Eclipse

In the last moments of his dream he was a camel awash in the warmth of a miniature sun so close he felt he could have reached out and touched it. A kind handler was stroking his flanks and whispering words in a language he didn’t know. As he drifted up into wakefulness the handler became his uncle and he was no longer a camel but himself. In the grey and uncertain early light he felt the loss keenly. His uncle was telling him it was time to get up and he raised his head off the pillow and nodded and his uncle left him to get ready.

When he was dressed the boy went to the kitchen where his uncle sat at the table nursing a mug of black coffee. He poured himself a bowl of cornflakes with plenty of sugar and when he couldn’t find a clean spoon he took yesterday’s from the sink and gave it a quick rinse. Outside the kitchen window a kookaburra started to cackle and the rest of the clan quickly took up the call. From the neighbouring valley came an answering chorus and the two groups of birds traded maniacal war cries while he bent to his breakfast and watched his uncle sip his coffee in silence. The boy thought he looked a lot older than his father. He had big hands but a thin neck under a narrow head and with only a greying band of hair around the back and sides his forehead seemed endless.

When he’d finished his cornflakes he went and put the bowl in the sink then sat back down to wait. His uncle didn’t seem to speak very often, least of all in the mornings, but when he did he spoke gently and as though everything were almost a joke. After a few days of being frightened of this new house and this man with strange ways the boy had decided he liked him and now paid him closer attention than he’d ever paid to an adult before.

Nobody had told him why he was going to stay with his uncle, only that he’d be there for a week and that when he came back things would be better. Nobody had told him what things would be better or why.

As his uncle stood up and drained the last of his coffee the boy jumped down off his chair and ran to get his jacket from his room.

There was a rough dirt road that ran from his uncle’s house down to the bottom of the valley and along the side of the farmhouse before it joined the main dirt driveway on its way to the front gate of the property. The ute bounced and rolled alarmingly until they reached the driveway where the ride became easier, though the fishing gear in the back continued to rattle around. The boy still wasn’t sure why there were two houses or how much of the property his uncle owned. There were often cars in front of the farmhouse but since he’d arrived he’d seen nobody but his uncle.

Once they were out on the highway the morning fog started to burn off and the cab of the ute grew warm and stuffy. The boy kept a close eye on his uncle and when he saw him open the driver’s side window a crack he carefully rolled his own window down an equal amount. It was nearly the end of March and summer was still lingering. They were out of the hills now and the landscape that slid past was dry and unchanging.

When they reached the town they parked in the main street in front of the post office and his uncle switched off the engine.

You wait here, he said. I won’t be a minute.

The boy nodded and as the door slammed shut he leant his head against the window and watched a tiny spider descend from the side mirror on an invisible thread. It was Sunday so most of the shops were shut. The only other people the boy could see were two young kids on pushbikes riding slowly down the middle of the street, each with one hand on the handlebars and the other dangling loose. He watched them as they rode by but they were talking to one another and didn’t see him.

When his uncle returned he passed a plastic bag to him as he climbed in.

You hold on to that, he said.

What is it? the boy asked.

Breakfast for the fish. And medicine for me.

They boy frowned and peered into the bag.

Bait, his uncle explained.

The boy put the bag down by his feet where sat another plastic bag full of empty bottles.

From the town it was another half an hour to the river. The last ten minutes were by dirt road. On one side was a wire fence that ran as far as the boy could see in both directions and on the other were thick trees. All of a sudden his uncle pulled over and switched off the engine. The boy looked around but he still couldn’t see the water. His uncle had already climbed out and was getting the fishing gear from the back so he picked up the plastic bag with the bait and followed him.

They went in under the trees and soon the ground started sloping away. After a few minutes walking the soil grew damp and then the boy saw the underside of a metal dinghy that was lying overturned on a bare patch of earth. Behind it was the dark expanse of the river. His uncle put down the rods, the tackle box and the bucket and with a grunt of effort he lifted and rolled the boat the right way up. There were two low wooden planks for seats and a pair of oars strapped to the inside of the hull. The boy came a little closer and peered all along its length as though he were inspecting it for faults while his uncle did the same. It was both well used and well maintained.

Couldn’t somebody just take it? the boy asked.

