Sunspot Jungle

by Bill Campbell

  “As do we all,” said the second, “though we cannot all achieve it.”

  The third brahmin said hurriedly, “Still, enlightened company can only add to our learning.”

  “That’s so,” said the second. “And feeble as my own learning is, such a base does call out to be built upon.”

  “Yes, and as you so wisely said, our lives will be richer for sharing,” said the third. And so the second brahmin mumbled over the skeleton, shaking neem and mango leaves as he spoke; and muscles built themselves over bone, each one the perfect size for its place.

  “Why,” the third marveled, hiding his own chagrin, “the animal’s bulk is clear now. Even so does philosophy grow around a fundamental knowledge of the Vedas. And as art grows up around philosophy, I shall add my own grains of knowledge to give it shape if this pleases my dear friends.” Nothing, of course, could please his dear friends more. So he anointed each muscle with clove oil and camphor, spoke into his cupped hands, and clapped twice; and striped skin grew over the whole, its orange glowing like sunrise.

  The fourth brahmin said, “Truly, this is a wonder. Perhaps I can add to it a little though I admit myself surprised that I might know anything my learned friends do not!” So saying, he breathed dust from the four great mountains into the tiger’s mouth and eyes, and he whispered his own words.

  The tiger sprang into motion then and ate them all.

  The Englishman laughed. “If you want someone who takes tales of heathen chanting and anointments seriously,” he said loudly, “find a Papist. This explains nothing—”

  A shadow loomed behind the bird, silent on bare feet. She dropped from the window, spread her wings, and settled on the main bench. Above her, rain shutters slammed shut.

  The Englishman’s smile was edged now. “Though it kept you occupied,” he said, drifting closer. The pistol was in his hand, aimed at the floor. “My guard’s a native, after all; too superstitious to see why the fire burned all night but clever as a monkey on the roof. Now there’s no need to damage you—” She turned, and he recoiled. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Eyes break,” she said. “They are mere lenses and can be replaced.” They could also be pulled out whole and set atop a steam boiler, angled to catch sunlight, to wind a new-forged heartspring. Once that sunlight slanted down far enough into the workshop. “And your guard closed the wrong window.”

  “What? No, no, you’ll not make me look away so easily.” He circled around till he could watch the windows without losing sight of her, then glanced warily up.

  Behind him, a lens flared. Yellow eyes eased open. Golden claws came out with a click from skeletal tiger paws.

  The Applause of Others

  Corinne Duyvis

  Following the eel proved tougher than Floor expected. She darted around cars parked too close to the canal’s edge, keeping her camera in her hands and her eyes on the water. The eel swam close to the surface, but box-like houseboats kept blocking her sight, and the murky-green canal made it hard to catch more than glimpses while she ran.

  Floor evaded a cyclist by a hair’s breath. The bell rang in her ears as the bike passed, but she was already distracted—the houseboats had come to an end, allowing an unobstructed view of the water. Floor ducked into the first opening between parked cars. She crouched by the water’s edge, leaving nothing between her and a meter-plus drop into the canal but a metal beam that barely reached her ankles.

  The eel was an agitated shadow just under the surface, coiling up and straightening out again. It wasn’t moving on, though, giving Floor time to lean in, one hand curling around the rusted beam to steady herself and snap some photos. They’d no doubt turn out crap, but Floor hadn’t even known there were eels in the Amsterdam canals; she wanted evidence to show her dads or maybe Lisanne at school.

  Not that Lisanne would be interested in this blur on her camera’s display. Floor played with the settings, cooing at the eel, “Just a couple more seconds … Wow, you are big, aren’t you?”

  In response, the eel twisted under the water. It swam in circles before dashing straight ahead, its movements smoothing out—like it was showing off, making sure she saw the blue sheen on its scales and got every angle.

