Sunspot Jungle

by Bill Campbell

  The fisherman couldn’t breathe. The water kept coming.

  The eel splashed into the canal.

  Floor turned, spilling her fries as she yanked out her cellphone. She stumbled from the dock towards the bridge that’d take her across the canal, already dialing one-one-two for an ambulance.

  Fifteen minutes later, Floor hugged herself in the middle of the already-dissipating crowd, watching the ambulance’s taillights bump over the bridge. The fisherman was alive, but it’d been close. He was coughing up less water already. He’d be fine. She hoped.

  “What do we do with …?” The woman with the Albert Heijn bags gestured at the fishing equipment.

  “I’ll take it. He’s gotta live nearby—I’ve seen him before.”

  No one protested, so Floor crouched, taking the fisherman’s bait jar, his rod, his sweat-drenched fold-up chair, and beer cooler. One bottle had rolled to the very edge of the street with a stain surrounding it and a bitter stench floating upward. Must’ve tipped over when the man fell. She grabbed the bottle, too, and set off.

  As she crossed the bridge, she refused to look at the water. She saw the eel in her peripheral vision, though. Its shape right underneath the surface streaked back and forth, visible despite the darkened sky, the thickened clouds. Any last trace of a breeze had disappeared.

  “Not now,” she said. It couldn’t be the animal’s fault. Floor knew that. But—there was that cloud of blood from that second eel, the waves tossing the dredger around when it had disturbed the canal bottom, the water dripping from even the fisherman’s nose and ears—

  And the way the eel now followed her across the bridge and the canal shore, lagging only meters behind. The light hit its scales to bring out its colors, begging for photos. Floor walked faster. She looked stubbornly ahead, focusing on her houseboat, trying not to think of the fisherman’s body curled up on his side and seeming to break in half with every cough. Trying not to think of how.

  Pretty or not, she’d just ignore the eel. It didn’t own her.

  She stopped mid-stride.

  On the deck right outside her living room window stood a couple, thirtyish, maybe. The woman was leaning over, pressing a point-and-shoot to the glass, an audience captivated.

  By Floor’s home.

  The camera flashed, once, twice, then a third time before the woman turned to look at Floor. Her husband already did. His round face hovered between guilty and excited.

  “Is this yours? We just, we thought it was so beautiful and …” The guy tried to smile. English. British accent.

  “What are you. Doing?” Floor squeezed out, but then she shook her head, raised her hands, managed to stop herself from flinging the beer bottle at the last second. “Move!”

  Exam week.

  Each day, Floor locked herself up in her room, studying one subject after another. She’d turn her iPod dock up to the top volume to block out the rain slashing against her window, the howl of the wind, the water splashing against the house and the cracks of thunder.

  A tap on her shoulder. Floor jerked up. Ronald hovered over her.

  She reached for her iPod to turn down the sound.

  She just managed to catch the last of Ronald’s words: “… in the living room, don’t you?”

  “Wha—?”

  “Your music, honey,” he laughed. “We can hear it across the house.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  “What’s with the curtains?” he asked. “The canal’s beautiful. When the waves reflect the lightning … you really should look.”

  “I’m studying.” Her voice came stiff. Opening the curtains meant having a constant view of the canal—the eel—even if only peripherally. “It’s distracting. Did you see the news?”

  Ronald shook his head. “Did something happen?”

  Floor pulled over her netbook and navigated to nu.nl, pulling up the appropriate article. “Flooding,” she said. “Lisanne mentioned it at school. Her backyard is practically gone. And a couple of blocks from the Dam, her uncle’s boat sank—a small one, at least.”

  “I already thought the water level was higher.” Ronald let out a low, impressed whistle, cut short by another wave slamming the boat, shoving it towards the shore before yanking it back. Floor gripped the desk to steady herself. A film poster dropped from the wall and curled up.

  “It’s getting worse by the hour.” Floor took a second to catch her balance as she got up, the houseboat’s swaying catching her off-guard. It’d never been this bad. “Is Pieter still nauseated?”

