'Bait Trap' by Chrissie Cuthbertson

The bait trap sinks off the end of the bleached wood jetty, falling through the acid dark water to the bottom of Hiidentakanen. We tie the rope to the mooring ring. A pair of Arctic loons dive for the little fish that are also our quarry. One loon dives, and then the other and the lonely cry of the first to emerge floats on the lake like a soft mist.

We slowly lift the bait trap two hours later. Slowly, because what will we do if there are fish inside? But—the relief goes unacknowledged—there are none, and we sink it again to leave the trap longer.

We raise the bait trap in the late evening, when the sun hangs low in the sky. Surely this time? But no. No muikut. Back down it sinks, snaking through the blackness.

We grow in confidence. We may never need to take a little fish from the trap and spear it on a hook to catch a bigger fish that we want to eat, but are afraid to catch for fear of blood and guts and suffocating death. We leave the bait trap overnight.

Next morning, before breakfast, before even the berries are picked, we rise early to lift the bait trap and find it empty.

We are laughing now. How silly we were to think we could find our own food like early Homininae, pluck sweet bilberries, forage herbs and leaves, grub the starchy burdock from the dark earth, bake fish in charcoal.

Down the bait trap sinks again.

Two days pass, and we forget the bait trap lying on the floor of the lake. We are no longer frightened and excited by it. Then when we are in bed we remember. We rise and go naked in the expressionless light of the white night to the end of the jetty. All around is calm. The water is barely disturbed, but for fish nosing the surface to feed on insects.

Now the bait trap feels heavy at the end of its rope. We look at each other in alarm and delight. Hand over hand the bait trap is lifted, the water dripping through the trap as we haul it onto the grooved boards of the jetty.

Inside, we find a drowned otter, its hands gripping the wire mesh, its fur wet and tufted like a teenage boy on the way to meet his girlfriend, its eyes empty and its bloodied teeth dreadful in its wild animal face.

From alongside the corpse, a single black eel wriggles free and finds its way back to the lake through the jetty planks.