3. The dead fish

Sorry, the post got deleted, so I had to repost it and now it's not in the right order. I hope you'll forgive me and let it pass :)

3. The dead fish

                      I woke up from the turning in my belly and thirst. I really wanted to drink and water was a problem, big problem. From all sides the raft was surrounded by whitish-blue mirage, not a single hint of a coast to be seen anywhere. The sea and the sky merged together in a dull, endless and hot fume. It was a complete calm. And even if there was wind, where could I direct the raft, if I couldn’t see the coast?

                      Strange white birds glided high in the sky. If I tried hard I could see them lunging down, diving and then coming out with a fish in their beaks. Were these seagulls grandpa had told me about? Such birds dived for their food into the water and swallowed it, if it wasn’t big, or flew further to have a peaceful meal, if a fish was too big. Straight to the coast.

                      The heat made it hard to generate any thought, but if I wanted to survive, I had to think.

                      I lied down on the raft and dipped my head into the water to cool myself a little. The water was bitter and salty, but it still managed to tickle my pelt a little. And here I noticed that one of the flying fishes caught up by its fin on the raft and stuck there. Good thing I learned to swim with my eyes open. Grandpa taught me to swim and to dive despite the objections from my dear mother.

                      ‘A real sailor must learn not fear water.’ He would say. ‘Water is your friend, if you’re an adventurer and a real rat, and a foe if you’re a complete retard and cling to your mother’s skirt all your life.’

                      How grateful was I to him right now.

                      I poked the fish a few times, but it didn’t respond. It looked like it was dead. Maybe while dancing yesterday she hit the raft and injured herself. It was a pity, but it was a chance as well. I needed to get it onboard.

                      I got out of the water. Moisture, even salty one, cooled me down. I perfectly knew that it wasn’t for long. Soon enough the relief will go away and the thirst will return with renewed vigor.

                      ‘So,’ I thought ‘I need to get off the whipcord of the mast.’

                      I spend some time nagging the cord and curling it up on the bay. One end I tied to the mast and wrapped other one around my elbow a few times.

                      I was scared. I had a scary feeling that even though the raft was right next to me, if I dived and then emerged out, the raft would be gone. I winced and then jumped in. The water was quite nice, actually.

                      I dived in under the raft and probably only from the third time did I manage to get a hold of the fish by its fins with the cord. I remember, that something slippery passed me by, nearly grazing me with its sharp flippers. I panicked letting out the air I was holding in and grabbed on the raft climbing up desperately, fish nearly slipping out of my paws.

                      I lied down, the fish unmoving by my side, for a few minutes waiting for my heart to steady. The fish was slippery, prickly and unpleasant to touch. It looked me straight in the face with its dead eye. I nearly gagged at the sight of it, nausea washing over me. I closed my eyes, taking in a few deep breaths and then held my breath. I bit into its moist, cold side.

                      The fish proved to be quite tasty and juicy. It thirst has gone away almost instantly. The fish was soft, white and tasteless.

                      The sun was already high in the shy and only a small shadow from the sail saved me from experiencing the same heat again.

Christer - our good friend

This is a link to our very good friend Swedish writer Christer. It's all in Swedish, but maybe it will be translated someday. 

Please check it out: 

http://www.bums.nu/sagor/

 

The 'Bout mouse-ish art

Illustrations and photo illustrations for the 'Bout mouse are here! They're all original and made by the author himself. Please no copying!

The 'Bout mouse, ehem, 'Bout rat

The meeting

The flee

4. The hunt

This time it's going to be short, but enjoy!

4. The hunt

                      While I was diving the birds had flew away. They were most likely full and returned to any bird business they might have.

                      Though, a single dirty white seagull hovered in the sky not too far away from my raft. I could see her turn her head in curiosity, trying to judge what was floating below her intently. Its beak was long, little curved at the end and most definitely predatory and the two little black beads that you could call its eyes were gluttonous.

                      An idea hit me hard. Afterwards it will seem like a suicide, but then…

                      I quickly gnawed off the tail of the fish, made two openings, set up the whipcord in it and tied it tightly. Just a second ago the seagull was ready to dive down onto my raft, its wings folded in a deathly for me pique, but now it was flying in circles above me clearly interested in what in the heaven am I doing.

                      I checked the knots twice and wrapped the other end of the whipcord around my waist. Then I threw a lump of the fish at the seagull as hard as I could. At first my decoy flew up and when it reached the max height it could reach while being thrown by my weak palms it started going down.

                      The seagull only watched the spectacle take place and did nothing more. It seemed that the seagull was not as interested in the fish as I predicted.  It was aiming for me instead. I collapsed covering my face. I lost, the idea was worthless and I’m going to die – that’s how it was,

                      At the last second the seagull changed her flight trajectory and seized the fish just as its sleazy side touched the water and winged up. The raft swashed and I almost slipped of it, but the whipcord held me in place. The raft jumped up and I too, a small, grey rat, not a bird or even a plane, flew up in the sky.