  “You can say that.” Ronald ran a hand through his hair. “And—shit—you don’t know about the Herengracht houseboat yet, do you? A tree crashed onto the roof. Broke a woman’s arm, killed her cat.”

  “Shit,” Floor echoed. They were safe here, right? The trees nearby were just saplings; the city had cut down many of the older trees to better show off the houses.

  “I swear, someone must have pissed off a mermaid to cause a storm like this. Amsterdam will go the way of Reimerswaal.”

  Floor looked at Ronald quizzically, still crouching as she rolled up the fallen poster.

  “It’s a southern thing. Basically, we’ll all drown. Glug.” He grinned, but it looked fake, reminding Floor acutely of the city’s letter. Neither of her dads had mentioned it to her yet. “Can you even focus on your exams like this? You could stay with Lisanne.”

  Floor glanced at the canal-side curtains, where the water splashed against the outer walls. She could swear it splashed highest against their boat.

  She was being ridiculous, childish. Someone her age shouldn’t let herself get this spooked. Animals fought. Waves happened. People got sick.

  But still. “Yeah,” Floor said, aiming for nonchalance. “Maybe I should.”

  Floor had her backpack on, stuffed with school books and her netbook and a handful of clothing. She didn’t need much. Lisanne lived only ten minutes away. They could drive up and down easily.

  She jogged for Pieter’s car, her hood drawn. As she tossed her bag into the backseat, she caught a glimpse of the canal. The waves were higher than ever. They crashed against the brick canal walls and the houseboats with white foam heads she’d never seen so far inland. The water exploded onto docks and porches. The wind whistled through the streets, tearing at clattering shutters, ripping off leaves and branches, and sending them tumbling into the water.

  “Can I—do you mind waiting a minute?” she shouted at Pieter in the driver’s seat. The rain clattering on the roof almost drowned out her voice. “I forgot my camera.”

  Pieter made a go-on gesture and turned up the radio. Floor dashed back inside, grabbing her camera and its rain cover. Forget exams, forget the eel—she couldn’t pass up this opportunity.

  She went around to the dock sticking out between her neighbor’s homes. The wood was like oil under her feet, and the wind tugged at her from all angles. The rain stabbed her exposed cheeks. She pulled her hood in tighter, then crouched in the middle of the dock, avoiding the edges. With slick hands she tried to steady the camera, squinting at the screen through the haze of rain and the already-drenched plastic. She’d taken photos in the rain before, had read about it often enough, but never this intense. Nowhere close.

  Click. Click. There: That tree leaning dangerously to one side. Click. Click. The teens running across the bridge. Click. The deformed umbrella tossed to and fro on the canal.

  Floor shivered in her soaked clothes. At least the rain was softening.

  She took another photo of the umbrella. A wave caught it, pulled it under, and spat it back out. The handle spun, sending drops flaring in a pirouette.

  Her eel cut through the wave. Water flew off its back like a knife.

  Instinctively, Floor pressed click—then lowered the camera, simply staring at the eel, its every scale like mother-of-pearl: glimmering red-and-orange, then the dark blue-gray of the clouds overhead, the sun’s fierce yellow, the cobblestones’ brown, the deep green of the moss in betwee
n.

  The wind stopped yanking at her coat. Stopped tugging back her hood. Floor caught her muscles relaxing, grateful for the respite.

  She followed the eel’s shape in the water despite herself. It dove and rose gracefully, twirling, and it was as though it pulled the waves along with its dance as though it straightened them out with every movement.

  Today had to be the first time in days it’d had an audience. A lump grew in Floor’s throat. She raised the camera. Click.

  The rain had stopped hurting her cheeks. She rubbed her face with one hand, and her skin felt numb, swollen, probably bright pink. Rain hit the back of her hand, but now the drops were warm. They bounced off harmlessly.

  She had to test it. She had to convince herself this was real.

  She looked down, ignored the eel, waited for it to break its act and splash angrily the way it always did—

  Canal water sprayed her hands.

