THE  CORMORANT FISHERMAN

 

"...Bruce Thomas, the owner of the ravaged face, was facing charges of importation of a controlled substance. But it was complicated because it was under the analogue act, which was also known as the ‘party-pooper’ act – it strove to retrospectively ban anything that could remotely be deemed useful in synthesizing anything that was remotely designed to give anyone the briefest buzz. It was part of the war on consciousness. Bruce was facing life for the attempted importation of alpha PVP, (flacca) an analogue of methcathinone, an analogue of methamphetamine.

“What about you, pal?”

“This is Nguyen. He doesn’t talk about his charges.”

Bruce was a sapper during the Tet offensive. He saw men on fire running out of tunnels. He saw children, flesh hanging off them, writhing – the victims of bomblets that produced thousands of organ-penetrating shards. He saw Vietnamese girls hauled over fences at Thai refugee camps, traded for food. Nguyen was his penance, protecting him from prying questions. I looked at Nguyen and grinned. He grinned back like a schoolboy given an elephant stamp.

“My grandfather was a cormorant fisherman.”

“Really? Cool.”

“On the Mekong. Before the Chinese poisoned it.”

“You used the bird to catch fish?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t it just swallow it?’

“Normally. Cormorant is all-devouring. The ancients call it sea-raven. But a ribbon is tied around its neck, so it can swallow small fish but not the bigger ones.”

He mimed all this, somewhat unnecessarily. I let him talk on.

“My grandfather, tho’, - he was not an ordinary cormorant fisherman – he trained his bird without the throat-snare.”

“How did he do that?”

“His cooking. Pork belly sauce, palm sugar lightly roasted and poured on Gahcon – butterfish – delicious. His pet bird, he called Gwen, got a taste for his cooking.

“I see. I didn’t realise birds had taste buds like that.”

“Oh – his birds, he choose from the egg. He loved his birds. If any swallowed a fish tho – he would have to kill it.”

“Why?”

“That bird was wild that remembered it didn’t need the cormorant fisherman. One night, halfway through the seventh moon after the spawn, he took my brother and me out on the river. We had our own birds we had tamed. It was so still – the lanterns alight on long Tonkin bamboo poles swayed to attract the fish. Can you imagine? 15 boats, their lanterns swaying, all afire, over the water on long Tonkin bamboo poles, the birds swooping into the water, bringing the fish to their masters. There are more serene things, and more noble; but not much nobler and not much more serene. My brother’s cormorant still had its throat snare, but mine didn’t – mine was hooked on grandfather’s Gahcon recipe and so she was swifter, much swifter….”

He did the motions and made the sounds.

“My brother was very jealous – his bird must not have liked the way he cooked the butterfish….”

“Yeah – those cormorants are harsh judges. Saw one on MasterChef….”

I chuckled but he went straight on….

“My grandfather was the last true cormorant fisherman on the Mekong. The Chinese dammed up-river and started pouring their poisons into it. The bird’s feathers got oily and they got….cranky. One night, we were fishing with Gwen. As usual, my cormorant spat out more fish than my brother’s did. But then – I think my bird must have seen some cranes against the moon, mating – tapping each other’s beaks, and she…she swallowed a small fish she had in her throat.”

Nguyen’s high voice, almost effeminate, quavered a little and I didn’t think he could continue, but he mimed the swallowing and continued…

“Straight away my brother saw this and he slit open my bird to release the fish. He said…he said – ‘that bird was wild that remembered it didn’t need the cormorant fisherman – isn’t that right, grandfather?” And my grandfather….my grandfather nodded. I’d brought up that bird from when it was a chick – before, even. I hatched it. And my brother killed it….for nothing.”

“That’s pretty sad. But I suppose rules is rules, Nguyen. Did you get another cormorant?”

“No. The Americans bombed us. We had to move to Luang Prabang. I asked my grandfather before he died, why he let my bird be gutted. He told me….

“In each of us a dragon, that makes of man the cormorant.”

I looked at Bruce, unsure of what to say. The whole encounter just deepened the mystery of why this mild, softly spoken poet of a man was here at all. But I remembered my time in Vietnam, and how I thought the Vietnamese the most tenacious breed of little mind-fuckers I’ve ever come across, and how clear it was that the Yankee troops, fighting for corporate America, would never overcome them or crush their spirit.