                         

    

                       

2. The Flee

2.     The flee

And once again we’re all around the table: me, my wife, our daughter and the ‘Bout mouse. Actually, it was more that we were around the table and ‘Bout mouse was on the table; he wouldn’t be seen any other way. ‘Bout mouse is a small rat which I met on the street. It was wet, sitting on the drainpipe with an umbrella, and tiny boots on its feet. I was shocked, and to be honest, right now I just couldn’t take in the sight of a small rat lounging on a Barbie chair kindly offered by my daughter and tucked in a plaid by my wife as reality as well. And if you count in the fact that he was sipping milk, with a drib of whisky added by his request I may add, from a doll-sized cup, you might think that you’ve got nuts. I’m not entirely sure that I didn’t.

“So” started the ‘Bout mouse after taking a sip from his cup. ”I presume you all know about the flutist. Yes, the exact same flutist, the puppeteer of the rats. I was there, I was one of them. The only thing that I could do was run, run from the place that was once a safe zone for me. It was a place where my wild youth took place, where my first love happened and where I kissed her rosy palms. A place where my brothers, sisters and all friends lived… I could only run. I ran and cried. The only thing in my mind was: run, as fast as you can, as far as you can.

‘Bout mouse stopped too deep in thought. We didn’t disturb his reverie.

Beyond the window life was running in its usual, for evening, pace. Someone entered the stairway. You could hear the door’s heavy jostle against the frame as it opened and closed. Somewhere far away dogs were going crazy and only ‘Bout mouse was indifferent to all the sounds, tears staining his vision.

“Although,” ‘Bout mouse continued, “Though… I should have done differently, but then I ran. I and my friends had a raft hidden on the cost long time ago. We had a dream of taking off to see the world. We were making the raft almost half a year, chopping the logs and huddling them together carefully. We tied them together with whipcord which rat Flakey, ahem, borrowed, from an air-head farmer while he was taking a nap from his jeans. We used the biggest canker leaf we could find as a sail. We call the canker tree - ‘the iron tree’. Leafs that fall from it lie and don’t rot for years. We wasted a few days just to bite through the steam and then drilled holes for fixture in it with small sharp sticks the whole week! Lastly our raft was ready. How proud we were…”

And here I am, pushing the raft to the shore all by myself. Normally I couldn’t even raise it up. Where did all the strength come from so suddenly? I didn’t know, but I was no less pressing forward, slipping on the dirt until the stream hoisted the raft up and started carrying it way from me. Only a second more and the raft would be gone.

Almost unconsciously I jumped in and only by sheer luck managed to grab on to the side of the raft diving in. Ice cold water burned me. My whole body churned, I could literally feel the stream and its spurts twirl around me in a wild dance, trying to shake me off the raft and take somewhere deep from where I won’t be able to get out anymore. But I held on. I tried and tried and tried and then finally managed to get on the slippery raft.

Waves tossed the raft as they pleased just like those small rods we used to throw in a river located not too far from our lair and watch them spin and then sink in foam. I remember that one time an ant accidentally got on the sinking prop, spinning on it. Now I feel the same as that ant. Waves reminded me in horror of wild beasts with desire of nothing else, but to swallow me whole. They draw me down and then hopped up high just to drop me down again like on a rollercoaster. The only thing I could do right now was lie flat on my belly and hold on to the raft, hopping not to fall into the water.

I don’t know how long it went on, but by the time the waves calmed down and the raft sailed almost gently it was night time. No matter how much I looked around, back and straight ahead of me I couldn’t see any kind of shore. I think it’s strange and untimely, but sudden tranquility washed over me. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care about what to do next and how to get out. A fantastic view around me made feel small and unmeaning less part of the world. Stars reflected in the ruffling water magnifying their shine and size. A silvery lane stretched out over the raft and water from the unblinking moon disc high in the sky. And right then, like on a queue, deep in the deeps of the stream miniature lanterns lit up. It created an illusion of another world entirely. A world where up and down didn’t exist and the whole space was filled with fireflies. There was no wind and I couldn’t feel the cold because of that. Even my fur started to dry. I sat more comfortably, leaning on the mast and stared into the dark infinity. Occasionally the lanterns flared in a path of light and then something’s flippers and horrible jagged mouth in which I could fit together with my raft easily. But I didn’t really care. I was enchanted by the sheer beauty of the place. Just like that.

And then I heard strange whistling and splashes. I turned around and saw pied fishes prancing out of the water one after another, flaunting their flippers and spreading them out for a flight. Soon enough they surrounded me. They jumped up and then dived again and again, drawing complicated figures in the air. Those figures reminded of a dance and the persistent whistling became a song intentionally. It seemed as if, you could tell those whistles apart and without much effort understand what they were singing about. At one second I think I even understood. They were singing about home, love and the sea. I can’t say for sure that that’s right, but I believe it is. My grandpa, an old sailor, once told me that once a year somewhere in the sea flying fish had a weeding ritual and if one saw it, he wouldn’t forget it for the rest of his life. I’m sure I won’t.

Just like that, curled up against the mast, I fell asleep lulled by the song of the flying fish and silvery shine covering me like blanket.