Song for Night

Fish Is a Hand Swimming through the Air

I don’t know how long I’ve been stranded on the sandbank, having lost track of time. Night blends into day blends into night, seamlessly. The sound of distant gunfire reaches me though I feel no need to return to the war. I have lost my taste for death. But I do want to find my platoon. I am a little concerned that it is taking this long to catch up with them. I calculate that I was probably unconscious for a few hours, so they can’t be that far ahead. Of course I have been traveling alone which has meant doubling back and now spending time on this isle. I have probably lost days now, but I am a skilled tracker and should be able to catch them still. I have to get off this shifting island first; but something is keeping me here.

Life on the sandbank isn’t bad. I have repaired one of the huts reasonably, and my diet of fish is supplemented by a small garden left by one of the fishermen. It has some yams, tomatoes, peppers, and even vegetables. It won’t last much longer though, but for now, like Robinson Crusoe, I am content not to make any plans. Luckily there are several earthenware pots full of rainwater which tastes cool and refreshing, if mildly of earth. Yet even if it tasted brackish, I am glad for it. Drinking the river water, with all the rotting corpses it holds, will surely kill me.

I sleep in some planks I have rigged up in the rafters. On the ground I would be too vulnerable to the crocodiles that now come boldly onto the sandbank believing it deserted. A few well-placed shots might scare them off, but I am loathe to waste ammo.

Though I still don’t rest, I sleep a lot now. There isn’t much else to do. Long deep nights where my dreams are treks across star-spangled deserts with my dead comrades and relatives calling in the distance just out of reach. Always out of reach. Lazy siestas, the sun tickling me through the holes in the thatch, weevils causing dust to fall, waking me up sneezing. But even in daylight, even in these siestas, I am plagued by vivid nightmares. I always wake up sweating, the dreams leaving a tangy bitter aftertaste for hours.

I stretch and head for the water, distracting myself by trying to fish without a line, dribbling a string of saliva into the water like Grandfather taught me. I have been trying it for days without much luck, but today feels different. The string of saliva sets up gentle ripples and bubbles in the water not unlike those caused by a fish. Soon the catfish beneath me slows to a halt, whiskers reading the water for the intruder. Half hypnotized, it just floats there, senses deflected from the shadows above. My hand snakes out with the speed of a cobra and catches the fat catfish behind its head. I pull it out and slam it on the bank once.

It dies.