Hope

Authors Note: This is dedicated to my better half, who was born in Venezuela, and his family who remain there. I hope the future is different.

Soy Venezolano. I am Venezuelan.

Not long ago, my country was one of the most beautiful places in the world. For the last fifteen years, three months, and two days, I’ve watched the sun rise over the crystal blue seas that surround Punta de Araya. From the moment I was born, I was destined to become a fisherman like my father, and like his father before him. The Caribbean was our tropical oasis, brimming with more tuna and shrimp than we could catch.

Now, half of my village survives off of dog soup—a broth made from seawater and sardines.

Now, instead of waking up to the sunrise, it’s the last thing I see before falling asleep.

It’s pitch black as our boat skips over the water, twin engines whining behind us. The wind against my face offers a grateful reprieve from the hot night air, my sweat itching as it dries. I sling my rifle over one shoulder, rubbing the back of my hand over my forehead. When I was a young boy I dreamed of being a pirate, but the pirate of my dreams was nothing like the reality of what I've become.

“There.”

El Mago, our leader, points off to the left, the boat lurching slightly as we alter course. Squinting, I can just make out the lights of a ship on the horizon. It looks huge, the red light at the top of its mast appearing high above the water, even from a distance. My heart thrums like a hummingbird and my hands are clammy as I readjust my gun, clutching it to my chest.

All around me the other men do the same, though, unlike me, they’ve all done this before. This is my first raid, and I can see El Mago glance back at me, his face impassive. I do my best to keep my expression blank, praying he can’t read my mind.

El Mago. The wizard.

I don’t want to be here. I want to be at home, asleep in the bedroom I share with my three younger siblings. My stomach growls loudly with nerves and incessant hunger, reminding me why that isn’t possible. If I don’t do this, it’s likely my family will starve to death before this year’s end.

I harden my resolve, staring directly back into El Mago’s eyes. They appear black in the darkness, the reflection of the moon creating an almost-unworldly gleam across their surface. I hold my breath, but he simply nods, turning to face forward again.

Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t want to be here either.

The lights on the horizon begin to take on the tell-tale shape of a large sailboat. I feel the blood rush from my head, my vision greying around the edges and my extremities beginning to tingle. Just in case, I drop my finger off the trigger.

“Stop the boat.” An urgent whisper, this time coming from the man directly across from me. He wears a hooded sweatshirt and there’s a bandana covering his face, but I think I recognize his voice.

“Do it.” El Mago’s voice is quiet, but authoritative. An instant later the engine cuts out and I exhale as the boat slows, the rocking motion becoming stronger.

Some of the men nervously shift their weight, looking warily around. I’m torn between relief and fear, not understanding why we’ve stopped.

“I heard something.”

I struggle to place the sound of the man’s voice as everyone looks around, straining to hear anything other than the waves breaking against our boat. Something starts to register at the very edge of my brain when all of a sudden there’s a loud shout, coming from dead ahead.

El Mago makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand, and I instinctively drop down, huddling out of sight with the other men in the boat. The whining sound of an engine shrieks into the night and I flinch, initially mistaking it for our own. I’m wrong. The sound is coming from a distance, merely amplified by the water.

Another motor starts up, and there’s the sound of whooping voices. They grow closer and the engines grow louder, but I’m too afraid to move. Around me the other men are deathly still, no one moving an inch. Just when I’m convinced they are about to drive right over the top of us the noise begins to diminish, slowly fading off into the distance.

My entire body is shaking, and when I brave a glance a the man next to me I see he’s clenching a rosary, his lips moving in silent prayer. I mentally say one of my own, tagging on the extra wish that my knees will hold me when I’m told to stand up.

Someone must be listening because El Mago makes another gesture, and I manage to make it to my feet.

“We’re too late,” he mutters. “Shit.”

The men around me grumble with displeasure, and I feel my heart sink as reality sets in. I might not have wanted to do this, but if we don’t bring anything back with us, then…I give my head a furious shake, not wanting to even contemplate the alternative.

“We have to try.” I don’t even realize the voice is my own until the others turn to look at me, disbelief etched on their faces. Swallowing hard, I motion towards the sailboat. “There was what, two boats? Look at the size of that thing. There has to be something left. They probably couldn’t figure out how to pilot it, stole what they could fit, and left. If anything, they’ve made the job easier for us.”

“Kid has a point.” The gruff voice is muffled by the bandana, but as the man jerks his chin in my direction, it slips, giving me a glimpse of his face.

