‘Net the monster?’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll need help, yes, help … HELP!’ He fled
down the dock screaming.at the still-dark, quiet huts.
This was not the Maze where cries for help went unheeded. Doors opened and
bleary-eyed fishermen stumbled out to the wharf.
‘What is it?’
‘What’s the noise?’
‘Man the boats! The Old Man’s got the monster!’
‘The monster?’
‘Hurry, Ilak!’
‘The Old Man’s got the monster!’ The cry was passed from hut to hut.
And they came, swarming over their boats like a nest of angry ants: Haron, her
sagging breasts flopping beneath the nightdress she still wore; Omat, his
deformed arm no hindrance as he wrestled his boat on to the water with one hand,
and in the lead, Terci, first rowing, then standing, in the small boat to
shout orders at the others.
Hort made no move to join them. They were fishermen and knew their trade far
better than he. Instead he stood rooted on the dock, lost in awe of the Old
Man’s courage.
In his mind’s eye Hort could see what his father saw: sitting in a small boat on
an inky sea, waiting for the first tug on the rope – then the back-breaking haul
on the oars to drag the metal trap landward. Always careful not to get too far
ahead of the invisible creature below, yet keeping its interest. The dark was
the Old Man’s enemy as much as the monster was; it threatened him with
disorientation – and the mist! A blinding cloud of white closing in from all
sides. Yet the Old Man had done it and now the monster was within reach of its
victims’ net.
The heavy net was spread now, forming a wall between the mystery beast as it