  Her eyes opened. The eel jerked in irritation.

  “You … you’re pretty, aren’t you?” she whispered. The words felt stupid. They drifted across the water to the twining shape of the eel under the surface. Under the now smooth, tight surface.

  And she clicked her camera, whispered praise, watched the eel swallow her attention whole. Its colors shone bright.

  “Floor?”

  She looked around to where Pieter stood on the shore, his hair drenched. He wouldn’t believe her. Wouldn’t believe any of this. He jerked a thumb at the car. “Let’s leave now it’s cleared up,” he said. “You ready?”

  She looked back at the eel. “I guess,” she said, her words coming forced and soft, barely a whisper, aimed at the eel and not at Pieter. She swallowed and tried again. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The eel spun in anticipation.

  Lacrimosa

  Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  The woman is a mound of dirt and rags pushing a squeaky shopping cart; a lump that moves steadily, slowly forward as if dragged by an invisible tide. Her long, greasy hair hides her face, but Ramon feels her staring at him.

  He looks ahead. The best thing to do with the homeless mob littering Vancouver is to ignore it. Give them a buck and the beggars cling to you like barnacles.

  “Have you seen my children?” the woman asks.

  Her voice, sandpaper against his ears, makes him shiver. His heart jolts as though someone has pricked it with a needle. He keeps on walking, but much faster now. It isn’t until he is shoving the milk inside the fridge that he realizes why the woman’s words have upset him: she reminds him of the Llorona.

  He hasn’t thought about her in years, not since he was a child living in Potrero.

  Everyone in town had a story about the Llorona. The most common tale was that she drowned her children in the river and afterwards roamed the town, searching for them at night; her pitiful cries are a warning and an omen.

  Camilo, Ramon’s great-uncle, swore on his mother’s grave that he met this ghost while riding home one night. It was the rainy season, when the rivers overflow and Camilo was forced to take a secondary, unfamiliar road.

  He spotted a woman in white bending over some nopales at the side of a lonely path. Her face was covered with the spines of the prickly pears she had savagely bitten. She turned around and smiled. Blood dripped from her open mouth and stained her white shift.

  This was the kind of story the locals whispered around Potrero. It was utter nonsense, especially coming from the lips of a chronic alcoholic like Camilo, but it was explosive stuff for an eight-year-old boy who stayed up late to watch black-and-white horror flicks on the battered TV set.

  However, to think about the Llorona there in the middle of the city between the SkyTrain tracks and a pawn shop is ridiculous. Ramon never packed ghost stories in his suitcase, and Potrero and the Llorona are very far away.

  He sees the homeless woman sitting beneath a narrow ledge, shielding herself from the rain. She weeps and hugs a plastic bag as though it were a newborn.

  “Have you seen my children?” she asks when he rushes by, clutching his umbrella.

  Nearby a man sleeps in front of an abandoned store, an ugly old dog curled next to him. The downtown homeless peek at Ramon from the shadows as he steps over discarded cigarette butts.

  They say this is an up and coming neighborhood, but each day he spots a new beggar wielding an empty paper cup at his face.

  It is disgraceful.

  This is the very reason why he left Mexico. He escaped the stinking misery of his childhood and the tiny bedroom with the black-and-white TV set he had to share with his cousins.

  Behind his house there were prickly pears and emptiness. No roads and no buildings. Just a barren nothing swallowed by the purple horizon. It was easy to believe that the Llorona roamed there. But not in Vancouver which is new and shiny, foaming with lattes and tiny condos.

  The dogs are howling. They scare him. Wild, stray animals that roam the back of the house at nights. His uncle told him the dogs howled when they saw the Llorona. Ramon runs to the girls’ room and sneaks into his mother’s bed, terrified of the noise and his mother has to hold him in her arms until he falls asleep.

  But when he wakes up, Ramon is in his apartment, and it is only one dog, the neighbor’s Doberman, barking.

  He rolls to the centre of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Ramon spots the woman a week later, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “My children,” she asks, with her cloud of dirty hair obscuring her face. “Where are my children?”

