Just like Peterell prophetized the following weeks are less productive.

Spring is full of rainy days and the northern wind is still blowing frequently. I still managed to bring some fish back home and earned a few more coppers for my stash.

After carefully reflecting about it and studying their techniques I doubt there is much I can bring to their fishing industry. Their tools are crude but effective and the men know their jobs: placing themselves on the optimal spots or caring for their gear. I was stupidly presumptuous and pretentious to believe I could do better. At least not until I can learn more about the local ecology. There might be some room for fish herding, especially for the eggs if we can catch enough guddus. The way they have to gut the slugs to grab the eggs looks crude. I believe that I can do better.

More often than not we stay either ashore either tending to the boat and gear or harvesting cockles, mussels, small prawns and various comestibles seaweeds (Is it still seaweed if it is in a river, or does that make it river weed?). Some look familiar, some are overly exotic and taste weird. For example there is that orange weed that has a mustard aftertaste. They dry it and grind it into a powder to sprinkle it on food as a spice.

When weather conditions are mild enough we go out to the 30m range. I've only been further once, so we could finally use the nets. It brought back aboard a lot of fish, including a chogsu “hatchling”: the thing was a mass of wriggling, barbed, dark green to bright pink tentacles, already a meter big. In the middle of the tangled mess of dangerous tentacles there was a sharp looking beak, eagerly clasping at the air around in hope of biting some flesh out, the sinister clacking sound leaving no doubt at what would happen to my fingers if they ever got near this orifice.

Peterell quickly stabbed it with a harpoon through the mouth staining the floor with a green ooze blood.

Now for sure: no bathing in deep waters for me. The monstrous thing was hacked to pieces and thrown overboard in an offering to Charavatkeh, begging him to keep the congeners of this child of his away from us.

These beasts are also why nets get damaged so fast despite the thick cords. Between them, the mogoi's sharp scales and whatever else lies underwater with bladed fins or other fangs, our net gets cut full of holes in a single use.

But nets are worth it. That day netted me a large bronze coin. It is an oval shaped coin about twice the size of samller coppers, with a square hole in the middle. It is worth a hex small bronzes.

As far as I've seen about money, people use bronze coins small and large in their daily transactions. I know that a hex of large bronze is worth an iron coin, but I haven't seen any yet.

A half loaf of bunta is 3 bronzes, a meal at a stall is usually 8 small bronzes. In everyday talk the terms bronze and copper are used indifferently to design the smallest coins.

If my parent's salaries are higher than mine (which they should be, I'm barely an apprentice) they should be able to hoard many large bronzes each month. The fact that we are not points me to taxes.

I perfectly understand that the city needs garrisons and an army. I can see everyday how much the tridents are needed here by the river but I also saw the lavishness of the blades.

The gini index around here must be so high that I believe it to be one of the causes of the slow development. Magic being the other cause: why search to understand the underlying laws of nature when you can circumvent them with magical shenanigans ?

* * * * * *

In the first cycle of leafior (3rd month of spring), I saw my first death.

It was a windy day and Peterell kept us in the 50 meters zone. We were casting lines around us, bringing back some small fry. One of the dinghy with a duo of sailors aboard: a father and his son, the young one looking no more than 10, went ahead of us in the 80 meters range in the middle of the river.

All was going as usual: gulls were avidly gliding above us, voicing their hunger in sonorous trumpeting. The river was lightly rocking our boat almost like a gentle mother. The catches were decent and I was going to have eggs for dinner seeing how plump the guddus were.

Coming from the north a strong gust of wind rolled down the mountains, bringing a series of medium waves with it. Peterell had kept our boat in the current so our sails were free and just went stale, following the winds direction like a weathercock.

But as the waves were hitting most boats, the young sailor was shook enough to fall overboard.

Immediately his father dexterously threw a rope at him and in a well-trained fashion started to quickly reel him up aboard.

That's when the screaming started.

A desperate horrible cry coming from the boy, filled with gurgles when his head was getting hit by a wave. The water around him was turning cherry red. The scream kept going during the whole reeling. It was sending pain and fear down to my bones, whatever was going on was worse than anything I ever saw. I have heard more than one animal cry in pain, screaming to death when hurting. But nothing hits you like the cry for help coming from a fellow suffering human.

When the sailor finally managed to pull the teenager aboard, the lower half of his body was missing... He quickly expired on the spot, his father frozen in shock.

