Trouble the Water (Lalia)

In the summer months the people came in their multitudes to swim in the rivers running through to the east, farm hands cooling their burning shoulders in the clear running water, children trying to catch whatever minnows were left in homemade nets, ladies sunning themselves on the rocky banks as the distant call of a mocking jay was lost underneath the sound of gushing water. Though they could spread out a good distance down the rivers lurking at the edges of the fields kept solely for animals- no one would ever swim out as far out as Scutcher had. The fly fish came out here in the summer, thick in the air like heavy black smog rising from a fire, plastered along the tree bark and the stones, falling to the earth along the river bank where their tiny corpses lay thick on the ground. Here the water was stagnant, as though covered by a thick tarpaulin of moss and algae, jaundiced green and brown. Dead leaves were at rest on the top of the river, which divided into murky pools here, motionless as the water hung heavily in place like an unanswered question, spiders spinning their webs over fallen sticks and logs resting in the water, covering this part of the river in a thin gossamer curtain. Scutcher’s father used to take him out west sometimes to collect bait and catch the snakes that liked to gambol through the murky earth; mouths open to lazily scoop up what was left of the fly fish. If you didn’t have much else, snakes were good eating- a little chewy and tasteless though- so long as you could catch them, so long as you could be sure the farmers on the outlands hadn’t come out for first pick. “I grew up on these,” Loomis Tansy used to say with an element of nostalgia, picking at what little meat there was on a long stretching spine. Back when he’d been dirt poor. It was funny how life moved in concentric circles like that. Scutcher’s father had built his farm from the ground up, watching it slowly slip under and Scutcher had laid the foundation for his own farm on the wreckage, only to watch it burn.

And now they were back to eating snakes- or at least that was the idea, the unspoken shame of it burning an acidic hole in the pit of his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d been out here, a long way from being eight or nine; as simple as ever with hair that always wanted combing, a shirt that always wanted tucking in and a philtrum glistening with snot because it always wanted wiping. Back in those days his dad had been the greatest person alive, stalking the riverbank, a forked stick grasped between one massive fist. Standing to attention, so still that even his breathing seemed to halt, he would listen for the tell tale rustle of earth beneath a sleek body and dart like a king fisher with hands and prong, sinking out of sight until he would draw up again, bright, almost orange blood streaming from his knuckles sometimes but always clenched around the neck of a snake. That’s my father. The best of men. A few too many blows to the head, the ribs and anywhere else a fist could get at had knocked those thoughts right out of him now and the memory felt stagnant, buried beneath a thick tarpaulin of jaundiced algae. But Scutcher could catch something, maybe- take up the mantle, bring home a bag of snakes and make Tallow think, that’s my brother. The best of men. Or at least a competent man- Scutcher would settle for that right now.

He wasn’t a hunter though, slow moving, slow on the uptake- walking with his usual flat footed lope that worked perfectly ankle deep in a quagmire of muck surrounded by pigs but echoed through the fen, stirring up the fly fish in clouds tiny fluttering wings and dust mote-bodies. Twice he finally managed to catch the fleeting glimpse of something retreating into the piles of dead leaves, moss and pondweed, flailing his stick pointlessly and twice Scutcher failed. By the second time he was ready to throw his stick to the ground, and call it a day. ‘Scutcher is aware of his limitations,’ the teachers would tell his momma as though it were supposed to be a positive thing. He’s useless but at least he knows it. Knows there was nothing he can do but thrash wildly at the space where a snake used to be while his family starves.

Fuck his limitations.

And the next time he heard the rustling, saw the leathery dappled curve, Scutcher didn’t stop when it slipped away from his stick, taking off after it. Leaping over falling twigs and sprouting, knotted branches, Scutcher was more imagining the path of the snake than actually tracking it properly, running straight because it felt right more than it actually was. His shoulders were stiff, feet heavy as he followed, unable- of course- to match the snakes speed but gallantly trying and gallantly failing in the attempt. Closer to the river the mud was wetter than ever, creating slick paths into the deep pools and it only took a stone, scuffed against his shoe to send him lurching forwards, slipping on the mud and propelled towards one of the pools. Scutcher knew for sure that the water was fetid, diseased and rancid with the corpses of dead birds, animal faeces and lingering bacteria- his father had told him sharply not to drink it on one of their treks out here, listed all the reasons why, and even he- the muddy, dirty pig boy- prayed that he wouldn’t fall in. Luckily, he hit the floor like a sack of rocks and his trajectory was stopped short.

The fall winded him a little, stirring up some lingering old wound in his side and Scutcher rolled onto his back, gearing himself to stand up, every part of him slimy with mud seeped in algae, letting out a short breathy laughter. The sort of laughter that seems about to give way to tears at any minute. “I’m not very good at this, Noreen,” he said to the sky, the clouds of fly fish. There was never any response, save the sound of buzzing in his ears, he’d tried enough times now to realise that. “What am I gonna do?”

Getting up would be a start.

Knotting a hand through the earth, Scutcher pulled himself into a sitting position, pausing to run a hand through his curls and stare out at the pools. It was a strange place; dead, but…pregnant with something too, like a mouth pursed and ready to form a sentence though the words just wouldn’t come. Closer to the pools, Scutcher could see a disturbance in the algae, as though something had torn right through a fabric, revealing the rust coloured water below. Across the river from him, Scutcher saw the source of it and felt his heart lurch momentarily.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

It floated like the skeletal leaves, spread out like the fine points of the stars- the body of a man. His clothes skated in the water as though he were caught in a gentle breeze, shirt falling away the top of his head visible thought he rest of his face was under the water. From his place, Scutcher could see it matted and dark with more than just the damp. Scutcher licked his lips, once, twice , three times as he waited for his brain to catch up with his eyes, waited to form some coherent thought.

“You…you okay?” he called out across the river Clearly not.