The Fishpond

Lao Tao's fishpond sat at the east end of the village—three mu of water, stocked with crucian and grass carp. The plum-rain season came hard that year, nine days of rain straight, and the aerator ran from dawn to dark, its hum drowning the frogs along the ridge. Every morning Lao Tao poled his bamboo raft out to count the fish. On the seventh day, something felt wrong. In the eastern corner, a netful of fish was missing. Not dead fish floating up—they were gone in whole groups. He thought his eyes were blurred by the muddy water, counted again the next day, and again they were fewer. Not many, not few: each time, eleven or twelve short, as if someone were taking them by count. He said nothing. At night he hung the hurricane lamp on the willow and crouched in the shed to watch. The rain stopped; the mosquitoes came. He smoked, watching the duckweed split and close again on the wind. On the third night the moon came out, and he saw a figure climb up from below the bank. It was Aunt Gui, the widow at the village's end, past sixty, her back bent. She carried no net. She just squatted at the edge, untied a plastic bag from her chest, and poured into the water—broken steamed buns and leftovers. The fish gathered; she dipped her bamboo basket, lifted one, dropped it in her bucket. Lao Tao was about to call out, then held. He remembered last summer, when Aunt Gui's grandson, Xiaoman, had drowned in this pond. After that she folded in on herself, grew quiet. Her husband had died early; her son worked the mine and came home twice a year at best. She took eleven fish, no more no less, and was about to go when Lao Tao coughed and stood up from the shed. She started; the bucket nearly tipped. 'Brother Tao, I—' Her hands shook. Lao Tao stepped down the bank, didn't scold. He squatted and poured the fish back. 'Take two home to eat. Don't scoop the whole basket. I watch this pond. If you want to feed them, come every day, just don't net them yourself.' Aunt Gui's eyes reddened. She said nothing, picked the two smallest, and left. The lamp swayed and threw her shadow long across the water—another fish, slowly swimming into the night. Lao Tao turned the aerator down a notch. The frogs rose again. He thought, suddenly, that what the pond was losing wasn't fish. Someone was coming every day to acknowledge a door she could never walk through.