Page 57 of Moonless

“I can see it.”

It comes in close, then turns away from the bank, and I keep the bow down and watch it go.

“That one wasn’t yours?”

“I’m choosing.”

“Choose a slow one.”

Oh, shut up. I draw for the next fish, aiming closer beneath it. The arrow skims past its tail because I’ve waited too long.

“Fuck.”

The bow goes down, and I reach for the cord. I had the height. I could see the point pass it, nearly touching, and if I’d let go while it was beside the stone I’d have hit it.

I pull the arrow out and fit it to the string.

A claw taps the log. “The line.”

I glance down, and half of it’s piled by my foot, so I lower the bow again and spread it out. Not that he’s getting up.

A fish passes the stone before I’m ready, and I watch it all the way into the deeper water.

The next one’s mine.

I set my feet and wait with the bow down, my thumb in the worn place on the grip, until a dark head comes around the bend.

It swims out of the fast water toward the gravel. Smaller than the last one, spotted all down its back, and I can see the whole of it now.

I lift the bow while it’s still moving toward me. The string reaches my cheek, and I point below the fish, a little ahead of where it is.

I let go.

Water splashes up around the shaft, and the line jerks across the gravel.

The fish is on it.

I drop down and shove the bow behind me. I get the cord just as the last of the slack goes, and when the fish pulls I let it run a little, then grip.

“Oh, you can stop that.”

It turns toward the current, dragging the arrow sideways. Don’t you dare. I pin the cord to my thigh with my left hand and pull with my right, a bit at a time, and its tail’s beating hard enough to splash my knees.

One more pull and its head’s on the gravel, and I shuffle back on my heels until the whole fish is out of the water.

There.

It’s longer than my forearm, thrashing beside the arrow. I get a hand behind its head to keep it from flinging itself down the bank, but it’s too slippery, and I’m laughing, trying to get a proper grip on it.

I got it! Straight through, just behind the gills.

I look from the fish to the stone in the water. That’s where I aimed. That’s where it was when I let go.

There’s blood on my fingers, and I don’t care. I catch the narrow part above its tail and drag it farther onto the bank.

I kill it with a stone, work the arrow the rest of the way through so the barb doesn’t tear it, and stand up with my fish. Teeth would’ve been quicker.

A clap comes from the log.