The Authentic Eclectic
The Three Crocodiles
The sun crept below the mangroves, tempting the party to follow its sickly sweet glow onto the open sea. But they guided their canoe back through the safety of the vines and hanging moss, too wise to tickle fate’s bared neck. The cicada-like trill of a nightjar broke the silence.
They had traveled far, lured by the bounty of fish who grew in size the closer they paddled to the edge. Now the dark would catch them. They made a renewed effort, coordinating their strokes with rhythmic calls, bringing all their muscle to bear against the water so that they might return home before the deep night.
Right, left, right, left. The canoe slid through the brackish water with unstoppable force.
A flash of red, unnatural, bobbing.
“Stop!” Gonc stood his paddle in the water. They turned to him impatiently, minds on the miles between them and dinner. “I want to grab that bottle.” He worked the boat sideways until he could tap the red container closer with his paddle, then swept it up and dropped it between his feet.
“Quite through?” Jo asked, twisting his grizzled face into a sneer. Several others chuckled. Gonc was not well-loved.
He only nodded, pressing his lips tight to avoid starting a fight. The paddling resumed.
