People of the Mist(134)

“There,” Flying Weir called as the ropes hung down at the proper angle. “Another three coils to go, and we should be right on top of them.”

Nine Killer nodded, checking his position. They were on a straight line between the point on one side, and the old gray tree that marked the skyline of the peninsula occupied by Flat Pearl Village.

The last of the rope played out and Flying Weir clutched the knotted end. He judged the distance between the two canoes and said, “Close up a little, let the net settle to the bottom.”

Nine Killer used his paddle only to keep them moving with the waves, allowing the weight of the net to pull the two canoes closer. He could feel the change in the drag as the net settled on the bottom.

“Paddle!” Flying Weir called, taking up a loop on his rope.

Nine Killer clamped his rope to the canoe bottom with his right foot, and took a deep bite with the paddle. Across from him, Crab Spine did the same, angling his canoe away. A fine sweat broke out on Nine Killer as his muscular arms propelled them forward.

He could imagine the net down below, the top held up by the forward ropes, the stone weighted bottom skimming the mud. Like a giant maw, it scooped the fish into the netting.

Flying Weir had likewise clamped his rope and plied his paddle to drive them forward and away from the other canoe.

Stroke by stroke they pulled their net ahead, each paddler panting as he struggled onward. Paddle as he might, the weight of the net pulled the battling canoes inexorably together.

“That should be it,” Nine Killer called as the net lined out behind them. “Let’s haul it up.” He could feel the freshening of the wind. When he looked over his shoulder, he could see how it scalloped the waves.

Hand over hand, they pulled up their catch, the canoes crabbing sideways toward each other under the load.

Nine Killer strained until the muscles knotted in his arms and shoulders. His fingers began to cramp from the cold water, and the smell of wet hemp mixed with the salt breeze blowing in from the bay. From long practice, he laid out the rope in soggy coil after soggy coil. Water was puddling in the canoe bottom.

The corner of the net appeared from the depths, and Nine Killer stole a quick glance to see that Crab Spine, too, had reached netting. Together, they began pulling the knotted cord into the canoes. The vessels were almost knocking gunwales, only the thick cluster of loaded net keeping the boats apart.

“Watch it,” Flying Weir reminded. This was the point when people lost their balance and tipped over.

Between them, they began putting the net into the center of the canoes, and the first wiggling fish could be seen as they splashed and fought the restricting mesh.

“All right,” Many Dogs called. “Half and half.”

In unison, they heaved, the bulk of the net, heavy with fish, caught between the canoes. Nine Killer reached into the cold water and lifted the burden past the gunwale. Silver scales gleamed in the light as they spilled netted fish into the canoes.

“Looks good,” Flying Weir said through a smile. “We filled a lot of bellies with this load.”

“And I for one,” Many Dogs crowed, “am tired of smoked fish.”

“Well,” Nine Killer joked, “with as many hungry mouths as you have in that misbegotten Star Shell Clan, I think your part of the catch is spoken for. But don’t be disheartened, I’ll save a skeleton or two for you.”

“You just have to remember to ask him nicely,” Crab Spine joked. “Or, he might just let you have the heads.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Many Dogs answered, “or I’ll slap you with a wet fish!”

Nine Killer found the bottom of the net and turned it inside out, spilling perch, rockfish, and at least one winter jellyfish. Nine Killer paused long enough to skewer the beast and flip it overboard. He could even see a couple of catfish—lured into the depths by the fresher waters of low tide—squirming in the mass at his feet.

Balancing carefully, they transferred the net, heavy with water, to Crab Spine’s canoe.

For a long moment, all they could do was bob on the waves and grin at each other as fish flopped ankle-deep in the canoe bottoms. Then Nine Killer glanced back at the open bay. The wind had picked up enough to raise the swells they rode. “I think it would be prudent to head for home. If these waves pick up, it will be the fish eating us for supper.” Nine Killer snaked his paddle up from the bottom and turned his canoe for shore. As “he paddled, he took a moment between strokes to club this or that particularly vigorous fish that threatened to flip itself overboard.

Now they paralleled the swells, each heavily laden canoe cresting the waves with but a finger’s width to spare at the gunwales.