It is a grey morning in the town of Freeburg. Little Mikey plays beneath an old oak tree, its branches bare in winter’s cold. He has a small plastic motorcycle with rider between his fingers, painted yellow but for a blue helmet, and he somersaults it between the gnarled roots.
‘Mikey Stansfield is up next!’ he mutters, charging the bike down an imaginary hill. ‘He will attempt the triple!’ He whisper-roars, a stadium a hundred thousand strong blaring in his mind. ‘This is the moment, ladies and gents. If he lands this, it will be a new world record …’
Above him, heavy white sheets are draped on lines between the branches, hoping for a touch of warmth. Little Mikey careers the bike around a bend in the root, preparing the little rider, a bright spotlight following the figure in his mind, a tower of earth rising in a ramp in front of it. ‘He is about to do it!’ He holds the little rider tight, ready for the moment of release. ‘Now!’
He launches the tiny bike into the air. It spins between his fingers. ‘One …’ he whispers, and the rider turns. ‘Two …’ And he spins again, the crowd hushed. ‘A triple!’ The little boy whoops, landing the bike on the edge of a damp sheet above him and tracking it round in a victory lap, a trail of mud behind it. ‘He’s done it! Mikey Stansfield is the king of the world!’
The rider leaps from the sheet, the boy pirouetting with it, somersaulting the bike onto the next as they fly. He peers at the head of the figure between his fingers, mesmerised by his bravery.
‘Mr Stansfield will now perform the greatest feat,’ he whispers into the rider’s ear. ‘He will make the ultimate jump, leaving the very atmosphere. If he does this, no rider in history can touch him.’
The rider nods, and together they take up their station on the edge of the world, looking out at the universe, the earth blue and massive beneath them. He is about to go, to sail off into the unknown––
‘Mikey!’
The voice is a shout, causing cold reality to rush back.
‘Momma, I …’
‘You’ve dirtied my sheets!’
Smack!
His bum stings as he skits away from her open hand.
‘Come, here!’
Little Mikey stops, knowing that he can’t disobey that voice.
‘Momma …’
‘Come here!’
He turns. She is wearing a white cotton dress, her body hot from work, and her dark curls dancing about her face.
‘Come and stand here.’
He does so, picking his way carefully through the mud, knowing what is coming. He looks up at her, she not so much taller than him any more. Her beautiful eyes are boiling with rage.
‘What did I tell you?’
‘Hang the sheets, Momma.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I …’
Her hand clasps his shoulder, her work-hardened fingers digging in. ‘This took me hours Mikey!’ She shakes him, and he closes his eyes. ‘You’ve got mud all over my sheets!’
He is waiting, his body tensed for the blow, but it doesn’t come. He opens his eyes. His momma is looking straight into him.
‘Mikey, you’ve got to concentrate.’
Tears are welling in her eyes, and his heart freezes.
‘I can’t be late like this!’
‘I’m sorry, Momma! I was playing …’
She shakes her head, and turns, and reaches out to take down the muddy sheets and bundles them, and then she walks toward a cabin standing wooden upon green fields.
‘Come on!’
He is about to run after her.
‘And leave that toy! I don’t want to see any more playing today.’
‘Yes, Momma,’ he calls, watching her receding. He waits a moment, and then bends to snatch the yellow man up from the ground.

The inside of his momma’s cabin churns with sound, and the air steams. Four washing machines are stacked one on top of the other on the far side of the room, and beside them are two big dryers. All of them are spinning, sending their banging and their hot breath into the little home. Little Mikey takes a step towards them, wanting to put his hands on their hot sides and listen to the worlds spinning inside.
‘Oh, look at you!’
She has dropped the dirty sheets beside the basin and has spied his dirty knees. Quickly she yanks off his yellow trousers, tossing them onto the sheets, and pulls a fresh pair down from their shared cupboard.
‘How did you get so dirty!’
‘I was jumping, Momma.’
She pushes him to the counter and helps him up onto it.
‘I don’t have time today, Mikey.’
‘I did a triple!’
‘Where’re your shoes?’ She looks around and spies them by the door. She pushes a cloth into the warm suds in the basin and begins to sponge his muddy feet. ‘I’m too busy today, Mikey.’
He reaches out, pushing his fingers into her curls.
‘I have something you must do for me.’ She dries his feet and slips fresh, hot socks onto each foot.
‘What’s it?’ He strokes her ears, letting their sides brush against his palms.
‘I need you to take an envelope to Mr Langeveld. He must get it by four.’
‘But what about the show?’
‘Mikey, please.’
‘Momma, you promised!’
She slips a clean white tennis shoe onto his right foot, and then the other. She begins to twist the laces, not looking up at him.
‘He must get it by four. No playing, and no visiting. Straight up the hill and straight back.’ She looks up at him sharply. ‘Mikey. Are you listening to me?’
He nods, visions of the show swirling through his mind.
‘Straight there, and straight back. Promise me.’
‘But, the trick riders are going to be there.’
She looks down to the laces, already tight. ‘We can go tomorrow.’
‘They won’t be there tomorrow! Only today.’
‘Well, that’s the best I can do.’
‘You always say that.’
‘And I always mean it, too.’ She takes both shoed feet in her hands, squeezing them. ‘Just, please help me. Okay?’
‘Okay, Momma,’ he whispers, running his fingers through her curls.
She raises her beautiful eyes to him, dark-ringed from work, and her smile lightens them. Her smile brings summer with it. ‘I’m going to try my best. If you get back early and I’m finished, then we can go and see. Okay?’
The little boy nods.
‘Mikey. Okay?’
She runs her fingers up to his ankles, tickling them.
‘Okay, Momma!’ He laughs, his mouth wide open and his eyes shining.
‘Straight there, and straight back?’
‘Yes, Momma.’
‘My brave boy.’
She puts her arms around him, sliding him off the counter, then kisses him on the cheek. She slips a folded brown envelope into his pocket.
He turns to the door and does not see the fresh tears that well in her eyes.
‘Straight there, and straight back.’
‘Yes, Momma.’ He reaches for the handle and steps out.

