With the vicious determination of a mother bird hunting insects for its young, two strong men cast out a weighted nylon net and pulled it in one direction and then the other, trying to catch as many fish as possible before the start of the afternoon rains. They were using the net in the clear waters of a creek coursing through the dense forest of sheltering river palms, beetle-covered strangler figs, and towering ceibas that continually dropped yellow flowers into the water below like a slow rain. The creek flowed just north of Greyhill, along the base of an ancient talus slope, which was topped by the road that ran to the island’s capital. Standing in waist-high waters, the two young men called to each other. They were mainlanders who had come to the village to idle away a few days fishing in the unspoiled rivers of San Carlos. And they were using the net to catch small fish which would later be used as bait to take bigger ones in the broad green river that surged through Greyhill on its way to the coast.
Two boys, about ten years old, were wading in the creek. They played with a turtle that swam in the warm, sparkling water. The turtle was almost a meter long from head to tail. It moved gracefully, gliding through the water like a thread of light. Its short, leathery legs were yellow and viridian, and its shell was the color of chocolate. It paddled against the gentle current of the shallow creek; unhurriedly, indolently, as though lacking any purpose or desire.
Birds of all colors chattered in the tall trees, and a sea mouse moved cautiously through the reeds that bordered the creek. The sky was clear, and the day was hot.
The boys lost interest in the turtle and set about building a dam across the creek with fallen tree branches. The water sparkled as it flowed over the branches and eventually carried the smaller ones away.
One of the men saw the turtle and pointed it out to the other man. They dragged it to a rocky spot on the shore and dropped large stones on it until it lay crushed and lifeless. It was half-buried by the rocks; a pile of red flesh, broken shell, and purple entrails.
The boys noticed what was going on. They stood in the water, watching.
“Why did you kill it?” one of the boys asked.
The men looked at each other.
“The turtle eats fish,” one of them answered.
Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His work has appeared in a number of journals including Chicago Quarterly Review, The Sierra Nevada Review, Folio, and Stonecoast Review.