An excerpt from my book - Monsters in Absinthe
Enjoy...
Dear James,
I will be back early next week. Stop.
We must meet as soon as possible upon my return. Stop.
I have news from Europe and a proposition for you. Stop.
Cheers,
William B.
This note was care of William Barron, a lifelong friend and cohort on countless fishing and hunting excursions. Truth be told, William was more like a brother than anything else, and together with their fathers, they had fished and hunted in places most men only dreamed of. Their combined family affluence afforded them the luxury of travel abroad, and they never passed up a chance for the chase.
As James struggled to decipher William’s short message, the teasing word “proposition” took his mind back to a fateful fishing trip they had taken to the Amazon, mostly following the northern riverbank near the discharge of the Urubú River. That was the last time William had uttered a proposition. That trip, or rather the Great River herself, had changed the course of William’s life, finally divining his exit from America to Europe.
William’s father had arranged for a riverboat and a local guide to lead them down the river to angle for the ferocious Black Piranha and the mammoth Amazonian Pirarucu, the largest known fresh water fish in the world. William was solely after the Pirarucu, as the hunt for large and challenging game defined him, even at that early age. He spent the better part of the rail and coach trip down to the South American jungle fine tuning the gigantic lures he had made from wood, lead and tin, all the while rambling on about hooking the immense fish. He would later propose that the two of them should grapple it bare handed to shore, net or gaff be damned.
James remembered the gleaming white and red lures, festooned with giant treble hooks, fit to snag a rhino, let alone a fish, reflecting in William’s yellow eyes. He was sure William was half mad at the time, with the foolish proposition of two young boys of relatively small stature tangling with a seventeen-foot fish being foolhardy at best.
They arrived in Iquitos towards the middle of the night. Around them the blackness of the jungle extruded a cacophony of chirps and squeals. The hotel they were staying at for the night, the shimmering marbled Grande Palma Realé, was swarming with giant insects of indeterminable classification, and the constant sound of their beating wings lulled the boys into a dreamlike state long before their heads hit the pillow.
Smoke wafted from the covered courtyard as wealthy patrons, American landowners of the highest rank, consumed fermented juices, smoked expensive cigars and wrestled with women of ill repute.
Before retiring to their respective rooms, James and William sat in the hotels open lobby while their fathers made final arrangements for the next days fishing excursion. William was taller than James, thinner and a year older. He wore his black hair long and loose on a sharp-featured skull. Though he commonly sported a short gray coat over a crisp white shirt, the heat of the place precluded this. Instead they both sat on the cool stone benches, open shirted, in short pants, drinking peculiar iced guava nectars and listening to the monkeys arguing in the foliaged canopy above them. William shook a handful of bullets in his hand to threaten the primates, and then smiled a smile only he and lunatics could produce.
William, though only 16 at the time, was a seasoned craftsman. He made fishing lures and hand poured his own bullets, and when questioned why he perpetually emblazed both lure and bullet with God’s cross by James, he gestured to the sky above them, burning in stars and dotted in filtering charcoal bats. “Though Sagittarius gives me strength, the final dirty deed of slaying creatures has always been God’s work.” This statement, uttered into the darkest of night, said everything about William Barron one needed to know. He fashioned himself to be a divine slayer of beasts in the grandest tradition of the knights of old. It was true that he was just at home with a gun as he was a bible, and even at this tender age, always carried a pistol strapped to his side like a parasite, also engraved with that holiest of symbols. In contrast, William was also a young man of excess, sin and grandeur, both with the ladies and the hunt. Most importantly to James however, he was always a true friend.
Sleep was restless for the entire party that night due to the relentless heat and humidity. The cold walls of the building seemed to bleed water as a fine mist escaped from the damp jungle and sought refuge in each room, painting them in moisture. Small emerald lizards with bulbous ruby red eyes drank this sweet dew as it dropped from the metal door and window frames onto the frigid black marble floors. James slept most uneasily, due to the fact that in the room next to him, bizarre sounds of carnal misdoings rang out through the night.
At dawn they feasted on a complimentary breakfast of local fowl eggs and smoked Dasyprocta Fuliginosa, or Black Agouti as it is commonly known. This animal is a much smaller version of the common capybara, but does not live in water, and therefore its meat is much less musty and much more palatable.
After their satisfying meal they set out for the river on mule-back, just before the heat of the day would cook the land. They trotted over a well-worn path, cutting straight through the jungle to river’s edge and the colorful raised boathouses. Making the short trip more interesting were the giant blue Macaws jumping from treetop to treetop, shouting and shrieking the early day’s gossip throughout the green awning.