It seems the air has grown colder, despite the clear sky. A breeze is blowing across the farmlands, driving all memory of heat before it. He closes the door gently, and looks at the cold vista spread before him.
Set upon a hill, the town of Freeburg rises up. The way there begins with the path that leads straight from his momma’s door, winding across Mr Langeveld’s open farmland made soft by rain, through the smear of labourers’ huts strung east and west along the dark highway, jinking left and right through the settlement, crossing the highway and going up, through the smaller houses of the factory workers and machinists, and higher, among the bright houses of the clerks and teachers and shopkeepers, up and up, to the very top, where men like Mr Langeveld live.
‘Well, Mr Stansfield,’ says Little Mikey, opening his hand to reveal the yellow rider, his mouth below his silver visor drawn in an ever-determined line. ‘We have a difficult mission ahead of us today. We’ve got to deliver momma’s envelope, and see you jump.’
And so Little Mikey steps off of the top step of his momma’s cabin, and then he runs, his feet flying over the wintry grass, his white shoes already covered in mud.
Instead of following the path straight on across the highway and all the way up the distant hill, like his momma said, he veers away, leaving the main path for another that tracks away through the grass, heading for the distant bustle of Main Street, the centre of Freeburg town itself.
Inside the cabin a song begins. It is the song his momma sings when the hours merge with the churning of the machines, and she too slips off to an adventure while the soap suds hold the world. The song is sweet. A memory of a different time, and place.

The boy has his line in the water, and through it he can feel everything. The gentle pull of the current below, the creaking of the kelp beds as they swirl in the green water, and the clicking of the kray as they tiptoe their way over rock and shell, hungry. 

The surface glitters. He closes his eyes against the glare. Here in the northern channel, between the outer rocks of the Island, all is feel but for the slapping water against the hull of the little boat. All is the line. 

Around his bare feet five fish lie, four of them spookvis, ghost-grey and flat and blunt. They stare, eyes sightless mirrors to the sky, while the fifth, a strange one, continues to gasp. The boy looks at it, scowling. The fish is grey also, but there is a shimmer between its scales: a rainbow rippling in the rain. He has not seen such a fish before. It lies quiet, its gills fanning the empty air. 

‘Strange fish,’ he mutters into his sparse beard. 

He turns from his catch to the sea. The Sentinel rises above him, a ten-foot tower of black rock marking the edge of the island cluster that he has known always. Beneath it, on the green water, a tiny white V trails from his line. He allows his eyes to relax, the V melting into the clouded water. Once again he feels down, all of his attention diving to the hook and its meat, and through it, searching for a sign. 

The ocean breathes. 

Something plays in him, a flitting in his stomach, a tightening. 

The line falls from his finger. 

The corner of his lip tugs upward, ever so slightly.

There. 

A slow pull and then nothing. But it is enough. 

Twee faam, two fathoms beneath him a spookvis has the bait in its sucking mouth. He can see the little fish in his mind’s eye. Tasting quietly, eyes open as the pleasure of the wet meat seeps through. Inside the bait is the hook, but the fish does not know it. 

‘Eat,’ he murmurs. 

‘Eat,’ agrees the fish. 

He knows his quarry is still testing, tasting. When the line begins a longer pull, so slight that only instinct will show it, he will know the fish has begun to turn and swim. Then he will strike. 

He watches the line, listening, waiting. 

A chill runs through him. He looks up to the horizon. A bank of white is laid out, reaching from the sea halfway to the midmorning sun. 