Peterell immediately steered our boat towards theirs, we couldn't do much but mariner's ethic still compelled him to go at least to secure and comfort a colleague.

Once back on shore, the dockmaster: a middle aged free citizen with flashy curly redhair wearing a blue jacket with many yellow medals looking embroidery, took the man to his office while other sailors took care of the remains of the deceased. As the youngest, I was tasked with cleaning duty and had to brush the boards full of blood, gore and shit.

I've seen my fair share of gore in my former life. Wounded animals, trapped ones, sick ones, hunted ones even, rotting carcasses. But never before did I have to wash so much human blood. I got dizzied by the induced nausea but still refrained myself from vomiting. I didn't want to have to wash my own retch afterwards.

Once done Peterell gave me a tap on the shoulder “You are a tough one, Tel. I've seen sailors puking over less.” there was no praise in his tone, just a factual observation. “Now don't get complacent. Take this as a reminder that Fortan is always waiting to fuck you over on this river. One day he brings you enough mogois to entice you to go further away from the shore and the next day, one of his pranks pushes you in the water to become the prey.” The way his slow accent stretched the words emphasized his bitterness; the man must have seen similar tragedies more than once.

I now get why my mother wasn't too fond of the idea of me going fishing. It is a risky endeavour. What must hunting be like for it to be even more out of question? What does grand pa faces outside our walls?

I didn't recount the event of the day to either my parents nor Gel. They wouldn't be able to bring me solace and I would just add to their worries. Godzilla is my sole confident, agreeing with me that the gods are cruel, be it in this world or the former.

Or maybe she just doesn't care. Lizards are cold hearted (and blooded).

* * * * *

On the morrow of the tragedy despite the advantageous weather: light breeze with few lazy clouds far up; no anglers dares to go far. Peterell takes the boat a bit downstream and close to the shore. There we use some “shovels” to dig at the silt, then search it for scampis.

At second morning bell we go in the 30m range to cast a few lines. Despite having some good catches: vermillons and a big silvery pike like, he steers us back to the deck way before fourth morning bell.

I dare a question at my stern captain: “Will we ever go further in the middle of the river?” Not that I'm eager to but I still want to know.

“In the summer maybe. More tridents patrol then, less bad things lurking in the waters. Yesterday Arrik got too greedy. Or desperate.” He sullenly says. His eyes wanders towards the shore where the dinghy is still docked. Unsurprisingly, the mourning fisherman didn't show up today.

When we dock ashore there are some people waiting for us. My usual crew: Gelcaria, Melodi and Balout, led here by Mangu the brown skinned seamtress.

The catgirl rushes and makes an impressive jump to climb aboard before pouncing on her father in a seemless chain of movements. Gel is also able to jump aboard but doesn't pounce on me. Balout wisely awaits for us on dock.

“What are you all here for?” I ask with puzzlement.

They all turn towards Peterell who laconically answers while patting his daughter's head: “Only Mel was supposed to be here.” He looks slightly annoyed.

Gel completes “When Mel told us she was coming to have a swimming lesson with you, I decided to come too.” Her jealousy is barely hidden. She is still but a kid and her emotions are sometimes just too easy to read.

I look at Balout who seems indifferent: “I was just dragged along, I don't want to take a dip in cold waters.” his shoulders rising in powerlessness.

Peterell looks a bit guilty and uneasily scratches at the bun behind his head: “I though we could take a break today with all the commotion yesterday.” His intonation hints at me that he didn't disclose what happened to his daughter and that my discretion would be appreciated. “And since the tridents will be a little bit more active in the coming days it would be a nice occasion for you to teach Mel your moves.” He looks almost embarrassed to ask me after pushing me against the wall. This is almost cute coming from my serious captain.

But wait a minute. Does that mean that the first time you told me to jump in the waters it wasn't safely patrolled? I shiver inside as I remember the mangled corpse of the teenager. I'll have to get to the bottom of this later.

“Yay, show us the secret swimming technique!” Mel pounces on me, sending the both of us tumbling in the nets.

I was expecting this to happen sooner or later and I'd rather teach them my swimming moves than have Peterell discuss it with my grandpa. Seeing that the kids are taken care of, Mangu leaves us, her duty done.

We all get down to our underpants, this time I'd like to find some dry clothes when coming out. Spring might be ending but the air can still be crisp and the waters fresh.