After a brief pause, Bruce rapped his knuckles on the table to indicate that it was Nguyen’s turn. Nguyen threw down all the cards he held, clasped his hands behind his neck, lent back in his chair and said:

“I took that as judgement on my brother.”

As I paced out the yard with Bruce later, I thought how great it would be to be brought up in that synergy with Nature, like Nguyen. That’s what was missing in the West. Nguyen seemed so centred to me, and it must have been his upbringing on the Mekong.

“Yeah? Ya reckon?”

Brue raised his eyebrows satirically.

“Or – he just might be bat-crazy. Who can tell?”

“Yeah – who can tell?”

“Prison ’ll do that to ya.”

“Renmark’s a prison.”

Back at the remand unit, I told Bruce of my triumph over Brebner. He was so impressed, he

asked me about my sovereignty defence. I told him it was dangerous, as it removed

expression of contrition as it was a head-long rush at the system, but that was replaced

with an expression of lack of confidence in the prevailing system of interlocking hierarchies

structured to exploit, plunder and foster conflict. I told him the document amounted to a

conscious statement of allegiance to the biosphere of Earth, a sentient being, which the

banking system falsely claims to be inert, insentient and infinitely exploitable.

“Ya reckon it can get Nguyen off?”

“No but his statement might mean his punishment could be decided by his peers and their

connection to the land.”

“Sorta like a Vietnamese Nunga court thing?”

“Yes. But I still don’t know what his offence was.”

“Hang on.”

He went off and returned with Nguyen and a sheaf of papers. We sat down.

“This is Nguyen’s record of interview. Now – keep this to yourself, right? No-one else in the

unit can know, ok?”

I agreed and read the record of interview. It started the usual way:

SENIOR: Do you agree the time is now 2:45 am?

ACCUSED: Yes.

SENIOR: Do you agree that you are the brother of the deceased M___?

ACCUSED: Yes

SENIOR: Can you tell me what this object is?

ACCUSED: It looks like my fillet knife.

SENIOR: Can you tell me about the events leading up to the murder?

ACCUSED: I picked him up from the airport. He kept twitching – I knew he was lying.

SENIOR: Lying about what?

ACCUSED: What? What. What. You know what. The miaow miaow.

SENIOR: The miaow miaow? Do you mean MDPU?

ACCUSED: I mean the MIAOW MIAOW. He was supposed to bring in 400 grams.

SENIOR: Smuggled? How?

ACCUSED: Swallowed. He told me he couldn’t do it. We waited for 3 hours and nothing came out but I knew he was lying so I opened him up.

I looked up from the brief of evidence. Nguyen was smiling.

“My grandfather was the last cormorant fisherman on the Mekong” he said softly.

I quickly flicked to the attached photographic exhibits. One showed a man’s bodysplit open

from the pelvis to the throat. I started to tremble. ‘Neh…Peh…void’, ‘Neh…Peh…void’ I kept

whispering to myself. Where am I? In hell or hallowed hall?

Nguyen went on:

“He was. He told me once – in each of us a dragon that makes of man the cormorant.”

Bruce looked at me.

“Whadya reckon? The dragon’s got hold of him. Mekong in his blood. It’s his culture, right?

The Yanks pulverized his family, forced him to make a living only way left him…”

But I had no answer. The blood had drained from my brain. I was passing out. I fled back to

my cell to lie down and process. Think. I was in hell and hallowed hall at the same time.

Where was the switch?

It occurred to me that there was indeed a dragon in each of us and that it escaped detection

because it was chameleon-like, and was able to disguise itself – as us. We had even given it

a name – the ego. This was the final piece of the puzzle for me.

We gaze into the mirror of projected ‘reality’ to discover who we truly are but the answer to

this question cannot be found using the mind lent to us by the Hive. It will never allow us to

move outside the confines it delineates. This enables the creation of a self-contained, self-

legitimized universe in opposition to cosmic order, with Death installed as the Supreme

Power. This physical reality we move around in is a simulacrum, this reflected light we bask

in a lunacy, this explicate order we bend to the eternal winter of a sunless Mind.

As I lay there I was able to find, at last, the switch that moved me from hell to hallowed hall.

I had gone completely and utterly sane."

from  'Je Suis Monis'