He frowns, looking back down at the fish between his feet. 

Only five. 

The fog is moving at speed. When it hits the fish will dive away and there will be nothing for it but the slow way home, watching for the Island’s rocks rising from the gloom. 

His eyes return to the water and his ears to the gentle creak of the line on his finger. There it is. That pulling, lighter than air, that slow pressure of a sucking mouth. 

‘Eat,’ he murmurs, raising his eyes to the approaching fog. 

‘Eat,’ hums the little fish. 

Bang! The line razors through the green water, his rubber-covered fingers curling as it cuts the little one below. 

Swish-swish, swish-swish, he hauls the fish in, his arms slapping against his rubber-suited sides, the glistening coils of the line gathering at his feet.

There it is! That faint silver in the green, a flashing disk down there. He pulls, now seeing the tail, the fin, and the eye, as it comes fighting to the surface with the hook in its mouth. 

The creature bulges beneath the veil, magnified, until he reaches down and takes the line in a turn around his wrist and plucks it from the water. He swings it clear and lets it slap down on the thwart, criss-crossed with the years of his knife. Another spookvis, as grey and flat as the others. He lays a hand to its gasping and twists the hook from its throat. It falls to the bottom and sets to dancing against the smothering air, as quickly he turns to his motor and jerks it to life. 

He swings the boat in an arc beneath the Sentinel, setting his bow to home. 

‘Only six.’ The words drip though his mind as he speeds across the water. ‘Only six.’ 

Five are spookvis, the last still wet and kicking. But the sixth is different, a strange colour pulsing through its flesh. It lives still, one eye watching the fading sun. 

***

Hours later the fog has burned away and the little town of the Baai shimmers in the summer heat. The boy makes his way along a rutted track through the veld. He pulls against his cart. With only six in the bed the frame is heavier than the load. The cart’s wooden wheels dig into the sand; his dusty toes dig in also. The sand is hot between them. 

‘Just six,’ he mutters through his twisted lip. It would have been easier to carry them, but the cart had to be taken home anyway. 

The smell comes first: a blend of salt, and fish, and diesel. And now he sees it. Ahead of him rises the fabriek, the factory, a rash of low buildings clustered near the water, not far from the high-tide mark. The old jetty stands rotten among the rocks and the lapping sea, unused for twenty years since the trucks and the highway came. 

He winds his way between the low fynbos – hardy plants built for drought, and salt, and sun. He leans against the weight of the cart as he crosses the boundary line. The sand lies soft and thick in a bank here, a jerk to pull it over, and then the wheels take to concrete and the cart lightens. It clatters behind him. 

He stops to let a forklift pass; it whirs on its electric wheels with a crate of salted harder held high, and then on he goes, into the shadow of the open sorting floor. 

A row of women are cleaning and filleting a meagre catch of harder for the salt racks. Thin fingers of fish slip down the line and through their deft hands. He keeps his head low, his eyes on the ragged floor. He knows they see him. All of them, looking at the one pulling his cart, who would call himself a fisherman. Through his brows he looks up and to his left. There is the office above the factory floor. The door is ajar; he marks that. His knuckles tighten on his pull bar. An open door means one thing: the owner of the fabriek is here. 

The big weighing scale lies ahead of him. Once he has logged his catch he will be able to leave. He begins to hurry. 

‘And, how goes?’

The boy stops, caught. It is Salie the storeman who has spoken; Salie, the keeper of the scale. 

He does not answer. Instead he merely nods while keeping his eyes to his bare feet. 

‘Is die chokkie leeg? Is the cart empty?’ asks Salie, walking up and peering into it, his notebook and pencil in hand. 

The boy does not respond. He stands stoop-shouldered, the yoke of the cart hanging loose across his chest.

‘And the sea?’

‘Nothing good,’ whispers the boy. 

‘Hell now!’ Salie gives a short whistle and taps the side of the cart. ‘Look at that!’

The boy scowls, his eyes fixed to his feet. 

‘Jonny, you got a rainbow fish!’ 

‘A rainbow fish?’

‘That’s a good fish,’ says Salie, reaching down to prod the shimmering creature. ‘Hell, look! It’s still breathing!’

The boy peers into his cart. In the bottom lie his five spookvis, dead. But the sixth… Its gills fan the empty air while its eye looks up to them. To the boy it seems to see them and see beyond them. 

‘Rainbow fish. That’s a good eating fish.’ Salie leans in close to the boy, speaking low. ‘You want to trade it? I’ll give you a pallet of harder…’ Salie nods to the women, their hands raking fish, and then he glances up to the office with its door ajar. ‘Your weight will look much better.’

The boy studies the bright fish. He shakes his head and instead reaches down to scoop it up. He opens his tuck box fixed to the front of the cart and slips it in.