  Spanish-sounding voices just meters behind Floor had her tensing up. Being a fourteen-year-old girl running around the city center with a plus-sized camera meant that tourists bothered her more often than not. She checked over her shoulder. A trio of friends shielded their eyes from the light as they looked up. Banners stretched across the second-floor windows of three neighboring canal houses, thick cloth against aged bricks and cream-white shutters. The sun reflected off the banners, obscuring one letter or the other. Floor squinted to read the first sheet:

  OUR HOMES OUR WINDOWS

  The second said:

  NOT YOUR ENTERTAINMENT

  The third:

  AM DAM

  A doodled pentagram acted as the star. It must’ve turned out way too big since it cut into the D and the M was just a squished scribble at the end.

  Floor spotted a couple through the fourth house’s wide-open windows, working together to install another banner. The woman balanced precariously on the windowsill, trying to toss a rope onto the pulley installation near the roof as the wind tugged the sheet to and fro. Floor barely made out the black scrawls of letters:

  NOT A MUSEUM

  “Nice,” Floor said. “Bad handwriting. But nice.”

  “Hey, girl?” One of the Spanish tourists with a goofy grin and deodorant she could smell from here turned towards her and pointed at the banners. “The words? What do they mean?”

  “Those houses are beautiful!” a girl with a scruffy mohawk added in smoother English. “Why cover them? I love the …” She gestured with thin hands, searching for the words. She ended up simply indicating the pyramid gables. “It’s such a shame. They shouldn’t allow it.”

  Floor shifted her weight, still crouched. Why did they have to look at her like that? “Well … they don’t.”

  She didn’t want to translate the banners. They were in Dutch for a reason. She didn’t get the chance to, anyway—a sudden splash behind her demanded her attention. Drops of water sprayed onto her bare calves. Floor spun just in time to see the eel slithering away, the water closing up above. The surface jerked with waves, streaked with unruly white bubbles. How had the eel created a big enough splash to reach her from so far?

  Her eyes followed the waves until she caught another glimpse of movement. A second eel. Its shape twined, its figure smaller and grayer than the blue one. It slashed left and right, spinning and winding in a way that almost made her forget the blue eel’s continued splashing.

  “You’re a pretty one, too, aren’t you?” The sudden delight in Floor’s voice prompted a burst of laughter from the tourists.

  “Do you live here?” Mohawk Girl asked. “Where? Those houses?” She pointed at the canal houses across the water, tall and thin.

  “Do you see fish often?” Deodorant’s grin widened.

  “You look angry,” said the third friend. “Smile for us, pretty girl.”

  Floor kept her lips adamantly straight. Faking a heavier accent than her real one, she said, “Bad English. Sorry.” She turned back to the water to focus on the new eel rather than the tourists’ ongoing questions. Did it matter what the Dutch word for fish was?

  “Two eels at once? Where’d you come from?” She kept the words under her breath this time.

  In the corner of her eye, the blue eel snapped into motion. It sliced through the water towards the new eel. Like it had a goal. Floor tensed up, unsure whether to be excited or repulsed. Her legs froze in their crouch. The tourists chattered in Spanish, no doubt noticing the movement, too.

  The blue eel dove into the other one from the side. From the back of Floor’s throat came a surprised yelp. Darkness billowed from the impact site. The eels circled each other, the injured one shuddering. The blood in the water thickened.

  The to
urists’ chatter turned to nervous laughter. “Think it’s jealous?” Mohawk Girl asked.

  Floor gripped her camera tighter, snapping photos without stopping. “It’s just animals. They’re … territorial.” She licked her lips, adding despite herself, “Possessive.”

  She couldn’t look away from the fight. It took four minutes. Then the blue eel drifted off, leaving nothing in its wake but darkened water and uncharacteristic waves.

  In the distance, tram bells rang.

  “Pieter?” Floor asked her dad. She leaned against the kitchen door frame, relishing the houseboat’s faint, familiar sway. “What color are eels? Can they be blue?”

  The musty-warm smell of kale filled the kitchen, hanging lazily in the corners and fogging up the windows even with half of them open to the water of the Brouwersgracht outside. Pieter was hunched over the kitchen counter. Short, off-blond locks dangled over his face. One arm held tightly onto the pan, the other working the old-school potato masher, matching the rhythm of the Dutch tunes blaring from the radio.