William was first onto the vessel that awaited their arrival at the dock. The Maria Constantia was a beautiful and impressive boat, not extraordinarily large mind you, perhaps 17 foot at the beam, but she was well appointed. Helping them aboard was Richarde, a local fishing guide working for the fishing and hunting concern who owned the boat. James bid him a courteous hello as he boarded the craft, but Richarde gave no reply, as he was for all intents and purposes deaf in his right ear. He also had a small curious rusted metal flange protruding from his lower jaw where it met the top, on one side. Before they would leave Iquitos, the local villagers would tell the boys how Richarde lost use of the ear after a brief struggle with a disturbed Xementhis immensis, the goliath bird-eating spider. The most dangerous thing about the goliath bird-eater, as they were told, is not its venomous bite, but rather its uncanny ability to flick urticating hairs from its body at anything it perceives as a threat. These tiny, almost invisible hairs that it voluntarily sends flying through the air like miniature javelins, are extremely irritating to the skin, and can burn the delicate membranes around the eyes and mouth. An unfortunately well placed throw of these barbs found their way into Richarde’s ear canal, causing a particularly malevolent secondary infection, eventually swelling his brain grotesquely and popping his ear drum causing deafness. A section of his jaw was rotted away on one side due to the vitriol, made from fermented banana, generously applied to kill the invading pathogens. The patch-worked metal jawbone visiting French doctors had given him squeaked and grinded when he talked, requiring constant lubrication and sanitization. To this end, Richarde carried a can of fresh mixed fish and tea tree oil strapped to his belt for the occasional squirt. Though he sported this monstrous apparatus under scared flesh, there was nothing monstrous about the man himself. He wasn’t a savage like the rest of his people, as he was fully clothed and spoke the Queens English as if he were born with it.
He happily assisted the boys and their fathers aboard, welcoming them to the great river with a tip of his cap and a soft-spoken hello. After a brief introduction and a short tour of the boat, William went right to work preparing his gear. James retreated instead to the upper dormitory soon after boarding to escape the early morning bat-sized mosquitoes, which were relentless in this part of the world.
This small room aboard the Constantia was functional and actually quite appealing in a rustic sort of way; with its spun banana rope hammocks and black washtub. He ached for a bath before their fishing excursion would begin, so he unpacked his clothes and surveyed the space for a bar of soap. As he began his search, he took notice of William signing outside his portside window. James carefully lifted himself into the hammock and peered out onto the deck of the boat. There he spied William at the bow, sitting on an old oil drum, spooling line onto a large bait-casting reel. He was singing that old traditional sea shanty:
When I was a little lad and my mother so told me,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe,
That if I did not kiss a gal my lips would grow all moldy,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
Way, haul away, we'll haul for better weather,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
Oh the cook is in the galley making grub so dandy
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
And the captain's in his cabin drinkin' wine and brandy
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
James watched William intently as he sang. He thought on how William’s youthful appearance skillfully hid an old soul, and this unsettled him to a degree. With the backdrop of the vast river behind him, and the morning mist burning itself free from it’s surface, swirling about his head, William looked and sounded like an archaic pirate, making fast the ropes of some wayward pirate ship, though as reality would have it, he was just a child.
James pulled his eyes away from this scene and rested his head into the hammock, half in a daze from the rhythmic tune William continued to hum into the Amazonian air, and half drunk from the smell of fermenting fish innards wafting in from the deck, filling the room with a sickly sweet aroma. He re-focused his stare on a bar of red tallow soap, resting directly across from him in a meshed bag hung on the back of his cabin door.
The boat was ready for launch by eight, and as she pulled away from the dock James found himself in the tub. His bath water began to vibrate and spill with the turning of the ships two large water wheels. The boilers in the boats rear trembled and cooked as the captain twice blew the ships whistle, alerting the local fisherman that the Maria Constantia was under way. William joined Richarde at the stern, watching the caiman, those toothy fish eating water lizards, so magnificently camouflaged against the jungle green, scatter from the shoreline and click their jaws in violent disapproval as the boat passed by. The boy’s fathers sat in the upper forward cabin for most of the trip down river, reviewing maps and charts of the waterway, making notes on areas they would fish and drinking the cursed fermented fruit juice which was so popular in these parts. Both their fathers were heavy drinkers, never turning down any sort of liquid spirit. James remained in the tub for quite some time, as he felt dirty no matter how hard he scrubbed in this land of monkeys and spiders.
When they had arrived at the first scheduled fishing hole, a narrow but deep pool adjacent to the fast flowing river, the Captain tooted the boats whistle lightly enough so as to not startle the fish, but loud enough to alert the fisherman that they had arrived. He then gingerly dropped a light anchor into thirty-five feet of black ink. The water was always still at this spot even in the face of the heaviest rains, as the river bent radically here, protected from the outside wind by towering jungle walls dotted by ancient trees, multihued flowers and chatty birds.
James pulled himself out of the tub and dressed quickly in a pair of fresh short pants and crisp linen shirt. While he clothed himself, he took notice of curious yellow eyes staring at him from the darkened corners of the triangle shaped room. He quickly realized that the jaundiced spheres belonged to a pair of black lizards of notable size. They seemed friendly enough in their general disposition to not cause any great concern, so he slowly made his way down the steep stairs to the main deck.