Salie shrugs. ‘It’s a good eating fish, you will have a good supper tonight.’ The store-man claps the boy’s shoulder and smiles into his eyes. Old Salie. The boy knows this face well. He is about to return the smile, when Salie frowns.

‘Watch out,’ he whispers.

The boy turns to look. In the bustle of the sorting floor a man is lumbering towards them. He is dressed in the clothes of the men of means of the Baai – big felt-lined boots, tiny denim shorts, a khaki shirt and a leather wide-brimmed hat, but that is where the similarity ends. He towers over the folk of the sorting floor. His boots are twice the size of their own, his head and shoulders loom above them, and despite his size he moves with an alarming grace. The women go quiet as Uncle Mike Morkel, MD of the Hansbaai Fishing Consortium stalks down the line, a bear in shorts and shirt. 

‘Jonny. How goes it?’ Rumbles the giant as he reaches the two of them. He drops his large and hairy hand onto the cart, rocking it. ‘How was the day?’

The boy does not answer.

‘He has some spookvis,’ says Salie. 

The huge man peers into the cart, his sharp brown eyes looking down at the five lying dead there. 

‘The fog came in,’ whispers the boy into his wispy beard. ‘I went all the way out to the point, before sun-up.’

‘The catch is very shit,’ says Salie, nodding. 

Uncle Mike nods also, placing a massive hand between the boy’s shoulder blades, letting the warmth of his great palm seep into the bones. 

‘Five spookvis. This is your worst catch yet.’ The big man sighs. ‘How am I going to feed everyone?’

The boy stares at his bare feet. Scales are crusted between his toes. ‘I will try the reef tomorrow,’ he whispers. ‘Maybe I’ll have some luck.’

Uncle Mike nods, and then turns his gaze back to the five fish. 

‘A poor size. Weigh them, and come back to me tomorrow.’

‘I’ll need some petrol,’ whispers the boy. ‘The reef is far.’

‘No petrol. You can’t expect petrol when you bring me this.’

There is a brief pressure from the hand on his shoulder, a pressure that creaks the bones. The boy freezes, waiting, hoping, and then the pressure is gone. He turns to look, and there is the great figure of Uncle Mike striding from them, his body rising to the angular gallows of his shoulders. The boy sighs, the dread in his stomach passing as the big man climbs the steps to the office and stoops as he steps inside. Salie raises a hand to pat the boy’s shoulder. 

‘The fish were not biting.’

‘Nobody caught good today.’ 

Salie reaches into the cart and pulls out the inner crate, dumping the five spookvis onto the scale. The needle on the dial barely flickers, and Salie jots their weight down. 

‘I tried. It’s the sea.’ 

Salie flicks the fish one by one onto the vlekking line.

‘Could I get some petrol for tomorrow, Salie? The reef is far.’

Salie glances up at the office, the door ajar. ‘I’m sorry, seun. He will know.’ 

‘But how much did others catch?’

‘You can’t expect petrol when you bring only five.’

‘But did anyone else catch?’

Again Salie glances up to the office with the door ajar before flicking his eyes to the boy. ‘No,’ he mouths, before turning back to his paper.

‘Come on, Salie, from the back store,’ whispers the boy, reaching out to tug at the man’s sleeve. Gently, Salie pulls it away. 

‘Enjoy your rainbow fish. It’s a good eating fish.’ 

The boy sighs. He turns his cart, his eyes to the concrete of the sorting floor, and then he heads home.

***

The boy’s hut stands by the side of the track, full of roof and window and door. Before the dilapidated building is a patch of sand that once contained grass, and around that is a sagging fence and a rusting gate. Behind it an apple tree rises, its leaves sparse in the summer heat. He lets go of his cart to rest under the old, patched awning. He unclips the tuck box, feeling the weight of the rainbow fish inside, and clicks through the rusted gate. 

‘At least I have supper.’

He places the tuck box on the rough table outside and pulls his cutting board near. In the sparse rains of summer he prefers to cook outside and sometimes even to sleep, wondering up at the stars. 

He takes his knife from its sheath and runs it across his thigh, cleaning the blood-flecked blade. With his other hand he unhooks the clasp of the tuck box and reaches inside, bringing the rainbow fish out into the light. 

He places it on the table, and his blade pauses in the air. 

Still, the fish is breathing. As air wafts across its ribboned gills, the little fish looks up at him. 

‘Strange,’ thinks the boy.

‘Eat? ’ he asks the little fish.

It does not answer. 

He peers at the thing and sees that in its flesh there is more to be discovered: a sheen between the scales. He shifts the cutting board towards the sun. The fish comes alive, flapping in the light, its flesh filled with the colours of the sky and sea, shimmering from tail to gill. 

