Heretical Fishing

Chapter 26: Animosity

Ruby raised one sculpted eyebrow at me. “You’re, uh, sure about these measurements, Fischer?”

I smiled back. “I am! Don’t worry—it’s not for me. It’s for a project I’m working on.”

“Some sort of pirate scarecrow?” Steven asked with a smile.

“Er—yeah, something like that. How long do you think it’ll take you guys?”

“That’d be perfect!” I gave them both a genuine smile. “How much will it be?”

“Nothing,” Steven said, looking down at something he was stitching. “We can make it out of scraps, and it’ll give me something to do with my hands this afternoon.”

“Actually . . .” I said. “I was hoping I could help you with the crafting of it.”

“Oh?” Steven raised an eyebrow. “You’re interested in working with leather?”

“Well, this project has sentimental value to me, and I’d feel better about not paying if I helped you out . . .”

Steven shrugged. “It’s free regardless, but you’re more than welcome to help me with it.”

“I appreciate it, Steven, but you’re gonna have to charge me at some point . . .”

“Nope!” Ruby beamed a smile, her eyes crinkling. “We’re still well in your debt from the pastries. If you request something expensive, we’ll gladly charge, but for now, you have an open tab.”

“All right.” I returned a grin with the same ferocity. “All I can do is thank you, then. I’ll find a way to return the kindness.”

“You know, I heard something wise the other day . . .” Steven’s eyes danced above his coy smile. “Friends don’t count favors.”

“Morning, George!”

George went rigid in his spot in line, slowly turning to look at me.

“Oh. Hello, Fischer.”

“How are ya, mate?”

“I-I’m well, Fischer—how are you?”

“I’m swell, mate! Always a good morning in your lovely village!”

The lord nodded, his face going a little tight as a silence stretched between us.

“You know, George, I’ve been meaning to thank you.”

“Er—you have?”

“Yeah, mate. You’ve been nothing but helpful since I got here, even when I come bother you in your home.”

“Oh.” George smiled, but his eyes remained tight. “Any time, Fischer. It’s no worries at all—”

“No, seriously.” I shook my head with a wincing smile. “The information you’ve given me has really helped so far. Sincerely, thank you.”

My attempt at reassurance only seemed to kick his social anxiety in more, and beads of sweat started forming on his forehead.

Thankfully, Lena saved him. “Good morning to you, George! The usual?”

“Uh—two coffees, please, but only fifteen pastries.”

“Only fifteen?” A look of genuine concern crossed Lena’s face. “Are you and Geraldine well?”

“Just a mild case of indigestion.” George dabbed his forehead. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Good lord—I’m affecting his digestion. I really need to give the poor man some space . . .

When George collected his coffees and pastries, I simply smiled and nodded at him, not wanting to stress him out any further. He nodded back, shuffling away.

I spun back to the counter, displaying my half-tucked shirt in all its glory.

“G’day, Lena. How ya doing?”

She sniffed, refusing to speak as she looked me up and down.

My smile broadened. “Just my coffee, thanks.”

Maria, Roger’s much more amiable daughter, was just collecting a couple of pastries when I arrived at Sue’s bakery.

“Good morning, Fischer!” Sue waved her free hand with vigor.

“G’day, Sue! Morning, Maria!”

“Oh, hi Fischer!” Maria beamed a smile at me, sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her nose twitched, and she peered down at my coffee cup.

“What is that?”

“Coffee! This one’s from Lena’s—a necessary sacrifice before Sue here gets the equipment to make the best beverage in town!”

Sue rolled her eyes at my flattery, and with no words needed, walked out back to fetch me a fresh croissant.

“Does it taste good?” Maria cocked her head at the wafting scent, the strand of hair freeing itself from behind her ear once more. “It smells kind of bitter . . .”

“Not everyone likes it, to be honest. It might be an acquired taste . . .” I held the cup out. “Wanna try?”