  Nauseating in her madness, a disgusting sight growing like a canker sore and invading his streets. Just like the other homeless littering the area: the man in front of the drugstore that always asks him for spare change even though Ramon never gives him any or the gnarled man beneath a familiar blanket, eternally sleeping in the shade of the burger joint.

  The city is heading to the gutter. Sure, it looks pretty from afar with its tall glass buildings and its mountains, but below there is a depressing stew of junkies and panhandlers that mars the view. It reminds him of Potrero and the bedroom with the leaky ceiling. He stared at that small yellow leak which grew to become an obscene, dark patch above his bed until one day he grabbed his things and headed north.

  He felt like repeating his youthful impulsiveness, gathering his belongings in a duffel bag and leaving the grey skies of Vancouver. But he had the condo which would fetch a killing one day if he was patient, his job, and all the other anchors that a man pushing forty can accumulate. A few years before, maybe. Now it seemed like a colossal waste of time.

  Ramon tries to comfort himself with the thought that one day when he retires he will move to a tropical island of pristine white beaches and blue-green seas where the wrecks of humanity can never wash ashore.

  He’s gone to buy groceries, and there she is, picking cans out of the garbage in the alley behind the supermarket.

  Llorona.

  He used to send a postcard to his mother every year when he was younger, newly arrived in the States. He couldn’t send any money because dishwashing didn’t leave you with many spare dollars; and he couldn’t phone often because he rented a room in a house, and there was no phone jack in there. If he wanted to make a call, he had to use the pay phone across the street.

  Instead, he sent postcards.

  Carmen didn’t like it.

  His sister complained about his lack of financial support for their mother.

  “Why do I have to take care of mom, hu? Why is it me stuck in the house with her?” she asked him.

  “Don’t be melodramatic. You like living with mom.”

  “You’re off in California and never send a God damn cent.”

  “It ain’t easy.”

  “It ain’t easy here either, Ramon. You’re just like all the other shitty men. Just taking off and leaving the land and the women behind. Who’s gonna take care of mom when she gets old and sick? Whose gonna clean the house and dust it then? With what fucking
money? I ain’t doing it, Ramon.”

  “Bye, Carmen.”

  “There are some things you can’t get rid of, Ramon,” his sister yelled.

  He didn’t call after that. Soon he was heading to another city, and by the time he reached Canada, he didn’t bother sending postcards. He figured he would one day, but things got in the way; and years later, he thought it would be even worse if he tried to phone.

  And what would they talk about now? It had been ages since he’d left home and the sister and cousins that had lived in Potrero. He’d gotten rid of layers and layers of the old Ramon, moulting into a new man.

  But maybe Carmen had been right. Maybe there are some things you can’t get rid of. Certain memories, certain stories, certain fears that cling to the skin like old scars.

  These things follow you.

  Maybe ghosts can follow you, too.

  It’s a bad afternoon. Assholes at work and in the streets. And then a heavy, disgusting rain pours down, almost a sludge that swallows the sidewalks. He’s lost his umbrella and walks with his hands jammed inside his jacket’s pockets, head down.

  Four more blocks and he’ll be home.

  That’s when Ramon hears the squeal. A high-pitched noise. It’s a shriek, a moan, a sound he’s never heard before.

  What the hell is that?

  He turns and looks, and it is the old woman, the one he’s nicknamed Llorona, pushing her shopping cart.

  Squeak, squeak, goes the cart, matching each of his steps. Squeak, squeak. A metallic chirping echoed by a low mumble.

  “Children, children, children.”

  Squeak, squeak, squeak. A metallic chant with an old rhythm.

  He walks faster. The cart matches his pace; wheels roll.

  He doubles his efforts, hurrying to cross the street before the light changes. The cart groans, closer than before, nipping at his heels.

  He thinks she is about to hit him with the damn thing, and then all of a sudden the sound stops.

  He looks over his shoulder. The old woman is gone. She has veered into an alley, vanishing behind a large dumpster.