‘What are you?’ asks the boy as he traps the fish with a gentle hand and brings it back to the cutting board. He places his palm on its flank, quieting it with his own quiet. 

He slips his blade beneath the jaw of the little fish and pulls it through to the tail. 

He pushes the mess of intestine, lung, heart, liver and bowel aside and cuts across the tail and beneath the gills, opening the fish up to the sky. He takes it by the tail and dunks it in a bucket of sea water standing ready, cleaning it, and then he dumps the guts in the bucket also. Bait for tomorrow.

He leaves the little fish filleted, placed beneath a net to ward off the flies, then he collects fresh water from his two big drums round the side of his hut and returns to wash down the cart. With a tattered sack he scrapes it clean of scales and blood, and then he douses the sack in fresh water and leaves them to dry in the afternoon sun, placing his freshly washed knife beside them. He climbs from his torn trousers and his tattered shirt and douses them also. Naked, he returns to the side of his shelter, where the fynbos comes creeping down from the hills, and washes his blood-caked hands before once again putting them in the clean water and washing his body. Finally clean, he lies down to rest on his mat within his hut, away from the still burning sun. 

He dreams of the deep. 

Later, his appetite takes him back to the fish, and he lights a fire beneath the blaze of the Milky Way. He grills the little fish and eats it, looking up to the stars. He turns his attention to the remains, scooping them out of the water. And then he pauses. Among the soft organs of the fish is something hard. He turns to light his gas lamp, and by its hissing white light he sees it: almost round, and flickering with all the colours of the fish itself. A pearl. 

He plucks it from the mess in his hand and rolls it in the centre of his palm.

He lays his eye to it. 

In it, the future dances. 

The boy smiles. 

Beneath the table, amidst the muck of its guts, the head of the fish lies still, its dead eye looking up to the moon.

Deur die lyn in sy hand kan die seun alles voel. Die sagte sleur van die stroom, die kelp wat wuiwend kreun in die groen water, en die gekliek van die honger kreef wat oor die seebodem van klip en skulpgruis skarrel.

Die wateroppervlak skitter fel. Hy sluit sy oë. Hier in die noordelike sloep, tussen die verste rotse van die Eiland, gaan als in elk geval oor gevoel. Als behalwe die geklots van water teen die romp van die skuit. Die res kan jy in die lyn voel.

Om sy kaal voete lê vyf visse, waaronder vier spookvis, grougrys en plat en met stomp gesigte. Hulle reeds siglose oë staar stil na bo, weerspieël die lug, maar die vyfde vis, die vreemde een, leef nog. Die seun frons en kyk weer na dié vis. Dis ook grys van kleur, maar iets glinster tussen die fyn skubbe: ’n reënboog wat biggel in die reën. Hy het nog nooit só ’n vis gesien nie. Dit lê stil, maar die mond probeer asemhaal, die kieue wat nie kan skep wat hulle moet nie.

“Vreemde vissie,” mompel hy deur sy skrapse baardjie.

Sy oë dwaal van sy vangs terug na die see. Die Brandwag toring bo hom uit, ’n tienvoet hoë swart rotsspits wat ’n baken vorm aan die verste punt van die eilandjies wat hy al sy lewe lank ken. Onder die Brandwag verraai ’n fyn, wit V op die water waar sy vislyn onder die oppervlak verdwyn. Hy laat ontspan sy oë, en die V raak weer een met die troebel water. Sy aandag duik van die lyn in sy hand al die pad na waar die vleis aan die hoek hang. Op soek na ’n teken. Die see haal asem.

Dit voel asof iets binne hom rondspeel, ’n fladdering in sy maag, iets verstyf. Die lyn glip van sy vinger af en die hoek van sy mond krul in die geringste van glimlagte. Dáár.

’n Effense plukkie, en dan niks. Maar dis genoeg.

Twee vaam onder hom suig ’n spookvis aan sy aas. Hy kan die vissie voor sy geestesoog sien. Dit proe stilletjies, met oop oë, die bevredigende smaak van die nat vleis sypel deur sy monddele. Binne die aas skuil die hoek, maar hiervan wis die vis niks.

“Eet,” fluister die seun.

“Eet,” beaam die vis.

Hy weet sy prooi proe nog eers. Wanneer die lyn met ’n langer pluk verstyf sal hy weet dat die vis die aas ingesluk en begin wegswem het. Eers dán sal hy kap.

Hy hou die lyn dop, luister, wag.

’n Koue rilling gaan deur sy lyf. Hy kyk op na die horison, waar ’n wit misbank lê – van vas teen die see tot halfpad onder die mid-oggendson.

Hy frons, kyk weer af na die vyf visse om sy voete. Net vyf.