They could I suppose. But you can’t see it from the road. That only leaves the river and if you’re on the river I figure you’ve probably already got a boat.

They threw in the rods and tackle box and the bag with the bait and together they pushed it into the water. The boy tried to copy his uncle’s smooth step into the boat as it cast off on the river but he didn’t get the timing right and ended up splashing along with the water up to his knees before he finally managed to haul himself aboard. He sat himself on the stern seat and looked at his shoes. They were wet and heavy. He thought about taking them off but as he bent down to unlace them he noticed an old fishhook lying in a pool of rusty water in the bottom of the boat and so left them on. His uncle was kneeling at the bow to unstrap the oars.

The current wasn’t strong and they drifted slowly downstream towards a bend in the river and towards the morning sun still sitting low in the sky. The boy looked across at the far bank and thought it looked very different from the one they’d just come from. The trees seemed to hang further out over the water and it was difficult to see where the land began in the shadows beneath their branches. His uncle finally got the oars into the locks and with even strokes he pulled them towards the middle of the river.

The boy had been proud to say when his uncle asked that he had been fishing before. He could bait a hook without sticking his thumb and he could work the reel mechanism to make a cast and his uncle said that was all anyone ever needed to know.

They drifted in the shadeless centre of the river where the current was listless and where his uncle said the shadow of the boat wouldn’t scare the fish that hid in the channel just under the far bank.

Fish are a slippery lot, he said. Smart too.

He had the boy pass him the bag with the bait and then filled the bucket with water from the river. He pulled from the bag a frozen lump of little prawns in plastic and tossed it into the bucket.

They’ll have to wait for breakfast to defrost, he said and produced a bottle wrapped in brown paper from the same bag the bait had been in. He unscrewed the top and took a long sip.

The boy leaned over the side and dangled his fingers in the water. The morning glare reflected off the surface and the impenetrable dark below seemed to swarm with possibilities. He imagined the tips of his fingers were bait and that they were being watched and patiently hunted by some undiscovered river creature lying cold amongst the rocks and weeds. He envisioned its huge eyes opening and a stirring of mud as it slithered up off the river bottom and began to circle. He saw its pale body undulating behind a head held perfectly still as a million years worth of predatory instincts fixated on its quarry and then with a twitch of its tail and a sudden burst of speed the jaws yawned wide lined with countless sharp and irregularly spaced teeth and he jerked his hand free of the water. The ripples dispersed and the surface was soon still again.

His uncle had the tackle box open and was digging about inside. He came up with a spare length of fishing line and tied one end to the oarlock. He took the bottle out of its brown paper wrapping and tied the other end of the fishing line tightly below a bulge in the neck then threw it overboard. The boy watched the bottle disappear then looked his uncle.

Keeps it cool, his uncle said. Nothing worse on a hot day than a hotter drink.

The boy nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

Once the bait was defrosted his uncle showed him how to use the natural curl of a prawn’s body to thread it onto the hook so no metal showed through.

On his first attempt to cast into the channel under the trees the boy threw too far and hooked an overhanging branch. He tugged a couple of times but it wouldn’t come loose. His uncle told him to hold both the rods while he rowed over and freed the sinker from a fork where it had become wedged. From then on the boy kept his casts low and most of them dropped well short of the shadows but he didn’t mind.

Through the first hour or so they both had a few bites but neither managed to hook anything. The sun climbed steadily and its heat reflected off the water and off the metal dinghy. Each time his uncle had to rebait his hook he’d drag up the bottle and take a drink first. The boy thought the water droplets sliding down the glass as it emerged from the river looked like heaven. His uncle hadn’t offered him a drink and so when the thirst became unbearable he leant over the side and drank straight from the river. It was cold and tasted clean enough. He drank deeply and then leaned further out of the boat so he could dunk his head and wash away all the sweat. As he did so he felt the dinghy start to tilt. He tried to pull himself back in but he was too far over and couldn’t get any leverage and as he started to panic he got a mouth full of water. He felt a strong tug as his uncle grabbed a hold of the back of his shirt and hauled him back on board. The boy sat coughing and wiping the water from his eyes as he tried to get his breath back. He still had his rod clutched tightly in his hand.