The first flowers are blooming and the trees are getting greener but catching a cold when drenched is still well within the temperatures.

When i drop on the ground the rusted blade Peterell gave me I have some newfound appreciation for the crude weapon, it might make the difference between life and death one day.

We go to a nearby natural recess of the river making a small basin in which water gets up to the waist of an adult but this much is deep enough for us kids to barely have foot. They'll be able to keep their heads out of the water by kicking at the sludgy riverbank if needed.

Melodi is the first to go. She already knows how to swim so she'll be the fastest to train and will then be able to help me monitor the others. She just dive bomb next to me, obviously aiming at splashing me. For a kitten, she isn't afraid to get wet. She emerges with a wicked smile showing off her canines happy with her mischief.

With her fur trickling down with water she must feel as heavy as me when I was fully clothed. I now understand why her father would want me to teach her my technique: he saw how it helped me spare my strength despite the added weight. Endurance is primordial to not drown. If he plans to have her sail with him later my technique will be a nice buff to her survivability.

“Show me how you swim first.” I order her.

She starts a standard breaststrokes swim and can switch to a crawl-like when I ask her to go faster.

I show her how to do a half stroke, keeping one arm and leg as axis for gliding, sparing one's stamina and switching side if needed. She quickly masters the moves. They are easier than coordinating for a crawl. She swims back and forth up to the 12m pole and is barely tired by the ordeal. Her beastkin physical prowesses are also helping her.

Now that she is a true cat-fish it is the turn for the other two.

They both carefully enter the water up until their waists, shivering with every breeze.

Melodi and I decide on a simple shared gaze to speed up the process: splashing them till they are fully wetted. When we are done and after most shrieks, protestations and promises of retaliation, Balout and Gel are more willing to completely dip in.

I first show them how buoyancy works and how they can easily keep their heads out of water. Just being able to breath and know you aren't going to drown is the first step to being undeterred in water. Panic being the worst enemy.

Once they are confident enough, Mel and I “gently entice” them to get their head underwater, so they can learn how to keep their breath and not panic if it ever was to happen. After much drinking, gasping, choking and some surprising heavy swearing from Gel's part -I don't want to know what an Ikati's cock looks like or why she would know about it or intend to shove one down my throat- they are comfortable enough to completely immerse underwater.

Mel is in charge of Gel, the later grants me with a crestfallen stare. I notice that in the water her eyes take a deeper colouration, making them almost dark violet like some over ripe prunes.

I take care of Balout.

We teach them to do the back plank, the easiest way to stay afloat and the basic scissors legs moves.

Second day bell rings that we are only starting with breaststrokes. Much to my surprise the placid Balout is a natural swimmer, being freed from the grasp of gravity fits him like a glove.

While Gel is still struggling with the coordination to keep her head out of the water and breath without inhaling as much water as air, I even take the time to teach crawl to my stout friend.

When we deem them ready Mel and I show them the half stroke. It is easier as it require less coordination, you only have to focus on one half of your body after all. Under the bay watch of Peterell and the escort of Mel and I we have them swim back and forth to the 12m pole mark.

Although Gelcaria's moves are clumsy and she switches to a backplanck in the end, I deem it a success. In just a day Gel an Balout went from knowing nothing to being able to maintain themselves afloat.

Now all of us know some basic swimming techniques. We'll never compete with the nereians - although maybe Balout could if he invested himself in it, he could pass for a decent were-whale - but at least none of us will drown stupidly, provided there are no chogsu to drag us down. I shiver again when thinking about yesterday's events.

My students are spent and so am I. We get out of the river and wait for the fresh wind to dry us up a bit, turning us into blue quivering vibrators in the process. I wish I could have a sip of that drata liquid fire drink right now.

Instead we get a warm meal, courtesy of Peterell. The hot soup is welcomed to bring some heat back to the tips of my fingers and the grilled fish to fill our emptied stomachs. Swimming is a tiresome activity.

A softened Peterell (he turns into a real doting father when Melodi is around him) even buys us some dessert in the form of seaweed cookies, surprisingly sweet and spicy.

As I'm seated next to Gel, enjoying our cookies and thinking that this should be what everyday by the river should be like, all bells in the city start ringing in a chaotic concert of discording tunes, seeding alarm and panic in the gaze of all the adults around us.