Die mis rol in. Wanneer dit hom bereik, sal die vis wegduik en dan sal hy noodgedwonge die lang pad terug huis toe moet aanpak, met ’n wakende oog op die Eiland se rotse.

Sy oë draai terug na die water en sy ore na die effense spanning van die lyn op sy vinger. Dáársy. Daardie ligte maar definitiewe trek van die lyn, die vis wat die aas in sy mond insuig.

“Eet,” fluister hy weer, en kyk op na die mis in aantog. “Eet,” neurie die vissie.

Kap! Die lyn sny soos ’n lem deur die groen water, sy handskoenbedekte vingers skielik krom van die inspanning.

Swiesj-swiesj, swiesj-swiesj, katrol hy die vis nader, sy arms wat klap teen die rubber van sy oorpak, die vislyn wat in glinsterende krulle om sy voete vermeerder.

Daar! ’n Dowwe flits van onder die groen water. Hy trek lyn in, die stert word sigbaar, dan die rugvin, en – terwyl die vis op die oppervlak voortveg, die hoek sigbaar in sy mond – ’n oog.

Die vis bult hier naby, grotesk vergroot onder die net van water. Hy buk af om dit raak te vat. Die lyn krul om sy gewrig wanneer hy dit uit die water tel. Hy swaai die vis oor die rand van die skuit en laat val dit op die roeibankie waar jare se mesmerke ingekerf lê. Nóg ’n spookvis, grys en plat soos die ander. Sy hand bedek die hygende bek en hy woel die hoek los. Die vis val flappend op die bodem, ’n doodsdans teen die versmorende lug, terwyl die seun vinnig omswaai en die buiteboordmotor aan die brand pluk.

Hy draai in ’n boog onder die Brandwag om en rig die boeg huiswaarts.

“Net ses.” Die woorde drup deur sy gedagtes terwyl hy versnel. “Net ses.”

Vyf spookvisse, die laaste een nog nat en spartelend. Die sesde is anders, ’n vreemde kleur wat glim onder die skubbe. Dit leef nog, een oog op die nou reeds dowwe son gerig.

Die Baai, ’n klein dorpie, skitter in die somerson. Dis ure later, en die mis het weggeskroei. Die seun baan sy weg deur die veld, al met ’n sinkplaatpaadjie langs. Hy sleep sy waentjie. Met net ses visse in die wa is die raamwerk daarvan swaarder as die vrag. Die houtwiele karring in die sand; sy kaal tone grawe in, die sand vuurwarm tussen hulle.

“Net ses,” mompel hy met sy haaslip. Dit sou seker makliker gewees het om hulle net te dra, maar die waentjie moet in elk geval ook huis toe.

Die reuk tref hom eerste: ’n mengsel van sout, en vis, en diesel. Dan sien hy dit. Voor hom verskyn die fabriek, ’n klossie geboue ingehurk naby die water, net bo die hoogwatermerk. Die ou, verrottende hawehoof tussen die rotse en die see, dié is twintig jaar laas gebruik, vóór die koms van die groot lorries en die snelweg.

Die paadjie swenk deur die fynbos, geharde plante gemaak vir droogte, sout en son. Hy leun teen die gewig van die waentjie en steek die grenslyn oor. Hier is die sand sag en diep, en hy moet ekstra insit om die waentjie deur te sleep. Dan kry die wiele vat op die beton en die wa voel dadelik ligter. Dit klater agter hom aan.

Hy stop sodat ’n vurkhyser kan verbykom; dit woer voort op elektriese wiele, ’n krat vol ingesoute harders omhoog, en dan stap hy aan en in by die oop deur van die sorteervloer.

’n Ry vroue is besig om harders skoon te maak en te fileer – dis nie ’n groot vangs nie, en als bestem vir die soutrakke. Dun mote vis glip deur hul vaardige hande en dan voort op die voerband. Hy hou sy kop laag, sy oë op die deurtrapte vloer. Hy weet hulle sien hom. Almal kyk, na dié outjie met sy waentjie, wat durf om homself ’n visserman te noem. Hy loer na daar waar die kantoor links bo die fabrieksvloer sit. Die deur is oop. Sy kneukels verstyf op die wa se trekstang. ’n Oop deur beteken net een ding: die baas is hier.

Die groot skaal staan reg voor hom. Sodra hy sy vangs geregistreer het, kan hy weer vort.

“En, hoe’s dinge?”

Die seun steek vas, uitgevang. Dis Salie die stoorman se stem; Salie, die weegmeester.

Hy antwoord hom nie, knik net, en hou sy oë op sy kaal voete.

“Is die tjokkie leeg? vra Salie, en stap nader om in die waentjie se laaibak te loer, notaboek en potlood in die hand.

Hy antwoord steeds nie. Hy staan met geboë skouers, die juk van sy waentjie wat nou los oor sy bors hang.

