SPECTATORS

The spear hit the water again and Jon Jon lifted it without a fish, again. He waded to the mossy south end of the pond and tried to stick one of the bullfrogs croaking half out of the water. They all splashed off.

“Throw it, Jon Jon,” the boy said from the shore.

Jon Jon feared losing the spear. He worried it might break. What if he threw it awkwardly and looked like a fool?

“There’s a big one. Throw it.”

Jon Jon noticed the bullfrog half out of the water.

“Throw it, Jon Jon.”

He stared at the frog, its bulbous eyeballs glinting above a body the color of the moss that hugged the pond’s edge. Its eyes shifted, the amphibian aware of the hunter’s menacing presence.

“Throw it before he jumps.”

A throaty scream jumped from Jon Jon’s mouth and heaved Adunya’s spear. The frog plopped below the surface. The spear landed shaft first and bounced onto the shore. He turned to his brother. “Stop yelling at me.”

The water lapped like a whisper and a breeze rose into the big cottonwood and made the leaves grumble. A layering of clouds glowed with a sun not quite ready to set.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, Jon Jon sloshed over to the spear Adunya had thrown with such accuracy and grace. Half a dozen more frogs croaked and disappeared below the surface. He wrapped his fingers tight around the spear, wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, and waded back to where the water was clear. A bluegill darted past and he jabbed at it. Not even close.

He sensed his brother watching from the shore and then he missed again.