Waiting for him there, preparing baited lines was William and Richarde. The boy’s fathers would remain in the forward cabin for a while longer, as the banana spirits had caught them off guard this early in the morning. Dropping a line first was William. He sent his hook, baited with fish innards, fifty feet if a foot, to a large half submerged tree lying prostrate off their starboard side, its roots still clinging for life to the riverbank, though the battle was long since lost.
For true fishermen of any degree, the first cast, no matter who has thrown it, is always mesmerizing, and this held true on this day. James and Richarde watched as the weighted bait slowly made its way under the drowned tree. It was not five minutes to the second that William had dropped in his first baited line that the first fish of the day was biting, and the tranquility of the early morning was dispelled along with the last remaining wisps of morning mist.
William grabbed the spool and line tight, locking it in place with a bamboo splint. He began to tug and yell, “Fish, I am glad you came for breakfast”.
The unseen fish had great weight and pull to it. William made slow but steady progress in turning the fish to the surface and the boat. As suddenly as the battle had begun, the line went limp. The moment seemed frozen in time, and only the water showed signs of the brief struggle with rings fanning out like miniature tidal waves from where line met water. “What happened, I hooked him well enough I thought”, William asked aloud. Another brief moment passed, and with a quick jolt, the line began to scream off its spool again. William was snapped back into action. He began to tug on the Swedish made fishing pole, but this time he made no progress in turning the animal. The fish which had been originally hooked, had either realized it had been snagged, or had let go of the bait and another much larger fish had replaced it.
The line continued to dance off the spool until the bamboo splint was reached and shattered. William tightened his grip on the pole and dug his heels into the boat deck. Richarde and James grabbed William by the waist to give him extra weight, but they were all unceremoniously tossed against the boat’s railing like rag dolls. Williams’s fingers on his left hand were caught between the nylon line and the spool and were cut to the bone.
Richarde had fished these waters all his life, yet he knew no fish swimming in the river with this much strength, even the mighty Pirarucu. Perhaps it was a caiman he thought. Yet a surface death roll would have been this toothy creature’s first response. No, this was a fish - a great fish.
To stem the outgoing tide of line, William quickly fastened the remaining slack to the bow of the boat and grabbed an oil soaked rag to fashion a crude drag system for his wounded reel.
Richarde quickly attached and fired a chain hook down the taught line before it snapped, via a small caliber pistol. This device, attached via split rings to the main line, impales whatever may be at the end on the hook. This coated wire, capped by a large reverse pronged arrowhead, is tethered to the boat deck, supported by an anchored flex-beam. Not five seconds after Richarde had sent the hook tearing into the murky water, the line it supported snapped. The wire instantly began to jump off its deck fastened spool like a whip to a donkey’s backside.
When the slack had been spent the Constantia jerked forward violently as if powered by an engine, though her boilers were disengaged. The three fishermen wobbled on their feet as the wire lay tight against the ships bow, skinning the crisp white paint from the wooden railing. When the initial thrust past, they rushed over to the side of the boat and peered into the black water. At first all James could see was the reflection of their shocked faces staring back at him. It was like looking into a deep dark bronze mirror. Unexpectedly, the mirror shifted and the reflection was skewed as something enormous passed beneath them. They dropped and crawled to the other side of the boat as her bow dipped and turned slowly with them. They straightened up on shaky legs and raised their glares to encompass the full weight of their engagement. To James’ supreme shock he realized he was staring at an impossibly large fish, fist-sized scales shimmering and undulating slowly, a mere foot or two beneath the waterline.
It was a monster to be sure, being almost 20 feet long and 3 and a half foot wide at the middle, as best as he could tell using the Constantia as a gauge. This was indeed the glorious grand Pirachu, the likes of which this river system had never seen. Its head, the size of a small cow, was festooned in rich black and silver scales, with eyes the size of large ceramic washbowls. Its back was fiery bronze with a pearl glaze, giving way to a tail that rose out of the water like a transparent sail. The beast remained reasonably still and seemed to be resting.
“What if it makes a deep dive? She’ll drag the bow down or rip right through it!” he shouted, pointing to the taught wire, which had cut through the bow rail, and was now doing its best to cut into the bow. He then took notice of William’s fastidiously sharpened hooks glistening in the sun, and to it, the head and midsection of a three-foot red tailed catfish dangling out of the right side of the great fish’s maw. “Cut the wire William!” James shouted.
“We must end this before this boat is lost…” William exclaimed with glee.
“Cut the wire!” James shouted again.
“James, fetch my pistols!” William asked with a smile and a fist pump.
James ran for the upper cabin to call on their fathers. He knew William was considering something rash and perhaps without reason, but he found his own father drunk and unconscious under the table, and William’s father, Hienrich Barron, looking out the forward window, still grasping the bottle of spirits tight.
“Sir, you must come, we have snagged a fish!” James shouted. There was no response.
“We’ve snagged a monster fish sir!” He screamed at him again, but the exercise was pointless. The man was drunk out of his skull.
James ran for Williams bags in the lower cabin, and after a brief frantic search found a pair of silver plated pistols. James ran back to the bow deck and found William removing his shirt. William took the pistols from James and without further discourse, removed his boots and carefully lowered himself off the bow and into the water down the anchor line. He held the pistols above his head in one hand as he made his way towards the fish.