“En die see?”

“Nie waffers nie,” fluister die seun.

“Wat die hel!” Salie gee ’n kort fluit en tik teen die kant van die wa. “Kyk net!”

Die seun frons, sy oë op sy voete. “Jonny, jy’t ’n reënboogvis gevang!”

“ ’n Reënboogvis?”

“Dis ’n goeie vis,” sê Salie, en druk met sy vinger aan die glinsterende lyf. “Heng, kyk! Hy haal nog asem!”

Die seun loer in die waentjie. Onder in die laaibak lê sy vyf spookvisse, dood. Maar die sesde... die kieue kam steeds verbete na suurstof wat daar nie is nie. Een oog staar hulle aan. Vir die seun voel dit asof die oog hulle sien, maar ook verbykyk, na iets verder weg.

“Reënboogvis. Blêddie lekker eetvis.” Salie leun nader aan die seun en vra dan saggies: “Wil jy dit ruil vir iets? Ek gee jou ’n palet harder...” Salie knik in die vroue se rigting, hulle hande wat vis opraap, en loer dan op na die oop kantoordeur. “Jou gewig sal baie beter wees.”

Die seun bekyk die vreemde vissie. Hy skud sy kop, buk, vat die vis en sit dit in sy kostrommel wat voor aan die waentjie gemonteer is.

Salie haal sy skouers op. “Dis ’n goeie eetvis, jy gaan lekker aandete hê vanaand.” Die stoorman klop die seun op sy skouer en glimlag vir hom. Ou Salie. Die seun ken sy gesig so goed. Hy wil net glimlag, toe Salie skielik frons.

“Pasop,” fluister hy.

Die seun draai om. Deur die gewoel van die sorteervloer sien hy ’n man sy weg na hulle toe baan. Hy dra die klere van die welaf-manne van die Baai – groot plastiek-en-rubber stewels, ’n denimkortbroek, ’n kakiehemp en ’n breërandleerhoed. Hy toring uit bo die fabriekswerkers. Sy stewels is twee keer groter as dié van almal op die sorteervloer, sy kop en skouers steek ver bo hulle s’n uit. Ondanks sy grootte beweeg hy vinnig, byna grasieus. Die vroue hou op klets wanneer “Uncle” Mike Morkel, besturende direkteur van die Hansbaai- Vissery-Konsortium verbykom, ’n beer geklee in kortbroek en hemp.

“Jonny. Hoe gaan dit?” vra die reus. Hy laat val een van sy groot, harige hande op die rand van die waentjie, en wieg dit heen en weer. “Hoe was jou dag?”

Die seun antwoord nie.

“Hy het ’n paar spookvisse,” sê Salie.

Die groot man kyk met sy wakker bruin oë na die vyf dooie visse.

“Die vis het nie gebyt nie. Die mis het ingekom,” fluister die seun verskonend vanuit sy baardjie. “Ek was uit tot by die Brandwag, al voor sonop.”

“Al die vangste was maar kakkerig,” beaam Salie.

Uncle Mike knik en plaas sy massiewe hand tussen die seun se skouerblaaie sodat die hitte van sy groot handpalm tot in die seun se bene sypel.

“Vyf spookvisse. Dis jou vrotste vangs nóg.” Die groot man sug. “Hoe dink jy moet ek kos op almal se tafel sit?”

Die seun staar na sy kaal voete. Skubbe sit vasgekoek tussen sy tone. “Ek sal môre by die rif gaan probeer,” fluister hy. “Dalk is ek gelukkig.”

Uncle Mike knik weer, en staar na die vyf visse. “Klein ook. Weeg hulle, en kom môre weer om.”

“Ek het petrol nodig,” fluister die seun. “Die rif lê wyd.”

“Nee. Jy kan nie petrol verwag as jy dié vir my bring nie.”

Die hand om sy skouer klem vlugtig stywer, en dit voel vir die seun asof sy bene kraak. Hy vries, maar dan is die ekstra druk genadiglik weer weg. Hy draai om en kyk hoe Uncle Mike wegstap met sy blok van ’n lyf waarvan die skouers reghoekig is, soos ’n galg. Die seun sug verlig, die knoop in sy maag ontspan. Die groot man klim die trappe na die kantoor uit en buk effe om by die deur in te gaan. Salie gee hom ’n bemoedigende tikkie teen die arm.

“Niemand het vandag veel gevang nie,” troos Salie. Hy tel die krat met die vyf spookvissies uit en keer dit op die skaal om. Die naald roer skaars. Salie teken die gewig aan.

“Ek het probeer. Dis die see,” maak die seun verskoning.

Een vir een skiet Salie die visse op die vleklyn oor.

“Salie, kan ek asseblief petrol kry vir môre?”

