"El Gato" by Gabriel Zamora

Frank Garza drove his Chevy Silverado, with his bass boat trailing behind, to the levee on the Amistad International Reservoir that Friday afternoon. Frank, a legendary fly fisherman from Del Rio, knew that the heavily mesquite-draped shores of the reservoir on a clear and warm afternoon would be the hatchery for many insects favored by the largemouth bass of the area. He’d crafted several gray ghost flies the previous day. Each replicated the emerging larvae into full-fledged insects. No bass could resist such a sumptuous treat.

As he removed the flat-bottomed, motorless boat from its trailer, he noticed large cat paw tracks decorating the dirt of the levee road. He stopped to examine the marks.  Frank learned from his Lipan Apache grandmother that larger cats often embodied the spirit of Native Americans who guarded the ancient ones once living among the hills and caves now flooded by the Amistad Reservoir water.  Hills and caves disappeared as well as over ten species of flora and fauna when the Reservoir sprang from the engineers’ drafting table in 1969.  Recently, Mexican cartels discovered black market antiquity hooting by diving for Native Americans grave goods that yielded profits.  Everyone living along the border knew about the cartel’s never-ending search for border exploitation, no matter the consequences.  Five years ago, Frank’s cousin, Oscar jet skied near this same area when a cartel sniper wanted to see how quickly a jet ski would stop without a rider.  Frank, remembering that particular cartel insurgence, tried to focus on the tracks on the ground.   A large cat, perhaps a panther who roamed the reservoir on both sides of the River patrolled this area. Frank wondered if it was a Native American spirit guardian keeping an eye on the cartel’s new grave robbing schemes.   The levee provided the means to easily cross between the two sides of the Rio Grande. But these cats were nocturnal, he remembered, and would pose no threat to him this sunny afternoon. Nevertheless he whispered a brief prayer to his grandmother asking for her blessing, “Bendiceme, Abuela.”

After launching the lightweight boat near mesquite-lined shores, Frank stood upright in the shallow boat, cast his fly lure and set the rhythm of gently whipping the line out.  He carefully watched the line form a figure eight and ended the aerial choreography with the delicate rest of the gray ghost on the surface of the water. The lure rested there for a few seconds, then flew off into the sky once again as he snapped the rod backwards, taking up the line slack, forming another figure eight. The whole performance imitated the flight and resting of the insects that were so tasty to the bass below.

Frank concentrated on his technique as he eagerly watched the landing of the ghost, again and again.  Suddenly, he saw a flash of light from under the water; it was followed immediately by a deep rumble and quake of both shore and water. He stopped fishing and reeled in his line. The water began to move, and form waves as another flash of light sparked under the water and another series of rumbles and quakes caused even more wave action. As the water finally calmed, dead fish began to surface. Frank looked sadly at the prized bass floating to the surface upside down. Then, near his boat, the body of a diver in a wetsuit bobbed up to join the newly formed cemetery. Grabbing his paddle, Frank immediately used all his strength to reach the diver. Turning the stranger’s face up, he removed the diver’s mask. Startled, Frank watched blood pour from the man’s eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Having completed a tour of duty as a medic in Afghanistan, Frank recognized the damage done by explosives.  In their haste, the cartel failed to properly train their black-market harvesters.  Slicing through submerged cave walls to lift ancient art from the rock required technical skills and specialized equipment, not explosives.

Still cradling the diver’s bloody skull, Frank felt the boat begin to move slowly in a circle. He looked around and saw a sinkhole forming, sucking everything that floated on the surface into its vortex.  Frank quickly caught a branch from a mesquite tree on the shore to stop his boat from following all the other material headed for the depths.  Eventually, the current was too strong.  With no other choices available, Frank clung to the branch, abandoned his boat, and tried to drag himself and the dead diver to the shore.

His empty boat and fishing tackle now spun rapidly toward the water funnel, finally disappearing below the surface right before his eyes. Hoping to reach the shore before the branch snapped, Frank launched himself at the solid ground and landed—still grasping the dead man—in the blessed dirt where he kicked and clawed his way completely out of the water. “Bendiceme, Abuela!” Frank again begged for his grandmother’s blessing.

Lying prone on the ground, attempting to fill his lungs with oxygen, he looked up briefly to see a pair of black cat legs, followed by a low, deadly growl. Frank raised his head further and came face to face with a large black jaguar. His grandmother whispered, “Ella a esta aqui; no tengais miedo.  Ella protégé a todos los Muertos.” (“She is here; do not be afraid. She guards all the Dead.”)  The jaguar growled again, this time showing an impressive set of long, white, teeth.  Exhausted, Frank listened once more to his grandmother softly urged him, “Dormir ahora, mijo.” (“Sleep now.”)  Frank obeyed and closed his eyes.

Gabriel Zamora is a Mexican American living in the borderlands between Texas and Mexico, the most demonized place in the United States.