James watched in horror, frozen in the moment. He couldn’t speak. The excitement of the situation dried his throat and stole his breath. The silver pistols reflected the brilliant sun back towards the boat, blinding the two fishermen still left with dry feet.
“Mr. Barron, be careful she’ll make lunch out of you!” Richarde cried out. There was no reply from William. His focus was solely fixed on his target.
When he reached the fish he found it resting a foot or two beneath the surface. He noticed that its scales were large enough and raised enough to use as hand holds, so he made the decision to carefully board the creature. William knew the only way to end this stand off and save the boat great damage was to kill the fish or to shoot the hook free from its jaw. He desired the former above everything. Approaching the fish from the front would be tantamount to suicide. Shots fired to a submerged head at a distance would be ineffective, so standing knee deep in water on the back of the fish, and being careful to tread lightly, William made his way forward. Though this state of affairs was unnerving, William made slow but steady passage along the broad back of the animal. He could feel it breathing heavily below him, obviously in stress and laboring from its heavy wire shackle and wooden boat float. He stopped just short of its head.
“He will surely see me now if I go any further”, he thought to himself. His compatriots on the boat, still frozen in same positions he left them in, watched as this grand drama unfolded.
“I must make my move without hesitation”, William whispered to himself. He bent at the knees then lunged up and over, full force like a deer leaping a stone fence, opening fire as he sailed through the air. The German made pistols unleashed a fury of lead and smoke. Hot metal slugs rained down on the cranium of the fish like an exploding tempest. William’s index fingers moved so quickly, a vacuum was created between the pistols triggers and grips, slowing their action down somewhat (a design flaw he made a mental note of to correct). William managed to land square on the nose of the fish, and to his surprise, and to those of the onlookers of this titanic struggle, the beast was still very much alive. The mammoth fish reared its head and body five feet into the air. The stretched wire chain hummed from the tension, and the Constintina jerked awkwardly forward. James and Richarde were thrown from their feet once more.
William grabbed tight to the fishes nostrils like rock holds on the side of a cliff as they came crashing down, tail first, with all the cacophony of a thousand tin drums. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes just before they hit the water. Suddenly it was dark, cool and very quiet.
As the fish dove William opened his eyes to discover he was staring directly into the eyes of the animal. William cocked his pistols and pushed a trail of bullets into the beast’s orbs. The muzzle flare was muted yet stunning beneath the surface, and he took the time to enjoy the beauty of the large ocular sacs erupting, spewing their amber sap into the surrounding water. The fish reacted to this painful assault by darting quickly down and to the right, drawing the Constantia and her lowered bow ever closer to the waterline, and the far shoreline.
That last jolt snapped Hienrich Barron into a sudo-state of lucidity. He had been watching the events unfold from the upper cabin dumbfounded, as the potent alcohol coursing through his veins had prevented any reaction. He stumbled out onto the deck, yelling stale profanity into the fresh Amazonian air. James took notice of William’s father approaching, and then took notice of the far shoreline approaching even faster. The Constantia had been pulled directly into the narrow rapids by the fish, and her light anchor had either snapped clean off or was trailing uselessly behind the boat on the river bottom. Branches were breaking off on the deck as the boat came within feet of the jungle wall. A large dead overhanging tree passed over Richarde and James’ head, barely missing them. Richarde shouted to his assistant at the wheel of the Constintina, imploring him to pull away from the shore, but it was too late. Hienrich would not see the tapered trunk or its trailing branches approaching. He was far too busy stumbling and swearing to take warning when an unfortunately sharp, two-inch thick branch, almost petrified to stone by time and rain, struck his skull straight on, pining him to the cabin side. The wooden spear stayed its course, slowly impaling him through the left eye socket, exiting out the back of his head and dragging his lifeless corpse down the final short length of the boat to the stern. It would then leave him quietly hanging and swaying over the river like just another broken and battered branch behind them.
William was unaware of these horrible events, as he was still locked in submerged mortal combat. Though his lungs were panicking he calmly reloaded his pistols and drove them straight into the empty holes that once held the fish’s sight. Six or seven bullets later the struggle was over. William released his grip and floated to the surface for air. He prudently made his way to the boat as the Black Piranha quickly assembled, attracted to the fountain of blood spewing from the Piracu's ghastly head wounds. James, being held by the ankles by Richarde, lowered himself over the side of the boat, grabbing William’s arms and hoisting him up. Once on board he was told of what had happened to his father. In a blind rage he yelled, not with his mouth, but with his pistols, spraying the belly-up fish with bullets - exploding its soft underside - causing all manner of innards to paint the air, the boat and its fisherman in red. James’ father would wake hours later, when the Constintina was back at dockside, only then learning of the events that would alter the course of many lives. This trip had changed a small part of James. He had forged a taste for brutal adventure, and though he tried to refute the idea, he liked it very much - even in the face of macabre results. The trip would also make his relationship with William that much closer, though they would soon part ways.
Enjoy...