“Oh, I couldn’t . . .”

“Of course you can!” I pointed at the edge closest to me. “I’ve only drunk from this side—give it a taste!”

She leaned in, sniffing it again, hesitating. She placed her pastries atop the counter. Then, with delicate hands, she caressed the mug, slowly bringing it to her lips and taking a sip.

She tasted the liquid for some time, her eyebrows going up and down, and her face scrunching in adorable contemplation.

“It’s . . . bitter, but not bad?”

“That’s a good result for a first taste!” I accepted the cup as she held it back to me. “You’ll grow to love it if your initial reaction isn’t that it tastes like muddy water.”

She let out a light laugh, covering her mouth with a hand.

“People think it tastes like mud water? I mean, it’s different, but definitely not mud.”

“Tell me about it.” I shook my head in obvious exaggeration. “And they call me a heretic.”

“Well, you’re definitely a heretic.” She gave me a kind smile, the freckles on her cheeks bunching. “But I’m still glad you came to Tropica. You’ve already made so much change since appearing here . . .”

“Oh, everything so far has been nothing.”

Sue returned, bustling toward the counter. I accepted the croissant she held out to me, then shot Maria a wink. “I’m only just getting started.”

“Fergus! How are ya, mate?”

The giant of a blacksmith held a finger up to stall me, still staring intently at his forge. He had oversized black goggles on, making him look half body builder, half mad scientist. With oversized tongs, he picked up the crucible in the forge. I recognized the small mold sitting on the cool lip of the forge, and with no small amount of excitement, realized what he was doing.

He’s pouring the silver into the cast! Where did he get some so fast?

I edged toward him, not close enough to be in the way, but just enough to get a better view of the process. He swirled the crucible, withdrawing it from the heat. After a moment of looking at the molten metal within, he carefully placed it back into the heat of the forge. His attention never left his work, and I watched keenly, appreciating the years of practice and training that had created the mastery I bore witness to. The red-hot colors from the forge reflected off his goggles, and he resembled a statue as he waited, only his chest moving up and down, almost imperceptibly.

He picked up the tongs again, removed the crucible with deft hands, and swirled the contents once more—his eyes transfixed on the liquid metal the entire time. With a small nod to himself, he shuffled over to the mold, slowly pouring the silver into a minuscule opening atop it. The amount of control he had over his large body was immense; he made no wasted movements, each muscle contracting with exact precision.

The thin stream of silver slowed, eventually coming to an end. He picked the casting mold up by the attached metal vice, tapping it softly against the lip with a steady rhythm. He plunged it down into a quenching bucket. The water within bubbled and roiled, the heat rapidly dissipating from the mold and into the surrounding water. When the torrent of bubbles receded and the bucket finally stilled, Fergus reached in with a gloved hand. He cracked the vice open, let the two halves of the mold fall apart, and removed the ring.

Fergus grinned like a maniac, holding it up to me as he slid his goggles off with another hand. “It ain’t pretty yet, but the forging is done!”

“How did you get the silver so swiftly?” I returned his grin, looking over the rough casting. “I thought it would take days, at least!”

Fergus winked at me. “You have to leave a man his mysteries—”

Duncan, his apprentice, snorted from the back of the smithy. “He traded a favor to the hoity-toity blacksmith on the north side of town.”

Fergus leveled a glare at his subordinate. “If you weren’t so big, Duncan, I’d throw you out on your ass.”

Said subordinate made a dismissive noise. “Bold words coming from a man the size of a brick shithouse. A kraken couldn’t throw you if it wanted to.”

“How long will it take to sand and smooth it down?” I asked, interrupting before the blacksmith banter got too out of control.

Fergus returned his attention to me then to the ring. “It’ll be done in a few hours—you bring that iridescent stone around then, and we’ll see about slotting it in.”

“Perfect!” I grinned at how things were coming along. “I’ll see ya a bit later, then—I have some other tasks to get to.”

