Fresh Short Story: The Rapacious Sky

With one foot tucked neatly into their feathers and the other submerged in chilly rapids, herons always seemed more at home in the river than I felt while admiring them on my cycling trips. On days without fog, the sky expanded over the entire town as if we lived inside a balloon that had been blown too full. A feeling precipitously close to vertigo could creep close without warning...that blank, toothless blue ached to swallow you whole. To avoid falling skyward, I preferred directing my attention to the idyllic scenes close by.

My favorite route led through a copse of deciduous trees whose leaves caked the ground in all seasons. In autumn it offered a beautiful medley of russet, buttercup, burgundy, chartreuse, etc. But I most enjoyed the shady respite the trees provided in the heart of summer.

Once, I had upon emerging met an old couple who were placing unfamiliar berries from the bushes into a cloth-lined basket. I asked in gestures if they were good to eat, despite the obvious implication. A craggy smile from the woman informed me that they were; yet, as I gently plucked one of the reddish, blackberry-shaped berries from its stem, she trundled over and began to speak of length. I understood none of it. She picked several berries in succession, breaking each in half and popping them into her mouth, until she seemed to find what she sought. She presented it to me: the berry half cradled a tiny green worm that began wriggling in dismay. I laughed, thanked her, and opened my own berry; here I had double cause to be grateful, for another of the little worms hid in mine.

Each exploration hid some such anecdote: a treasure to be unearthed. Yet the one that lingers in my mind so many years later held no amusement or charm.

On that day, a cloudburst from the prior evening had swelled the canals until they intermingled with natural waters, causing a group of small boys to discover an unusual thing. It was my misfortune to ride by their circular huddle, which looked so conspiratorial that curiosity hooked me. I dismounted and approached them. They did not hear my footsteps crunching the gravel until I drew quite close, so I greeted them in my own tongue. They started like caught thieves.

My inquisitive look combined with the authority of adulthood caused them to part, and there on the grass lay an oval-shaped, silvery fish rapidly working its gills. Despite my unconcealed discomfort, the boys swiftly recovered out of sheer pride, and crowded around it once more. One of them poked it with a stick, sliding the dying thing over the dry land.

The boys chattered excitedly. They had found a new toy. I wanted to move on, but found myself transfixed by this semiconscious group sadism.

A different boy, with neatly cut hair and shoes whose white laces had not yet been soiled, took the stick and attempted to wedge it between the poor fish's gills. Nausea overtook me, then evaporated. It was impossible to say for certain what this unfortunate creature felt, if anything other than the drive for water and breath; but sympathy overwhelmed me and I found myself shoving my way into their circle.

"Let it alone," I said, though of course they couldn't understand me. I took the stick and threw it into the canal. In fact, I felt tempted to strike the little boy, or take the lot of them over my knee.

Anger or dismay showed on their faces, but I cradled the fish in my palms and turned to the water.

It was in this moment that something odd overtook me. I did not drop the near-dead fish into the water. Instead, I walked in a seeming trance to my bicycle, set it aright with one hand, and placed the fish into its basket.

I rode on.

I watched its gills fluttering as it rattled over the bumpy road, and its alien eyes staring into that great maw of a sky. I forced myself to go faster, and faster, until I too gasped for breath; and faster still, through the copse, down the hill, over the bridge, and along the river.

Here I stopped, chest heaving, and looked into my basket. An oval, silvery corpse stared back. This filled me with an uncharacteristically perverse swell of pride, as if I had directly absorbed it from those boys. No more the little gills working. No more the flaccid tail flipping. No more the ugly, wet eyes seeing.

I would like to tell you that I threw the fish's corpse into the river, but I am not a liar. I will not tell you where I left it. Only that the fish's dry, empty death left an aftertaste of bittersweet joy that I have failed to recapture since.