Betcharatz

The ink of the canal trembled in the night giving off the ripples into the
thick growth of reeds along its banks. Wild ducks kept the watch over
their fluffy brood, tenderly dotted around their mothers’ large warm
bodies. The reeds rustled from the slightest puff of June’s breeze reel-
ing the water into the depths of the northern Pannonia plains. Water
was still cold from late spring showers, so eagerly expected by every
paor in the village.
under the drifting surface, the gigantic brownish organism of the
canal was sleeping within its depths, slipping down to the slimy graph-
ite colored blanket of the muddy bottom. Countless shoals of fish, the
lonely predators silently abiding the rules of the night’s truce, resting
and waiting for the temptations of the day. only the balloons of trapped
methane, not knowing the life’s measures of time, kept escaping at their
own pace from the mud, hurtling towards the shell of their watery
prison dissolving into the freedom of the air with a big plop.
In several yards across the entire network of a thousand-or-so
village houses resting amid that sweetest doze just preceding the out-
break of day, few light ghost-like silhouettes plunged into hurried ac-
tivity as if daylight might spoil their plans. Some were lonely and yet
others were accompanied by one or more assistants, all firmly set on
making the fishing tackle ready for the best time for fishing – the day-
break. lamps in the sheds or stables were not off and no noise was
made to not wake up and disturb the fish, even though the canal for
some fishermen may have been more than a mile away. needless to say,
the habit of taking such precautions was dictated by fishermen’s super-
stitious nature and traditions rather than rational behavior.
Women grumbled and gave a silent curse or two for having to assist
their husbands in their errand. The outcome of this work depended
solely on the whims of muddy waters and god knows what else. Their
job was to knead the dough they could expertly make from maize flour
with a pinch of paprika powder and some salt. fish loved the fresh
dough balls, but it took hundreds of early rises and at least as many
grouses to fashion them in a way that will keep them stuck to hooks
for a long time. as if making the bait and fish fodder was not enough,
women also had to feed their fishermen and even prepare a snack for
their long fishing vigilance on the boats.
The crispy mirror of the water was wrapped in a light cloud of
methane, sulfur and organic decay. The first slaps of heavy oars made
out of ash or locust tree announced the beginning of a new fishing
day. reeds bowed and swished away to let the heavy tar-coated boats
out into the open waters. a startled crane baffled from its nap into a
frantic flap of wings against the mesh of reed, wriggled out from its
nests, which so suddenly transformed into a trap and vanished into
dark with a whistling whiz.
Secret passages in reed growth known to few were sought by the
trained eyes used to reading the shades and silhouettes among plant
rods growing above calm black waters. When the outlines of a hiding
place, known solely to its visitors, were finally spotted on the phos-
phorescent surface of the water glistening in the thicket, the boat was
brought to an immediate stop by grabbing an armful of reed stalks
and sticking it under the bottoms of men on the prow and rudder.
Everything was carried out in a silence that would be envied by even
the most skillful predator.
The first rays of dawn now tottered on the horizon as if a huge door
was open into a dimly lighted room. This was usually a signal for all
chilly currents to unite and give an ultimate flap to all warm-blooded
creatures. Some boats trembled in the rhythm of jaw rattle and a bottle
of home-made fruit brandy would be passed from hand to hand in
a body-warming and soul-elevating ritual. fishing rods were quickly
unpacked from the sacks. The first throws were attempted right after
some bait-feeding of the hopeful prey with a couple of handfuls of
roughly ground maize. The plumbs whistled through the night land-
ing with a splash and their traces quickly disappeared behind the wet
mirror of the water. roosters gave their first harsh long crows from the
depths of the backyards letting the fishermen know that the life would
soon start pulsating in its splendour and mystique of this living organ-
ism of the canal water.
first catch was soon shimmering in the silver beams of light pour-
ing across water from the East pulling the lines and prancing in the
last attempt to grope some air. Some dazed fisherman’s heart rejoiced
at the boon of god’s merciful gifts from the water garden. There was a
reason to be content with all the abundance of various fish one can lay
the hook on. Water sheltered and fed carps, red fins, basses…
The huge open pinky womb of the heavens gave birth to another
day. The blood of light was spilt across the shuddering expectant waters.
Soon the Sun would dive out from the primordial bed of darkness and
flood the world in torrents of warmth and mirth. The beginning of the
day promised a good catch. fishermen were now able to see the boats
dotting the banks as far as eyes could pierce through the grasping gifts
of early morning luminescence. fish were biting like mad with the first
rays of sunshine making its way towards the limbs of the Earth. The
long tongues of fog began to wave and twist on the illuminated glass
of the water making their way into the regular dwelling higher up in
the sky.
Suddenly a mellow plucking clatter was heard oozing from the
water; fishermen immediately pricked up their ears, twisting and turn-
ing their heads in attempt to locate the strange sounds, the enemies
of any serious fishing endeavour. Sounds began to form into an aud-