Dear James,
I will be back early next week. Stop.
We must meet as soon as possible upon my return. Stop.
I have news from Europe and a proposition for you. Stop.
Cheers,
William B.
This note was care of William Barron, a lifelong friend and cohort on countless fishing and hunting excursions. Truth be told, William was more like a brother than anything else, and together with their fathers, they had fished and hunted in places most men only dreamed of. Their combined family affluence afforded them the luxury of travel abroad, and they never passed up a chance for the chase.
As James struggled to decipher William’s short message, the teasing word “proposition” took his mind back to a fateful fishing trip they had taken to the Amazon, mostly following the northern riverbank near the discharge of the Urubú River. That was the last time William had uttered a proposition. That trip, or rather the Great River herself, had changed the course of William’s life, finally divining his exit from America to Europe.
William’s father had arranged for a riverboat and a local guide to lead them down the river to angle for the ferocious Black Piranha and the mammoth Amazonian Pirarucu, the largest known fresh water fish in the world. William was solely after the Pirarucu, as the hunt for large and challenging game defined him, even at that early age. He spent the better part of the rail and coach trip down to the South American jungle fine tuning the gigantic lures he had made from wood, lead and tin, all the while rambling on about hooking the immense fish. He would later propose that the two of them should grapple it bare handed to shore, net or gaff be damned.
James remembered the gleaming white and red lures, festooned with giant treble hooks, fit to snag a rhino, let alone a fish, reflecting in William’s yellow eyes. He was sure William was half mad at the time, with the foolish proposition of two young boys of relatively small stature tangling with a seventeen-foot fish being foolhardy at best.
They arrived in Iquitos towards the middle of the night. Around them the blackness of the jungle extruded a cacophony of chirps and squeals. The hotel they were staying at for the night, the shimmering marbled Grande Palma Realé, was swarming with giant insects of indeterminable classification, and the constant sound of their beating wings lulled the boys into a dreamlike state long before their heads hit the pillow.
Smoke wafted from the covered courtyard as wealthy patrons, American landowners of the highest rank, consumed fermented juices, smoked expensive cigars and wrestled with women of ill repute.
Before retiring to their respective rooms, James and William sat in the hotels open lobby while their fathers made final arrangements for the next days fishing excursion. William was taller than James, thinner and a year older. He wore his black hair long and loose on a sharp-featured skull. Though he commonly sported a short gray coat over a crisp white shirt, the heat of the place precluded this. Instead they both sat on the cool stone benches, open shirted, in short pants, drinking peculiar iced guava nectars and listening to the monkeys arguing in the foliaged canopy above them. William shook a handful of bullets in his hand to threaten the primates, and then smiled a smile only he and lunatics could produce.
William, though only 16 at the time, was a seasoned craftsman. He made fishing lures and hand poured his own bullets, and when questioned why he perpetually emblazed both lure and bullet with God’s cross by James, he gestured to the sky above them, burning in stars and dotted in filtering charcoal bats. “Though Sagittarius gives me strength, the final dirty deed of slaying creatures has always been God’s work.” This statement, uttered into the darkest of night, said everything about William Barron one needed to know. He fashioned himself to be a divine slayer of beasts in the grandest tradition of the knights of old. It was true that he was just at home with a gun as he was a bible, and even at this tender age, always carried a pistol strapped to his side like a parasite, also engraved with that holiest of symbols. In contrast, William was also a young man of excess, sin and grandeur, both with the ladies and the hunt. Most importantly to James however, he was always a true friend.
Sleep was restless for the entire party that night due to the relentless heat and humidity. The cold walls of the building seemed to bleed water as a fine mist escaped from the damp jungle and sought refuge in each room, painting them in moisture. Small emerald lizards with bulbous ruby red eyes drank this sweet dew as it dropped from the metal door and window frames onto the frigid black marble floors. James slept most uneasily, due to the fact that in the room next to him, bizarre sounds of carnal misdoings rang out through the night.
At dawn they feasted on a complimentary breakfast of local fowl eggs and smoked Dasyprocta Fuliginosa, or Black Agouti as it is commonly known. This animal is a much smaller version of the common capybara, but does not live in water, and therefore its meat is much less musty and much more palatable.
After their satisfying meal they set out for the river on mule-back, just before the heat of the day would cook the land. They trotted over a well-worn path, cutting straight through the jungle to river’s edge and the colorful raised boathouses. Making the short trip more interesting were the giant blue Macaws jumping from treetop to treetop, shouting and shrieking the early day’s gossip throughout the green awning.