  “Can’t you look that up?” Pieter ran his hand along his forehead. His breathing came heavy.

  “I just figured, if you knew …” Floor wrinkled her nose. “Kale? In summer?”

  Pieter shrugged with one shoulder, still focused on the kale. In a way, Floor was glad for it. It made her feel less self-conscious. “I was in the mood. Anyway, eels are gray-silverish, or beige, at least when smoked. Blue … maybe if the light hits them right?” Pieter wiggled one hand in a gesture of uncertainty.

  “I’m pretty sure I saw one in the Prinsengracht earlier.”

  “Then I guess eels can be blue.” He laughed. When he continued, he talked uncomfortably fast. “Wow, I haven’t seen fish in the canals in ages. They must’ve been close to the surface—or maybe the city really is cleaning the water.”

  Floor stepped farther into the kitchen, passing the table where a folded-open letter caught her eye. A few phrases stood out. Protected City Sights; left outer-wall repairs; August 20th. She didn’t need to read more. Protected City Sights: A nice way of saying, “Live downtown? Expect to spend a lot of dough keeping your place authentic-looking—or we’ll make you.”

  No wonder Pieter sounded off. Apparently, the city had set a new deadline. Amsterdam had been hitting up houses for renovations left and right—such was the downside of the city center being on the World Heritage List—demanding specific paint colors, materials, styles of ceilings or fireplaces. Banners were strictly regulated. So were ads. Blinds, canopies, satellite dishes. Facades. Flags.

  Floor moved on, hoping Pieter hadn’t caught her pause. “Check these out,” she said. She lifted her camera and scrolled through the photos, a backwards film of the process of putting up the fourth banner. After receiving that letter, she had a feeling Pieter would appreciate the sentiment. “That’s just around the corner. Cool, right?”

  Pieter glanced over. “That, Floortje, depends entirely on the fine.”

  After school the next day, Floor sat in her bedroom’s window. Her netbook was propped against her drawn-up legs. A neighbor was practicing the violin, the breeze dragging along scattered notes she couldn’t fit into a tune. She ought to be editing photos or studying—the final exam week of the school year was coming up—but instead she browsed Wikipedia for information on eels.

  The eel that was currently dancing in the water outside her window, long-stretched and swift, had a lot to do with that.

  “Shouldn’t you be digging into mud? Hunting? Hiding out?” She laughed under her breath. “You’re just as big as the one from last night.”

  She noticed a swampy smell like rotten plants. Steadying her netbook, she fell silent when she saw a flat boat passing under the curve of the nearest bridge. From the front of the boat a bright orange metal arm protruded with a joint in the middle and a rusted hook dangling from the end. The hook slowly sank into the water.

  At the base of the arm sat an operator, his legs crossed at the ankles, his bald head reflecting the sun. With a snap of a joystick-like device, he brought the claw back up. Black-brown hooks pinched the front wheel of a city bike, the frame drooping in the air. Another bike was crunched immovably in the hook’s center. Mud dripped past the metal.

  As the dredger approached, the eel faded in and out of sight, re-appearing across the canal, then a meter from Floor’s bedroom window. Its movements came snappier, lashing out like the crack of a whip. Maybe the boat’s movements disturbed it, or the smell, which was only getting worse. Rust mingled with the stink of wet dirt. Floor slipped her computer off her lap when the bikes clanged onto the stack already on the boat. She’d wait inside until it passed.

  “Sorry, eel-buddy,” she said as she wrenched the window down, “looks like you’ll have to hide for a while. Hope it won’t mess up your house.” The claw was scraping over the muddy canal bottom, sending clouds of muck billowing. It brought up one or more prizes almost every time. She bet fish lived in those wrecks.

  When the dredger reached Floor’s house, she could see the stack of twisted metal, bikes upon bikes covered in a film of yellowed mud, bent wheels and twisted shopping carts, chairs of all kinds, a mangled crowd control fence, small boats that must’ve gotten overloaded with rain water, plastic sheets, the casing of an old TV.