Mauricio. Our local doctor.

I immediately duck my head, and when I look back up his face is covered again, his eyes soulless.

“They might be coming back,” another man muttered, gnawing on his lower lip.

“Then I guess we’d better be quick.” Another sharp movement by El Mago, and the boat rumbles to life again.

As we slice through the water, I do my best to avoid looking in the direction of Mauricio. He’s been a friend of my father’s for years, and I had no idea he was involved in piracy. Then again, most people are involved, one way or another.

Local fishermen are required to give the government half of their catch these days, in exchange for worthless currency. They’re also targeted by pirates, who look for boats, nets, and any catch they can get their hands on. This is what happens when people have nothing—and nothing to lose.

I can’t help but wonder what the last straw was for Mauricio. As a doctor he gets paid in American Dollars—the only currency worth a damn these days—making him better off than most of us. Yet, I suppose he sees the devastation first hand. Men beat, tortured, killed. Families and children suffering from malnutrition and preventable infections. I’ve heard rumours that due to lack of medical supplies, doctors use the same needle up to twenty times.

Giving in to temptation I hazard a look in his direction, almost cringing when our eyes meet. His glitter cold in the dark, but after a moment they soften, crinkling at the edges as he offers me an unexpected smile before looking away.

Someone cuts the engine and we glide towards the sailboat, which is even bigger up close. I suspect this is what people mean when they use the word yacht, and my breath catches as my eyes skim over the glossy blue paint. There’s no sign of movement from the deck, and when El Mago gives us the signal we clamber aboard the back of the boat, moving as silently as we can. One man stays behind, the tip of his cigarette glowing amber through the night.

I can smell the acrid scent of gas and selfishly hope that there’s some left for us. El Mago motions for me to follow him and I lift my rifle, scanning this way and that as if I know what I’m doing. Broken glass crunches under my bare feet and I let out a hiss, my face going red when he turns around to fix me with a stern look.

Holding my breath I keep walking, ignoring the pricks of pain beneath my feet. What was once a glass door leading to the interior of the boat is now nothing but a metal frame, and as we step inside I feel bile rise in my throat.

“Pendejos,” El Mago mutters. Assholes. In front of us are four dead bodies, lined up and shot execution-style. Two of them are women. He lays a steadying hand on my shoulder as I stare unflinchingly forward, my eyes watering.

“Killing innocent people is bad for business,” he informs me. “It’s better to ransom. Better financially, and better for the soul.” He makes the sign of a cross, and I hurriedly do the same.

We keep walking, but I’m distracted, thinking of the bodies we left behind. I’ve seen dead people before, of course, it’s hardly uncommon these days, but not like this. At the sound of a low whimper, I whip my gun around, finger on the trigger. While I was lost in thought El Mago has slipped away, disappearing into one of the other cabins.

My terror vanishes at the sight of the tiny little dog cowering in the corner. It’s a salt-and-pepper color, and must only weigh ten, maybe fifteen pounds. Its short, floppy ears are cocked straight up, and a crooked stump of a tail wags furiously as I approach.

“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, crouching down. “Where did you come from?” The dog whines, sticking its nose into my palm. Its short fur feels velvety soft as I gently stroke it.

I hear the sound of footsteps behind me and jump to my feet, gun pointed straight at the door. Behind me, the dog trembles, pressing itself against my leg.

“It’s just me.” El Mago appears in the doorway, grinning. “You were right. There’s plenty left for us. Let’s get it into the boat and get the hell outta here before they come back for more.”

There’s another low whimper from the dog, and he raises an eyebrow. I shrug, and after a moment he returns the gesture. “Finders keepers. If you want it, it’s yours. Meat’s hard to come by these days.”

The dog stares up at me with big, trusting eyes and I swear under my breath, scooping it up with my free hand. It licks my face and I smile in spite of everything, feeling its heart beating steadily under my arm. Ignoring the comments from the other men, I place the dog gently in the boat, where it curls up on my jacket.

Twenty minutes later, I cradle the animal safely on my lap as we gun it for shore.

My share of tonight’s take means my family can afford food for another month. A small victory, but I’ll take it. Maybe, just maybe, things will change. Maybe aid will get through. Maybe I won’t have to go through this again.

As I walk down the dock, I see the sky begin to brighten. Night slowly turns to day, painting the horizon with streaks of pink, purple, and orange. The dog trots along beside me, tags jangling cheerfully. I stop, bending down to look at them, and a tired smile crosses my lips.

Her name is Hope.