William was first onto the vessel that awaited their arrival at the dock. The Maria Constantia was a beautiful and impressive boat, not extraordinarily large mind you, perhaps 17 foot at the beam, but she was well appointed. Helping them aboard was Richarde, a local fishing guide working for the fishing and hunting concern who owned the boat. James bid him a courteous hello as he boarded the craft, but Richarde gave no reply, as he was for all intents and purposes deaf in his right ear. He also had a small curious rusted metal flange protruding from his lower jaw where it met the top, on one side. Before they would leave Iquitos, the local villagers would tell the boys how Richarde lost use of the ear after a brief struggle with a disturbed Xementhis immensis, the goliath bird-eating spider. The most dangerous thing about the goliath bird-eater, as they were told, is not its venomous bite, but rather its uncanny ability to flick urticating hairs from its body at anything it perceives as a threat. These tiny, almost invisible hairs that it voluntarily sends flying through the air like miniature javelins, are extremely irritating to the skin, and can burn the delicate membranes around the eyes and mouth. An unfortunately well placed throw of these barbs found their way into Richarde’s ear canal, causing a particularly malevolent secondary infection, eventually swelling his brain grotesquely and popping his ear drum causing deafness. A section of his jaw was rotted away on one side due to the vitriol, made from fermented banana, generously applied to kill the invading pathogens. The patch-worked metal jawbone visiting French doctors had given him squeaked and grinded when he talked, requiring constant lubrication and sanitization. To this end, Richarde carried a can of fresh mixed fish and tea tree oil strapped to his belt for the occasional squirt. Though he sported this monstrous apparatus under scared flesh, there was nothing monstrous about the man himself. He wasn’t a savage like the rest of his people, as he was fully clothed and spoke the Queens English as if he were born with it.
He happily assisted the boys and their fathers aboard, welcoming them to the great river with a tip of his cap and a soft-spoken hello. After a brief introduction and a short tour of the boat, William went right to work preparing his gear. James retreated instead to the upper dormitory soon after boarding to escape the early morning bat-sized mosquitoes, which were relentless in this part of the world.
This small room aboard the Constantia was functional and actually quite appealing in a rustic sort of way; with its spun banana rope hammocks and black washtub. He ached for a bath before their fishing excursion would begin, so he unpacked his clothes and surveyed the space for a bar of soap. As he began his search, he took notice of William signing outside his portside window. James carefully lifted himself into the hammock and peered out onto the deck of the boat. There he spied William at the bow, sitting on an old oil drum, spooling line onto a large bait-casting reel. He was singing that old traditional sea shanty:
When I was a little lad and my mother so told me,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe,
That if I did not kiss a gal my lips would grow all moldy,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
Way, haul away, we'll haul for better weather,
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
Oh the cook is in the galley making grub so dandy
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
And the captain's in his cabin drinkin' wine and brandy
Way, haul away, we'll haul away Joe.
James watched William intently as he sang. He thought on how William’s youthful appearance skillfully hid an old soul, and this unsettled him to a degree. With the backdrop of the vast river behind him, and the morning mist burning itself free from it’s surface, swirling about his head, William looked and sounded like an archaic pirate, making fast the ropes of some wayward pirate ship, though as reality would have it, he was just a child.
James pulled his eyes away from this scene and rested his head into the hammock, half in a daze from the rhythmic tune William continued to hum into the Amazonian air, and half drunk from the smell of fermenting fish innards wafting in from the deck, filling the room with a sickly sweet aroma. He re-focused his stare on a bar of red tallow soap, resting directly across from him in a meshed bag hung on the back of his cabin door.
The boat was ready for launch by eight, and as she pulled away from the dock James found himself in the tub. His bath water began to vibrate and spill with the turning of the ships two large water wheels. The boilers in the boats rear trembled and cooked as the captain twice blew the ships whistle, alerting the local fisherman that the Maria Constantia was under way. William joined Richarde at the stern, watching the caiman, those toothy fish eating water lizards, so magnificently camouflaged against the jungle green, scatter from the shoreline and click their jaws in violent disapproval as the boat passed by. The boy’s fathers sat in the upper forward cabin for most of the trip down river, reviewing maps and charts of the waterway, making notes on areas they would fish and drinking the cursed fermented fruit juice which was so popular in these parts. Both their fathers were heavy drinkers, never turning down any sort of liquid spirit. James remained in the tub for quite some time, as he felt dirty no matter how hard he scrubbed in this land of monkeys and spiders.
When they had arrived at the first scheduled fishing hole, a narrow but deep pool adjacent to the fast flowing river, the Captain tooted the boats whistle lightly enough so as to not startle the fish, but loud enough to alert the fisherman that they had arrived. He then gingerly dropped a light anchor into thirty-five feet of black ink. The water was always still at this spot even in the face of the heaviest rains, as the river bent radically here, protected from the outside wind by towering jungle walls dotted by ancient trees, multihued flowers and chatty birds.
James pulled himself out of the tub and dressed quickly in a pair of fresh short pants and crisp linen shirt. While he clothed himself, he took notice of curious yellow eyes staring at him from the darkened corners of the triangle shaped room. He quickly realized that the jaundiced spheres belonged to a pair of black lizards of notable size. They seemed friendly enough in their general disposition to not cause any great concern, so he slowly made his way down the steep stairs to the main deck.
Waiting for him there, preparing baited lines was William and Richarde. The boy’s fathers would remain in the forward cabin for a while longer, as the banana spirits had caught them off guard this early in the morning. Dropping a line first was William. He sent his hook, baited with fish innards, fifty feet if a foot, to a large half submerged tree lying prostrate off their starboard side, its roots still clinging for life to the riverbank, though the battle was long since lost.
