September 24th, 1795 aex

Sherik Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Sherik stood on the brink of a drying lake with a line in the water. Pa had shown him the location a few years back. He’d kept going on about how his pa had shown him, and his pa before him, which had annoyed Sherik at the time, but now, he couldn’t visit the place without feeling the history and meaning behind it.

His feet ached from standing for too long. Behind him were two web-entangled chairs that had been there since before Pa was born. Lady Marlay leaned on one of the chairs, and Sherik’s coat sat crumpled and unfolded on the other. The chairs normally represented the brink of the lake, but the recent summer had broadened the shoreline more than Sherik had ever seen. He shifted his weight. Moving the chairs seemed sacrilegious somehow. He could stand a while longer.

A gentle wind swept in from the southern end of the lake. It rustled the leaves of a nearby heffor tree, forcing it to release its sweet scent. The tree stood a few yards from the chairs. Duke would lay in the clearing beneath its branches and watch the birds, but the clearing had grown wild since Duke’s death, and Sherik felt alone.

He often asked Jerri to fish with him, but she always refused. And according to Ma, Net was not quite old enough to run off into the woods without Pa. Sheriff Meadows would never allow his daughter to come with him for the day, and he doubted that she’d want to even with permission. A loon sang its song and flapped its wings just a foot over the calm lake before it took to the sky. Sherik smiled. If he was to one day be the man of the house, he’d have to learn to fish alone. He’d do whatever it took to provide for the farm and his family, even if it meant suffering temporary loneliness or discomfort.

A fish jumped, not far from his pinecone bobber. The splash echoed in the trees around him. Tease me more, why don’t you? Rings of ripples disturbed the calm surface. He wiggled his fishing pole, hoping to better announce his offering to the inhabitants of the lake.

The sweetness of the heffor tree attracted all sorts of insects and creatures, so they were never short on bait. He’d plucked and hooked a particularly fat grub and thought for sure the fish would bite. It almost looked tasty and meaty enough for him to eat.

With a defeated sigh, he lifted the pole so that the baited hook hovered a few inches over the surface. The grub was half the size it had been when he’d hooked it. He backed up until the hook and bait hovered over the sand and dropped his fishing pole. He crouched and lifted the end of his line. Tiny fish must’ve nibbled at the bait. Both sharp ends of the chicken bone hook were bare. The grub, which at first had been twice the length of the hook, now only covered the center portion of it.

He dropped the hook, kicked the fishing pole, and cursed. Fishing was much easier when they’d had actual metal hooks. He assumed they still existed somewhere on the property, but Pa insisted they were long lost. He moved his coat and sat on the chair. I may be the worst fisherman to ever sit here.

A spider crawled over his fingers that rested on the arm of the chair. A small black one with a fat butt. He flinched at first, but it had no red stripe or bright legs. Not poisonous. He brought his hand to a foot before his face and watched the spider wander. It crawled down his middle finger and used the webbed skin as a bridge to the next finger.

Do fish eat spiders? He scoffed at himself. It wasn’t the bait, nor would the metal hooks have done him any better. “It’s my fault. I should’ve cut that big old worm in two or even three pieces.” He flushed and felt foolish for talking aloud to himself. Dukes ears alone would have been enough to negate the feeling.

A column of smoke rose in the unfocused horizon beyond the spider. Sherik blinked to reset his focus and set his hand on the arm of the chair to allow the spider to return to its home. The smoke was white and thin. Most likely a camp fire, but who would camp so far into the woods? And why? He hopped to his feet, grabbed the fishing pole, and leaned it against the chair. He slung Lady Marlay over his shoulder and started toward the smoke. Any stranger this close to his farm would need to be confronted, or at least spied on.

The column billowed on the other side of the lake. Sherik knew the land quite well, but a river fed into the lake from the smoke’s direction, and it wasn’t clear on which side of the river the camp was. He could reach it by skirting the lake regardless, but the wrong direction would mean turning and trudging the entire circumference of the lake twice.

The shore was usually thick woods and brush, but the low lake made travel easy. A long strip of sand acted like a road, and he was able to run, unhampered, at a light pace. He hopped over a small brook and realized only then that he was thirsty.

He stopped, turned, and guzzled from the stream. He let out a pleasurable sigh after swallowing, as he could almost feel the fresh water course through his veins. He leaned against a nearby tree and peered over the still lake. The river flowed directly across from him, and the column of smoke rose to the right.

Quenched, and encouraged by his correct choice of direction, Sherik proceeded down the shore. It was an easy march to the lake’s northern shore. Only a few boulders stood in his way, but they were surpassed with little effort. The north shore was no different, and he was making his way south toward the smoke in no time. He made it to the river soon after. Something filled him with unease. He lowered his head and turned into the woods. Voices brought him to a halt.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m just tired of this place is all.” It was a man with a soft voice.

“Nonsense.” The other voice was stately. The accent on the one word was enough for Sherik to discern him as a northerner. “It is good for a man to spend time in the wilderness here and then.”

“There’s enough wilderness back home,” the soft voice said. “There’s no need to be all the way out here.” He spoke as if he was from the North but had no trace of the accent.

