Fiction: Group 4
New Tales of the Pearl River Delta
Island School, Mak, Quentin - 14, Fiction: Group 4
he tiny light of the lantern cast its gaze around me, as if searching for something it has lost. It
illuminated my surroundings, which had been previously ensconced by the dark veil of night. I see
myself, looking drab and defeated in my ragged garb, and I see the sampan I was on, who also
seemed to be plagued by its own troubles, worn and looking unseaworthy. It was only us upon the river;
nobody would care if we were to be swept away and never be found again. How fitting.
The breeze was chilly and unforgiving, stabbing daggers into my dry and flaked skin. I shrivel up, the cold
too big of an enemy to fight. Where was the sun when I needed it, when I needed its warm embrace? Did it
not pity me, a poor fisherman who had a family to feed, and a sick child to save? Yet at the same time I
yearn for it, I beg it not to come, to leave me in the clutches of night a little longer. I needed the harsh,
bitter cold, and the merciless, jet-black darkness to keep my fellow fishermen in bed, shivering and
snuggling under their covers. The wind was not light on the skin, bringing with it the thick and creamy
smog that came from the factories yonder. It clung me my body like a cloak, trapping me in its fold, forcing
off huge drips of perspiration. I was sweating in the cold.
I went to the back of my sampan, and retrieved my fishing net. The shaft was fashioned out of thick
bamboo, and the net was meshed with strong twine. I grab hold of its dented shaft, and lifted it, muscles
straining and back arching. My shoulders exploded into a blazing pain, and my bones creaked and groaned
from the considerable effort. The sores and aches still hadn’t faded from last night, and I had put pressure on
them. After the initial lift, the pain instantly subsided into a dull ache. I was used to it, and paid it no heed as
I carried the net to the side of the boat. The boat wobbled precariously to one side, and I nearly fell down
face first into the dark depths below.
I quickly twisted and dropped myself down, pressing my body to the floor of the sampan. The boat
steadied itself, and I stood up with shaky feet. Phew, that was a close call! I wiped the sweat from my brow,
and lifted the net again with a herculean effort. I felt myself shudder, not from the exertion, but from the
memory of the river water I came face to face moments ago. It yearned over me, a darkness so black that it
looked quite like death itself. Maybe it was – nothing good ever came out of the river. The water was
murky and frothy, covered with a thin film of oil and some unknown substances. Floating around, jutting
out were bits and pieces of garbage and debris, probably from the factories and cities beyond. The sight
revolted me, and more than that, it pummeled at my conscience – it was so dirty and so toxic, but I still
fished here, feeding poison to others, slowly killing them. Was I a murderer? But if I didn’t fish here, where
else could I fish? How would I earn money to support my family and cure my child from her sickness? All
these rationalizations were tormenting, tearing me apart, and I had no way to drag away the guilt.
Clearing my mind, I focused on the task at hand. With a practiced motion, I swept the net into the water
against the tide, and kept it there, steady, waiting, patient. My muscles burned as the water came rushing in,
trying to batter my net backwards and out of my grip. I kept the net there for a while, unaware of what lay
inside due to the opaqueness of the water, and lifted it out, grunting with effort. It was heavy, weighty,
which must mean that I have caught quite a few fish, or God forbid, a bundle of junk and trash. My hopes
were dashed, as I opened my eyes that had been sewn shut to look at what lay before me. There were a few
fish scattered here and there, diamonds in the rough, but the rest of the net was filled with litter and waste
that stunk to high heaven.
With a sigh, I sat down. It was supposed to be winter, and most fish should have come down here to
migrate. But it wasn’t so bad – at least I caught fish. Yesterday, I only caught tiny little ones that nobody
wanted. In fact, nobody wanted my fish. Nobody wanted OUR fish. Not fish from this river. The
businessmen knew it, and so they exploited this opportunity. They devoured us, the hungry wolves they
are. We go to the market in the predawn sky, hoping to sell out the fish we caught in the morning for a
day’s money while they were fresh. Almost nobody buys them and customers and sellers at other stalls stare
T