Salie loer op na die kantoordeur, wat steeds oopstaan. “Ek’s jammer, boeta. Hý sal sê.”

“Maar hoeveel het die ander gevang?”

“Jy kan nie petrol verwag as jy net vyf visse inbring nie.”

“Maar het iemand anders iets gevang?”

Salie kyk weer na die kantoordeur en rig dan sy oë op die seun. “Nee,” sê hy, en draai weg.

“Komaan, Salie, uit die agterste stoorkamer,” fluister die seun, en vat Salie pleitend aan die mou. Salie pluk sy arm los.

“Geniet jou reënboogvis. Dis ’n goeie eetvis.”

Die seun sug. Hy draai sy waentjie om, sy oë op die betonvloer, en begin aanstap huis toe.

Die seun se hut is langs die paadjie, en is so klein jy sien net dak, deur en venster. Voor die lendelam geboutjie is ’n kol oop sand waar gras eens gegroei het, en rondom span ’n heining waarvan die draad al slap hang. Agter die huisie staan ’n appelboom met yl blare in die somerson. Hy sleep sy wa tot in die skaduwee van ’n gelapte afdakkie net buite die geroeste tuinhek. Hy maak sy kostrommel los, swaai die hekkie oop en stap deur, die gewig van die reënboogvis gerusstellend in die blik.

“Ten minste het ek aandete.”

Hy sit die trommel op die buitetafel neer en trek sy snyplank nader. Synde dit selde in die somermaande reën verkies hy om buite kos te maak en soms selfs buite onder die sterre te slaap.

Hy trek sy mes uit dié se skede en vryf die bloedbevlekte lem teen sy bobeen skoon. Met die ander hand knip hy die trommel oop en haal die vis uit. Toe hy dit voor hom op die tafel neersit, bly die meslem in die lug talm.

Die vis haal nog steeds asem. Lug spoel oor die fyn tekstuur van sy kieue, en daardie oog staar vas in syne.

“Vreemd,” dink hy hardop. “Eet?” vra die vissie, maar nóg vis nóg seun antwoord.

Hy bekyk die vissie sorgvuldig. Dit lyk dan asof die blinkerigheid van tússen die skubbe kom, asof dieper uit die vleis. Hy skuif die snyplank tot in ’n sonkol op die tafelblad. Dadelik flap die vis van die bord af, die son wat nou die kleure uitlig – die skakerings van die see en van die lug – terwyl die hele vis van kop tot stert glim.

“Wát is jy?” vra die seun terwyl hy die vis liggies beetkry en terugskuif op die bord. Hy plaas sy palm op die vis se sy om dit te kalmeer en glip dan die lem onder die kake in, trek dit deur na die stert. Hy druk die binnegoed uit, die long, hart, lewer en derms, en skuif dit eenkant, en sny dan dwars oor die stert en onder die kieue sodat die vis oopflap. Hy tel dit aan die stert op en dompel dit in ’n emmer seewater wat gereed staan, spoel dit af, en skraap dan die binnegoed in die emmer. Môre se aas.

Hy los die gevlekte vis net daar, gooi ’n netjie vir die vlieë daaroor, en gaan skep dan vars water uit een van die twee groot tenks aan die kant van die huisie. Dan begin hy sy waentjie was. Met ’n goiingsak vee hy die bloed en skubbe uit die bak, spoel daarna die sak met skoon water uit en hang dit in die son om droog te word. Ook sy mes word deeglik afgespoel en tussen die sak en waentjie neergesit. Hy trek sy geskeurde broek en ewe vodde hemp uit en dié word ook uitgespoel. Kaal stap hy na die kant van sy skuiling waar die fynbos tot teenaan kom, en was die droë bloed van sy hande, en daarna sy lyf. Wanneer hy uiteindelik skoon is, gaan lê hy op ’n matjie binne sy hut, uit die pad van die genadelose son.

Hy droom van die diepsee.

Wanneer hy wakker word, is hy honger en sy gedagtes draai terug na die vis. Onder die gloed van die Melkweg steek hy ’n vuurtjie aan. Hy braai die vissie en sit en tuur dan na die sterre terwyl hy eet. Daarna gaan skep hy die binnegoed uit die emmer, bevoel dit met sy vingers. Wat de… Tussen die sagte binnegoed voel hy iets hard. Hy steek sy gaslamp aan en wanneer die sissende wit lig als helder maak, sien hy dit: amper rond, met dieselfde kleure as die vis. ’n Pêrel.

Hy pluk dit uit die dermgoed en rol dit in sy een palm rond.

Hy bekyk dit goed.

In dié korreltjie dans die toekoms, dink hy. En glimlag.

Onder die tafel tussen die binnegoed, lê die vis se kop met een dooie oog na die maan gedraai.