For true fishermen of any degree, the first cast, no matter who has thrown it, is always mesmerizing, and this held true on this day. James and Richarde watched as the weighted bait slowly made its way under the drowned tree. It was not five minutes to the second that William had dropped in his first baited line that the first fish of the day was biting, and the tranquility of the early morning was dispelled along with the last remaining wisps of morning mist.
William grabbed the spool and line tight, locking it in place with a bamboo splint. He began to tug and yell, “Fish, I am glad you came for breakfast”.
The unseen fish had great weight and pull to it. William made slow but steady progress in turning the fish to the surface and the boat. As suddenly as the battle had begun, the line went limp. The moment seemed frozen in time, and only the water showed signs of the brief struggle with rings fanning out like miniature tidal waves from where line met water. “What happened, I hooked him well enough I thought”, William asked aloud. Another brief moment passed, and with a quick jolt, the line began to scream off its spool again. William was snapped back into action. He began to tug on the Swedish made fishing pole, but this time he made no progress in turning the animal. The fish which had been originally hooked, had either realized it had been snagged, or had let go of the bait and another much larger fish had replaced it.
The line continued to dance off the spool until the bamboo splint was reached and shattered. William tightened his grip on the pole and dug his heels into the boat deck. Richarde and James grabbed William by the waist to give him extra weight, but they were all unceremoniously tossed against the boat’s railing like rag dolls. Williams’s fingers on his left hand were caught between the nylon line and the spool and were cut to the bone.
Richarde had fished these waters all his life, yet he knew no fish swimming in the river with this much strength, even the mighty Pirarucu. Perhaps it was a caiman he thought. Yet a surface death roll would have been this toothy creature’s first response. No, this was a fish - a great fish.
To stem the outgoing tide of line, William quickly fastened the remaining slack to the bow of the boat and grabbed an oil soaked rag to fashion a crude drag system for his wounded reel.
Richarde quickly attached and fired a chain hook down the taught line before it snapped, via a small caliber pistol. This device, attached via split rings to the main line, impales whatever may be at the end on the hook. This coated wire, capped by a large reverse pronged arrowhead, is tethered to the boat deck, supported by an anchored flex-beam. Not five seconds after Richarde had sent the hook tearing into the murky water, the line it supported snapped. The wire instantly began to jump off its deck fastened spool like a whip to a donkey’s backside.
When the slack had been spent the Constantia jerked forward violently as if powered by an engine, though her boilers were disengaged. The three fishermen wobbled on their feet as the wire lay tight against the ships bow, skinning the crisp white paint from the wooden railing. When the initial thrust past, they rushed over to the side of the boat and peered into the black water. At first all James could see was the reflection of their shocked faces staring back at him. It was like looking into a deep dark bronze mirror. Unexpectedly, the mirror shifted and the reflection was skewed as something enormous passed beneath them. They dropped and crawled to the other side of the boat as her bow dipped and turned slowly with them. They straightened up on shaky legs and raised their glares to encompass the full weight of their engagement. To James’ supreme shock he realized he was staring at an impossibly large fish, fist-sized scales shimmering and undulating slowly, a mere foot or two beneath the waterline.
It was a monster to be sure, being almost 20 feet long and 3 and a half foot wide at the middle, as best as he could tell using the Constantia as a gauge. This was indeed the glorious grand Pirachu, the likes of which this river system had never seen. Its head, the size of a small cow, was festooned in rich black and silver scales, with eyes the size of large ceramic washbowls. Its back was fiery bronze with a pearl glaze, giving way to a tail that rose out of the water like a transparent sail. The beast remained reasonably still and seemed to be resting.
“What if it makes a deep dive? She’ll drag the bow down or rip right through it!” he shouted, pointing to the taught wire, which had cut through the bow rail, and was now doing its best to cut into the bow. He then took notice of William’s fastidiously sharpened hooks glistening in the sun, and to it, the head and midsection of a three-foot red tailed catfish dangling out of the right side of the great fish’s maw. “Cut the wire William!” James shouted.
“We must end this before this boat is lost…” William exclaimed with glee.
“Cut the wire!” James shouted again.
“James, fetch my pistols!” William asked with a smile and a fist pump.
James ran for the upper cabin to call on their fathers. He knew William was considering something rash and perhaps without reason, but he found his own father drunk and unconscious under the table, and William’s father, Hienrich Barron, looking out the forward window, still grasping the bottle of spirits tight.
“Sir, you must come, we have snagged a fish!” James shouted. There was no response.
“We’ve snagged a monster fish sir!” He screamed at him again, but the exercise was pointless. The man was drunk out of his skull.
James ran for Williams bags in the lower cabin, and after a brief frantic search found a pair of silver plated pistols. James ran back to the bow deck and found William removing his shirt. William took the pistols from James and without further discourse, removed his boots and carefully lowered himself off the bow and into the water down the anchor line. He held the pistols above his head in one hand as he made his way towards the fish.
