned away and disappeared into the hut. He knew she regretted marrying the village jinx, and she had for some time. This broke his heart, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sometimes he even believed that Allah had cursed him, but the imam always said that to turn away from hope was to turn away from Allah, and that he would never do.

  “The sphere is worth something,” he said, only realizing he had said the words out loud when Binta gave him a quizzical look and clasped his hand in her small fingers.

  “Really, Father?” she asked, a happy expression spreading over her face.

  “Yes, really,” he promised, very much hoping that he hadn’t just lied to his daughter.

  Chapter 2: Montgomery

  January 10, 2035 - Washington, D.C.

  Dr. Montgomery Reed left the Madison Washington Hotel lobby and turned up his coat collar with a shiver when the icy January wind whistled around his neck. He hated the cold of the capital city and its gray skies, and he hated the mix of criminal energy and political establishment that emanated from every concrete façade here. His heart belonged to his home state of Texas—where people might not be as open-minded as in other places, but at least it was hot and sunny, and it had some character.

  His right hand was busy keeping his collar turned up, so he tried to use his left one to clumsily hail a cab. He had to hug his briefcase at the same time, and he almost fumbled it in the process.

  One of the city’s fleet of GMC limousines pulled up, and he reluctantly let go of his collar and pulled open the rear door, just as his smartphone started to ring.

  “Great,” he muttered as he tossed the briefcase inside and clambered in. He swiped the green accept-call symbol as he ducked—not quite low enough—and banged his head on the door frame.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Where to?” asked the taxi driver as his ex-wife started to talk on the other end of the line.

  “Monty, we have to talk about Liza—”

  “Not you!” he said exasperatedly as he rubbed his injured forehead. He was going to have an ugly bump.

  “What? Yes, Liza caught measles in school and—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the taxi driver.” Montgomery nodded to the taxi driver. “I have to get to the University, the Department of Science and Technology.”

  “That can wait. Our daughter has—”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the taxi driver,” he sighed.


  “Monty!” His ex-wife’s voice rose an octave. “Our daughter—”

  “—caught the measles, yes.”

  “She can’t go to school, and I have to get to work. You know how important that is to our finances?”

  “Yes, but you fought for sole custody, and now you’re angry that you have sole custody,” he replied, further exasperated, as he kept glancing at the rearview mirror, aware of the driver doing his best to look as if he was not listening.

  “How dare you say something like—”

  “How about you ask your new friend Peter if he can help? Right now I have the most important meeting of my career. I had measles when I was a kid, and I’m still here. I’m happy to pick her up afterward and look after her, because it doesn’t sound like you will be able to, even though you have sole custody,” he barked at her and hung up.

  Montgomery missed his little Tullaby very much, and the idea that she was in bed with measles made his heart ache. But he had to be there for this meeting. Otherwise his institute would be left high and dry over the coming few years, which would mean he would have to go back to teaching.

  “Women, huh?” the taxi driver said, but Montgomery only nodded politely in reply and gazed out the window. He had no interest in going over his problems with a stranger, and never felt the slightest desire to share his problems with anyone. Luckily, the man took the hint and let it go. So he gave his full attention to gazing out the window, allowing the concrete buildings and terraced houses that drifted past to numb his senses, until everything became parallel stripes of blurry shapes and lines to him.

  The Department of Science and Technology was located a little outside the main campus on Pennsylvania Avenue, near Ford Circle Park, within an eight-floor, ugly concrete building from the 1970s. The gray façade was blotchy with damp patches left by all the rain they’d had over the past few weeks, which felt to him like an omen—and not a good one.

  The taxi pulled up at the main entrance, where a few students were smoking outside, and he gave the driver $5.00 plus the $30.00 displayed on the meter and climbed back out into the cold.