I turned to leave, then had a thought. “By the way, Fergus—is there a lumber mill in town?”

He winced. “Not anymore, lad. Not for a long time.”

I nodded. “Thought so. Oh well. Guess it’s on me then! Catch you guys later!”

Duncan walked up beside Fergus, watching Fischer go.

“That was just one of his odd speech mannerisms, right? You don’t think he’s going to actually come catch us later, do you?”

Fergus blew air out of his nose in amusement. “I hope not—I fear you wouldn’t escape him, lad.”

“What do you mean I wouldn’t escape him?” Duncan narrowed his eyes at Fergus. “Don’t you mean we wouldn’t escape him?”

“I don’t need to outrun him, lad.” Fergus waggled his eyebrows. “I just need to outrun you.”

“I’ve had a day of surprises,” I said to myself, pouting, “but this might take the cake.”

I peered down at the log I’d hit with my axe. I expected to split part of the felled tree—most of it, perhaps, given my increased strength. What I didn’t expect was for my axe to cut it clean in half, send either side of the log flying two meters away in opposite directions, and for my fist—and the axe held within it—to create a crater as big as Sergeant Snips in the sand.

I lifted the axe from its sandy tomb with ease, moving my arm up and down in confusion. I wasn’t even a little tired from the exertion. It was as if I’d just swatted at a fly, not swung down an axe with all my might.

I’ll need to be careful—I could seriously hurt a villager, or worse, Sergeant Snips, with this amount of power.

I sat and thought for a second, testing if there was anything else I needed to consider or contemplate. “Nope!” I said with a laugh, getting right back to my feet. “I’m strong as hell, and that’s that!” I walked over to one of the split sides, lined it up in the sand, and swung down again with a wicked grin.

I was almost finished splitting all the logs into usable palings when a hysterical crustacean came sprinting across the sand. Snips spewed incomprehensible bubbles at me, hissing as she ran to my feet. She gestured toward the headland with both claws, seething with anger.

With sneaking suspicion, I thought I knew what had got her so worked up.

“Otter?” I asked.

She nodded sharply, blew affirmative bubbles, and ran away, urging me on.

I heard a familiar tapping as we ran to the headland. The rhythmic sounds only occasionally paused when the furred friend-to-be slurped down a mollusk. We rounded the rocks, and I finally caught sight of the otter.

Damn. I don’t have any fish—wait! The crab! I have a crab!

I made to run back to the house but noticed Sergeant Snips shaking with anger. I looked between her and the cause of her ire, uncomprehending.

“What’s got you so worked up, Snips? I thought you were past this level of animosity.”

She pointed an accusing claw at the otter, pointed her other clacky appendage at a rock on the ground, then to herself.

“It . . . threw a rock at you?”

She hissed in confirmation, her body shuddering with indignation.

“Oh!”

I looked at the otter, who was studiously ignoring us. I bent down, staring into Snips’s eye and running a comforting hand over her carapace.

“I know it can be frustrating when others insult you, but it isn’t as smart as you—our otter friend doesn’t know any better.”

She visibly calmed as I continued stroking her shell, and she seemed to take a deep breath, letting it out in a soft hiss. She nodded at me and blew bubbles that I took as an apology.

“It’s okay, Snips.” I smiled at her with genuine affection. “You don’t have to be sorry for getting upset. Should we go cook our crab up? Maybe some lunch will make you feel better—we can even offer some to the otter, then it won’t eat all the oysters!”

The suggestion lightened her mood further, and she nodded, blowing small bubbles of joy.

“All right. Let’s go.”

We walked away together, and as we were just about to leave the otter behind, I caught a brown blur of movement from the corner of my eye. I turned just in time to see the rock sailing, and with a soft tink, it hit Sergeant Snips in the side. She paused, slowly spinning on the spot to look at the otter. They stared at each other for a tense moment, both unmoving. With nary a warning hiss, she charged.

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