By Rhys Evans
The tin little boat had carried me out to the shore of the island on the lake; the feeding grounds. It
was my turn to appease the great Gato.
Laying on the wet shore of the island. It felt as though I had died before being half-
heartedly thawed out in a microwave. Still semi-frosted in places; the core of my neck and the
fingers of each rib. With every short breath I drew, ice crackled in my ears as the air expanded in my
lungs; a side effect from sleeping rough in the wilderness during the middle of winter. Though I
use the term ‘sleep’ loosely, I think I managed a couple of minutes at most. The air had been kicked
out of me; goosebumps prickled over my skin.
The ground was littered with bones; femurs and ribs, all sun-bleached broken china from
past buffets. Trinkets of gold and bowls filled necklaces, rings; the apples and nectarines we left
were rotten and pitted with magots; the Gato didn’t like fruit. I never realised how many people
had been sent here, how many times we had fed the gato- the big cat that sits on the island of our
lake.
Why was it always so hungry?
The island on the lake was small, messy. A miniature jungle of mangrove and overgrown
weeds that grew from the bone bed at its shore. We had cultivated this little septic island, we had
fed it, sustained it.
A brass collar around my neck rattled with a crude bell, letting the gato know it was time
for his dinner but I was not the only offering on the menu for the big gato that day- there was
someone else on the shore with me, their face buried in the wet sand; milky white tokens from his
half-wide broken jaw scattered the sand. His body splayed out in a bent star-fish pattern in a
desperate plea to break the inevitably blunt impact with his hands. At first I thought he was dead,
but the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers told me he was still alive, for
now.
“Hey, we survived.” I said, jabbing his arm for him to wake up, but he was already awake;
shooing me off with his hand before rising from the sand. He brushed off the dirt from his face.
“Barely.”
I had no idea who this man was, his pink face did not match the ones I had seen in the
village, I hadn’t seen him in the bakery or the market; as a rule we usually only sent one person out
to the gata at one given time, maybe he was extra hungry today. Could this man help me to
freedom, build a raft with me to cross the dirty lake or would he chuck me to the big bad cat the
second he was faced with the option to regain a few extra minutes of life? I’d soon find out.
“You’re looking pretty grim,” he said with a grimace.
“Yeah, well I’m hardly gonna look pageant ready am I?”
There wasn’t anything to hand that you could use a proper mirror, so he held up the face of a metal
bowl that had once held fruit and took a peek- if only to curb his own morbid curiosity. I could’ve
told you bear had hold of him and you wouldn’t have even second guessed it. Pulling at the marks
that criss-crossed his palms and face before rolling a cigarette.
“Oh, I’ll have one of those, thanks.” I said, eyeing up his neatly rolled cigarette.The truth is,
I’d quit years back–cold turkey, but I figured it was an excuse to befriend him, to talk to him, I
would need companionship if I had any hope of surviving this offering.
His eyes darted over. “Catch.” — chucking it over to me, before whipping out the little
pouch of tobacco and rolling himself another.—
“Now what?” I asked. “Do we just wait for the Gato to eat us or do we try and make a
den?”
The man looked at me with the same bent expression as someone who knows the ending to a film
we’re about to watch, knowing damn well that the jumpscare will knock the drink out of my hand
and render me speechless.
“Have you ever even watched an offering before? Don’t you know how it all works?”
“Hmm. A few, I assumed it just gobbled up whatever we gave it.”
That hadn’t happened though, we were still here.
“Why are we still alive though?” I asked, “It’s normally over by now?”
I should’ve been elated at the news, the fact that we were still walking and breathing in the alginate
air, but it felt wrong, as though we had cheated on a test for a subject that we were good at.
“This is part of the game.” He said, “Gato just likes to play hide and seek.”
“What if we just swim back? Or-” A rolling pur rippled through the mangroves cutting off
my sentence.
“He’s hungry.”
It may sound strange, crazy even to actively walk to your death, but this was what we had
been chosen to do. It was our turn to feed the great gato. If we didn't keep him sweet, he would get
angry and eat our whole village out of spite, again.
The trees began to wave, quiver in unison; a technicolour tapestry stitched into the fabric of reality.
“It's close.”
We parted the tall, tall grass, swallowing us the two little mice that were venturing too close
to the lion's paddock. Orange kingfishers and dragonflies had stopped for a look at who the new
offering was, waiting for their share. The longer we waited for the gato to come out of hiding, the
more I realised we were the frozen chicken left out on the kitchen counter to defrost; with the same
damp odour and sliminess to match, but this time the cat would get away with it.
“I don't see it yet?”
“There, beside you.” He whispered.
Poking out from underneath the curtain of half-dead vines, the bushy end of its magenta tail curled
up at us mimicking an index finger that said “come here, come closer.” before it retreated back into
hiding. The other man led the way, seemingly knowing the way through the dense arms of the
mangrove,
“Run with me?” He said, "Run with me to the Gato.” I had no time to question him. His
calloused hand engulfed mine, yanking me to run alongside him.
Fig leaves slapped our faces and thorny branches scratched my arms as we sprinted to our
already decided fate; the pink smoke that bellowed at the other end. His grip loosened and my
hand grew light as I reached a clearing.
Two moons for eyes and a wide set grin were waiting for me. Gato's face spiralled; an
optical illusion that hurt my head and made my eyes water. The big purple cat slinked around me,
circling me the same way a great white shark loops around an injured seal; he was sizing up its
offering; waiting for me, watching me. Was I big enough? Was I juicy and plump enough to satiate
his appetite for a few more weeks?
As fast as he had appeared, the Gato was gone; nowhere to be seen. So I took my shot and
ran, and ran and ran back in the direction of the shore as fast as I could; a child leaving a haunted
house, running until only the odour followed me. I was nothing but the little mouse that had
gotten away with the cheese. My inner thigh was warm and a tingling sensation spread towards my
knees like sweat, but it was only when it reached my lip of my trainers did I realise what I had
inadvertently done. The small puddle that had formed in the soles only confirmed my suspicions.
The ground just in front of me darkened the same way it does when a cloud passes
overhead but before I could alter my course, run the other way the big Gato transfigured into a
puddle, flat and innocent but not all puddles are shallow; this one had teeth and I fell all the way
through,
spiralling down,
down,
down,
down, into the pit of the big Gato, where the ruby- velvet walls
of the stomach hugged me tight; now a part of the tribute, a part of the never
ending cycle.
Rhys Evans (@rhys_evanss on Twitter) is a queer writer from North Wales. He writes stories that often address death, social constructs, urban legends and horror; with a strong emphasis on highlighting the LGBTQIA+ community and marginalised groups. Rhys has pieces set for publication with Fifth Wheel Press and Palest Blue later this coming spring.
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