  The hook dumped a single bike wheel on top. The boat leaned suddenly to the right. A ripple trembled over the water, reaching the houseboats on the other side. The dredger corrected itself—too far, sending it careening to the left. The operator sat up straight, fighting to correct the boat’s balance on the normally still water. The rest of the canal stayed placid.

  Another wave rippled out. The operator grabbed the seat of his chair, mouthing something Floor couldn’t hear.

  The wave reached her houseboat. She barely noticed—might not have if she hadn’t seen it coming—but then a tremor ran to her spine. The almost-empty glass of Sprite on the windowsill rippled.

  The operator struggled to keep the boat straight. Subtle waves tipped it one way or the other, sloshing up against the houseboats and boats alike.

  Floor steadied the Sprite glass, waiting until the dredger moved past and the water quieted into smoothness. The boat steadied. When the mud settled back in the deep, the eel showed up again to spin and curl as elegantly as before.

  Floor grabbed her camera.

  The eel seemed to like this part of the canal. It hung out by her bedroom window and showed up almost every time Floor did homework on the nearby dock, her feet dangling in the cool water. She’d look up from her notebooks and whisper, asking what it was doing and taking occasional snapshots, now more out of habit than anything else.

  It was the same eel, she’d decided, her eel. It had that same shimmer of blue even when it swam centimeters below the surface. Other times, when the sun hit it just right, the eel’s shade veered closer to purple or silver, sometimes all at once.

  She wasn’t the only one who noticed. Passersby walked up, captivated without fail; they ooh-ed and aah-ed and snapped pictures the same way Floor did, and she’d quietly grin, glad the attention was no longer on her, and tell her eel its show was all the rage.

  Today, though, she couldn’t afford the distraction.

  She scribbled German grammar puzzles into her battered workbook with one hand, holding an oily paper cone of Flemish fries in the other. She breathed in the smell of her fries, salty and just the right kind of greasy, interspersed with a whiff of fresh mayonnaise that made the image not just complete but perfect.

  More water splashed.

  “Not right now, pretty fishy,” Floor singsonged. “Big test coming up.”

  If it wasn’t her eel flailing about dramatically for the umpteenth time, it was probably just tourists on a canal bike or someone kicking garbage into the water. She glanced up anyway. Her hand stilled mid-scribble.

  A fisherman across the street—one she’d thought was sleeping, Ajax cap drawn far over his eyes—had caught her eel. It thrashed about
two meters from the shore, spraying water everywhere, slapping its tail on the surface, throwing itself against a nearby boat. The fisherman knocked back his chair as he shot upright. He reeled the eel from the water, arms bulging, back arched. His weathered face stretched into a smile.

  A couple of passersby paused to see the spectacle, shopping bags in hands.

  The sun caught every drop of water spraying from the eel. It shimmered on the eel’s scales, which gleamed blue and green and then—then more, Floor thought, purple and red and a sheen of yellow, but she couldn’t stand to look, couldn’t stand the eel’s panic as it dangled from the fishing thread. She pressed her hand flat onto her workbook, focusing on the fisherman instead or the mix of eagerness and disgust of the audience that’d gathered.

  The fisherman leaned in, steadying the eel’s body as he wormed the hook free.

  The eel would be fine. It had to be; they were catch-and-release only, and she’d read that eels could survive on land for ages, anyway. The eel kept thrashing. It took both the man’s hands to wrangle its slick body. He shouted at the crowd to take a picture. “Big one, right?” he called. “Biggest one I’ve seen. Gotta be a meter long! Are you seeing these colors? How about—” He coughed, then tried again. The word bubbled from his throat. “About—”

  He doubled over and spat in the dirt at the base of a nearby tree. The eel slipped from his hands. It landed on the cobblestones with a wet thump Floor couldn’t hear but imagined easily.

  A woman placed her Albert Heijn bags on the ground and approached, mouthing something that was lost in the distance. The fisherman didn’t respond. He spat out more and more until it wasn’t spit but water, whole streams of it. He wracked his body, gripped his throat. Then he stumbled, missing the eel slithering across the pavement by a hair’s breath. He didn’t notice. He was still coughing, spitting water that streamed past his chin. Then—dripping from his nose. His eyes.