James watched in horror, frozen in the moment. He couldn’t speak. The excitement of the situation dried his throat and stole his breath. The silver pistols reflected the brilliant sun back towards the boat, blinding the two fishermen still left with dry feet.
“Mr. Barron, be careful she’ll make lunch out of you!” Richarde cried out. There was no reply from William. His focus was solely fixed on his target.
When he reached the fish he found it resting a foot or two beneath the surface. He noticed that its scales were large enough and raised enough to use as hand holds, so he made the decision to carefully board the creature. William knew the only way to end this stand off and save the boat great damage was to kill the fish or to shoot the hook free from its jaw. He desired the former above everything. Approaching the fish from the front would be tantamount to suicide. Shots fired to a submerged head at a distance would be ineffective, so standing knee deep in water on the back of the fish, and being careful to tread lightly, William made his way forward. Though this state of affairs was unnerving, William made slow but steady passage along the broad back of the animal. He could feel it breathing heavily below him, obviously in stress and laboring from its heavy wire shackle and wooden boat float. He stopped just short of its head.
“He will surely see me now if I go any further”, he thought to himself. His compatriots on the boat, still frozen in same positions he left them in, watched as this grand drama unfolded.
“I must make my move without hesitation”, William whispered to himself. He bent at the knees then lunged up and over, full force like a deer leaping a stone fence, opening fire as he sailed through the air. The German made pistols unleashed a fury of lead and smoke. Hot metal slugs rained down on the cranium of the fish like an exploding tempest. William’s index fingers moved so quickly, a vacuum was created between the pistols triggers and grips, slowing their action down somewhat (a design flaw he made a mental note of to correct). William managed to land square on the nose of the fish, and to his surprise, and to those of the onlookers of this titanic struggle, the beast was still very much alive. The mammoth fish reared its head and body five feet into the air. The stretched wire chain hummed from the tension, and the Constintina jerked awkwardly forward. James and Richarde were thrown from their feet once more.
William grabbed tight to the fishes nostrils like rock holds on the side of a cliff as they came crashing down, tail first, with all the cacophony of a thousand tin drums. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes just before they hit the water. Suddenly it was dark, cool and very quiet.
As the fish dove William opened his eyes to discover he was staring directly into the eyes of the animal. William cocked his pistols and pushed a trail of bullets into the beast’s orbs. The muzzle flare was muted yet stunning beneath the surface, and he took the time to enjoy the beauty of the large ocular sacs erupting, spewing their amber sap into the surrounding water. The fish reacted to this painful assault by darting quickly down and to the right, drawing the Constantia and her lowered bow ever closer to the waterline, and the far shoreline.
That last jolt snapped Hienrich Barron into a sudo-state of lucidity. He had been watching the events unfold from the upper cabin dumbfounded, as the potent alcohol coursing through his veins had prevented any reaction. He stumbled out onto the deck, yelling stale profanity into the fresh Amazonian air. James took notice of William’s father approaching, and then took notice of the far shoreline approaching even faster. The Constantia had been pulled directly into the narrow rapids by the fish, and her light anchor had either snapped clean off or was trailing uselessly behind the boat on the river bottom. Branches were breaking off on the deck as the boat came within feet of the jungle wall. A large dead overhanging tree passed over Richarde and James’ head, barely missing them. Richarde shouted to his assistant at the wheel of the Constintina, imploring him to pull away from the shore, but it was too late. Hienrich would not see the tapered trunk or its trailing branches approaching. He was far too busy stumbling and swearing to take warning when an unfortunately sharp, two-inch thick branch, almost petrified to stone by time and rain, struck his skull straight on, pining him to the cabin side. The wooden spear stayed its course, slowly impaling him through the left eye socket, exiting out the back of his head and dragging his lifeless corpse down the final short length of the boat to the stern. It would then leave him quietly hanging and swaying over the river like just another broken and battered branch behind them.
William was unaware of these horrible events, as he was still locked in submerged mortal combat. Though his lungs were panicking he calmly reloaded his pistols and drove them straight into the empty holes that once held the fish’s sight. Six or seven bullets later the struggle was over. William released his grip and floated to the surface for air. He prudently made his way to the boat as the Black Piranha quickly assembled, attracted to the fountain of blood spewing from the Piracu's ghastly head wounds. James, being held by the ankles by Richarde, lowered himself over the side of the boat, grabbing William’s arms and hoisting him up. Once on board he was told of what had happened to his father. In a blind rage he yelled, not with his mouth, but with his pistols, spraying the belly-up fish with bullets - exploding its soft underside - causing all manner of innards to paint the air, the boat and its fisherman in red. James’ father would wake hours later, when the Constintina was back at dockside, only then learning of the events that would alter the course of many lives. This trip had changed a small part of James. He had forged a taste for brutal adventure, and though he tried to refute the idea, he liked it very much - even in the face of macabre results. The trip would also make his relationship with William that much closer, though they would soon part ways.
lol. So don't go hunting for fish with pistols please. 