Thanks, he said.

You’ll want to take your shoes off before you go swimming, said his uncle as he took another drink and screwed the bottle cap on tight before dropping it back into the river.

Let’s try a bit further up upstream.

The sun was almost directly overhead by the time his uncle found a spot he was happy with and they baited their hooks again. The river was narrower here and the current a little stronger.

Should get us back to where we parked before dusk hits, his uncle said.

They cast towards the shadows again and this time the boy landed it close under the trees. He flicked the reel closed and rested his finger lightly against the line. He could feel the faint tension running through it from the current pulling them all downstream. Almost immediately he felt a tiny tug. He jerked the rod upwards slightly but whatever it was was gone. Then there came another tiny tug and before he could react the rod bent down sharply and was nearly jerked out of his hands. He managed to hold on and pulled back hard. He could feel the fish jerking and pulling all over as he fought to wind in the reel.

Got one, his uncle said. Just take your time and get him in.

The boy’s jaw was clenched tight and he gripped the rod with both hands and his knees. He wound in the line whenever he felt a little slack come into it and he could feel he was getting close. Suddenly there was a splash only a couple of metres from the boat and a tail flashed up amidst the brilliance of light caught in the disturbed water and then the line went slack. The rod was no longer bent down towards the water and the boy wound in the reel without resistance. The hook was gone.

Must have bit through the line, his uncle said. Don’t worry. We’ll get a new one on there in a minute. Wasn’t your fault. Fish are annoyingly particular about getting dragged along by a hook stuck through their mouth.

He handed the boy his rod and dragged up the bottle again. It was nearly three quarters empty. He took a drink then returned it to the river and stood up.

Nature calls, he said. Hold on to that for a second.

The boy held his uncle’s rod carefully and laid his finger against the line. The boat rocked as his uncle struggled to steady himself and then came a long bubbling sound and his uncle sighed deeply. The boy kept his eyes fixed on the spot where the line disappeared into the dark water under the trees. After what seemed like a very long time the bubbling stopped and his uncle sat down and started threading a fresh hook with a frown of deep concentration.

By mid afternoon they still hadn’t caught a fish. The trees drifting past were the only measure of their passage and the boy began to grow tired. From time to time his uncle took up an oar to keep them in the middle of the river. The boy thought all the fish must have been frightened away by his near miss because since he’d lost the hook they hadn’t had a nibble.

His uncle sat hunched in the front of the boat facing away from him the boy occasionally caught snatches of soft songs that he didn’t recognise. His finger had started to cramp a while back from being held still against the line for so long so he no longer bothered. Instead he held his rod loosely between his knees and watched the ripples in the river play with the sun that lay scattered over its surface. His shoes and socks were still damp and uncomfortable. Sitting in the bottom of the boat hadn’t allowed them to dry properly. A slight bend in the river was approaching and the boy noticed that they were beginning to drift in towards the bank but his uncle made no move towards the oar.

A kookaburra started up nearby. The boy looked up at the sun and saw it still had a long way to go to reach the horizon. He knew kookaburras were meant to call at dusk and dawn and he figured this one must live by some other clock.

They were drifting ever closer to the overhanging trees by the bank and the boy was starting to wonder if maybe he should give his uncle a tap on the shoulder to let him know when a slight jolt went through the boat. His uncle raised his head and looked around. The boy glanced over the side and saw a small wave where the current was running up against the boat rather than carrying them along with it. They were still a little way from the trees and the boy couldn’t work out why they’d stopped.

His uncle swore and when the boy looked over he saw him standing and fingering the line tied to the oarlock. It was taut as a bowstring.

Fucking bottle must have gotten snagged, his uncle said and tugged on the line. It wouldn’t budge. He handed his rod to the boy and started to tug harder and shake it from side to side trying to get it loose. He braced his foot against the side of the boat and the veins stood out on his neck and then without warning the bottle came free. The boy had time to note the look of surprise on his uncle’s face as he fell backwards and the boat flipped them both into the river. As he floundered about trying to rid himself of the fishing rods and his mouth filled with water he found himself looking up at the surface where the sun wavered thin and unaccountably small. A shadow moved across the sky and blocked it from view and when he reached up a hand he felt cold metal.