“Ah, but not like this, good man.” Northerners never used “good man” when referring to their own. “We are on the other side of the Seeker Mountains. Do you not know what that means?”

“Angry natives?” The tone was sarcastic.

“No! Endless land to the west.” The northerner lowered his voice but stayed just loud enough for Sherik to hear over the weak-flowing river. “No man has yet reached the end of it, you know.”

“What do you mean, yet?” The soft voice said. “Maybe man never will.”

“That is what our far-fathers thought about the sea not long ago,” the northerner said. “They will reach it one day.” He sniffed a lungful of air. “What I would not give to be one of the men who did. Could you imagine the adventure? The things you would see? What you might discover in the far reaches of our world?”

“I’ve discovered enough on our meager journey as it is,” the soft voice said.

There was a short silence.

“Right, yes. He was your first, eh?” The northerner said.

The other must have nodded.

“I regret to announce, it never gets easier.” The northerner’s voice softened. “If you are anything like me, you will see their faces in your dreams.”

“How can you live with that?” The soft voice asked.

Sherik inched closer, trying desperately to avoid making any sound. He stayed in the woods instead of the exposed riverbank where he would’ve been too visible.

“I see it as fair pay for the choices I have made.” There was another silence. “Do not enter something without first knowing the consequences.”

The soft-voiced man cleared his throat. The air of their conversation had turned dim and subdued. “Well, we don’t all have the money or time to weigh potential consequences.”

“A statement worth a drink.” A hollow knock, perhaps the clashing of two wooden canteens, echoed over the river. “Your farmer did put up a good fight.”

“Broke my heart is what he did,” the soft voice said. “Why do we listen to this Guvson prick? Just because his father is—”

“Easy now,” the northerner interrupted. “We may be deep in the wild, but anyone can be watching.”

“Yes, sorry.”

“We listen to him because it is what we are paid to do.”

An anomaly in the river caught Sherik’s eye. Something man-made with sticks poked out above the surface. He’d been inching toward the camp and was just now able to see the corner of a brown tent pinned into the ground with a crude stake. He halted and watched for a moment. The men continued to converse, now about folk they knew from other areas of the world they’d been to, mostly women, but they did not move.

Curiosity suggested he continue forward until he finally caught view of them, but common sense told him to be thankful that they sat out of sight. He backed up a few paces and settled beside the odd assortment of sticks. Something moved within it.

He looked closer and realized what the contraption was within seconds. He’d built many fish traps before, but he’d been taught a different configuration. Theirs was flawless. It was as if Handyman Jak had built it, and it worked, according to the large river trout that swam frantic circles within its confines.

Sherik spun Lady Marlay so that she settled on his back. He looked back and forth from the fish to the camp and walked while squatted toward the trap. He stayed crouched on the edge of the riverbank, his toes in the water, and he hovered his hands over the trapped fish.

He waited and watched as the fish slowly tired. His heart would stop every time the camped men went silent before resuming their conversation. The fish lost most of its speed. Not yet enough for Sherik to strike with confidence, but he did not want to stay near the camp any longer than he had to. The men would surely come to check their trap soon.

The fish went still for a short rest, and Sherik struck immediately. He thrust his hands into the water, his fingers rigid like spears as they pierced the surface and wrapped them around his prey. The fish thrashed with newfound energy and nearly slipped from his grasp. Worse, its tail came close to breaking the surface more than once. Sherik pushed his weight onto the fish, pinning it against the riverbed.

He stared at the camp while waiting for the fish to surrender. Their conversation had shifted to the soft-voiced man’s mother, who had warned him not to go on the journey. The northerner laughed, claiming that every mother said the same thing, but only a few were right to worry.

Sherik took a deep breath and pulled the fish from the trap. The fish’s thrashing resumed the moment it left the water. It escaped Sherik’s grasp. He juggled the desperate creature but couldn’t regain a healthy grip on the slick skin. The fish plummeted to the dry ground, disturbing a puff of dust, and flopped and wriggled toward the river.

Sherik pinned it with a foot. Only the sound of the river broke the silence. He swung his head toward the camp. The men were quiet. His heart beat quicker. There was no more time to waste on the stubborn fish. He crouched, gripped, and hoisted the fish, held it against his chest in what might have looked like a loving embrace.

“You hear that?” The soft voice spoke with more urgency than it had before.

Sherik stood still, with his eyes and ears open, like a rabbit sensing a wolf. The northerner didn’t respond. They’re coming!

He ran awkwardly with the large fish struggling against his chest and did not stop until he was back at the small brook half way to his fishing spot. He fell to his knees, caught his breath, grasped the fish by the tail, and whipped its head against a boulder, killing it instantly.

He looked back, but no one was there. Gentle waves glided over the sandy shore, and the brook sent a cold stream over his hands to feed fresh water to the receding lake. The men from the camp were nowhere to be seen, and Sherik had a fish. He rinsed the dust, grass, and twigs from the trout’s brilliant skin, lifted the lifeless being over his head victoriously, and laughed.

Any bit of extra food helped after the summer they’d had. Pa would be proud.