Free Filaria by Brent Hayward Page A

tying one end to a loop in the waistband of his shorts and the other around the squirming crustacean.
    “No no no,” the crab said. “Let free! Let free!”
    “Me and you are going for a swim. Together .”
    Tran so Phengh stepped over the side of the raft, plunging into the tepid water of Lake Seven. He surfaced, one hand grasping the plastic float, and shook water from his hair. He drew several deep breaths. The crab found occasion to angrily pinch Tran so’s fist with its claws but Tran so was merely steeled by the sensation and he flung the weak creature to the end of its tether.
    “I am a good swimmer,” he told it. “I can dive and hold my breath for a long time. You will be tied to my side until I encounter this lake god. Don’t underestimate me. I have nothing to lose.”
    Turning in the water, he dove, kicking with powerful strokes. The crab dragged behind, helpless on the line. All around was murky. The water hurt Tran so’s eyes. He saw very little. Not much light penetrated the water, and dark sediment clouded his vision. He continued swimming downward until his lungs and legs hurt. He could not distinguish a thing, could not see the bottom, no forms at all.
    Returning to the surface, he breached, gasping, twenty metres or so from the raft. Treading water, he flung snot from his lip, struggling to regain his breath. He did not know what he would say to the lake god if he ever encountered it, nor how he would communicate with the deity, but these questions seemed almost irrelevant now. He pulled the crab up by the fishing line and shook it.
    “I didn’t see anything.”
    “More down. But god not know. Man sleep. Many more down. More dow — ”
    On the second dive, Tran so changed his trajectory, passing on his descent long, twisting fronds that meant, to him, the bottom could not be far off. Still, he saw no detail. He forced himself to go deeper and deeper but the ache in his lungs caused him to turn around once more and reluctantly resurface.
    Several attempts, with similar results, and his gut was churning, his thighs cramping. His chest constricted with bands of pain. He could hardly see, even when he lifted his head above the surface. He had swallowed water and knew there would be a price to pay for doing that — people had died drinking from Lake Seven.
    Clambering atop the raft, he rested on all fours, panting, then collapsed onto his side, contracting into the fetal position. There were leeches on the skin of his stomach and groin that left bleeding ulcers when he tore them off. The brief-lived euphoria, buoying him prior to taking his first dive, had certainly vanished.
    Nearby, the crab floated on the surface, feeling cocky as it mocked and derided Tran so; through clenched teeth, Tran so vowed to kill the beast, but instead vomited seawater and mucus over the edge of the raft, his stomach roiling as if waves churned Lake Seven when in fact the water remained perfectly calm.
    Eventually, he lapsed into sleep. When he came to, it was as if his limbs and head were aflame. He could hardly move, and though it must have been close to noon, his vision had faded so much that the day appeared darker than night, no matter how much he rubbed at his eyes. In fact, something — a parasite of some kind — moved sinuously behind his left eyeball.
    And the fishing line hung limp from his waist; the crab had escaped.
    Again he turned to look toward Hoffmann City, unsure if what he saw was a thicker veil of smoke over the landscape or tricks played on him by his damaged eyes. Standing up on the rocking raft, forcing his arms to bend, he worked like a madman on his thighs and knees, pounding his fists against his tightened muscles.
    Like he had told the crab, he had nothing to lose. So he dove again, anger impelling him. This time, at last, after forcing his body down, and down, he imagined he saw some details: tiny lights of various colours danced beneath him, beckoning him deeper still. Beyond these