Water

The fisherman was pleased with the story and even examined Steven’s vest to affirm that there was a black ring on the inside where it had been held to a kettle.

“Salt soup, salt soup,” the fisherman said over and over. “I must find some people with whom to make salt soup. I shall have to go back to the village of Torn Lace and get the innkeeper to join me in making salt soup. Yes, that is what I will do. There is a farmer who will join me. And the blacksmith. We will have a feast of salt soup.”

He took Steven out of his house into the morning sun and led him to his boat. It did not look like much, and Steven wondered that it floated at all. It was broad and flat-bottomed. Though it seemed not to sit deeply in the water, the sides were high and it did appear that a large catch could be held in its hold. Steven wondered if Tavis had ever had such a large catch.

“Well now, not for many years,” said the fisherman. “Time was that Torn Lace was a thriving town, even a city. Every week I would pole my boat up the mouth of the river to the village and leave as many fish as I could catch. There is no sense in catching the fish now that I cannot sell them. I’m happy to catch my dinner and once every several days dock at the burned out bridge to supply the village.”

“What happened to the village?” Steven asked.

“The Terror,” Tavis answered. “After the melons gave out, people began to move back to the village from the far side of the river. Soon there was no one living on the other side. It was still a main route of travel to Rich Reach, but people gradually lost interest in going there. Came a time when you looked across the river it looked like there were shadows walking among the deserted houses on the other side. Then we got word that something was terrorizing Rich Reach and the people burned the bridge to keep whatever it was away from their village. Problem was, there was no longer a reason to come through Torn Lace at all. When people stopped coming through the town, they stopped coming to the town. Then folks started to leave the town. Someday there will be nothing left there but the burned pylons of the bridge, warning people not to cross the river.”

“That’s sad,” said Steven. “Have you tried to sell fish to other villages?”

“Other villages either have their fishermen or are too far away from the water to get fish,” scoffed Tavis. “What I’m going to do is find me a magic fish and make a wish. He must be around here somewhere.”

“How far is it to the other side of the river?” Steven asked, realizing they were nowhere near shore.

“Oh, I can’t take you straight across the river,” the fisherman said. “There is no place to dock my boat in the swamps where you would be able to walk. There is a smaller channel that cuts up further along the seashore. If I let you off there, you’ll be able to find your way back to the road to Rich Reach if it still exists.”

Steven contemplated the possibility that the road to Rich Reach might not exist anymore. If that were the case, how would he ever find the principality? Well, as was always the case, Steven assumed that all roads would ultimately lead to where he was supposed to be. They had all led to his dragon. They would all lead to his terror if he was meant to face it.

At long last Tavis pointed the boat toward shore and Steven gradually began to see the shape of a small river mouth indenting the shoreline. Into this river, Tavis expertly guided the boat. Just as they passed the shoreline Steven saw a drake and his hen floating in the current just to port. He pointed toward them.

“Duck,” said Tavis.

“Two of them,” answered Steven, pointing.

“No, duck!” the fisherman yelled, pointing fore. Steven turned to follow the fisherman’s gesture and was smacked squarely in the head by a heavy low-hanging tree limb. It knocked the breath from him and him from the boat. Water closed over the top of Steven and all went dark as the current swept him away.

***

When Steven awoke, he had difficulty remembering where he was. He was lying on a bed of straw, covered with warm wool blankets. Not far away he could hear a gentle female voice humming a little tune that seemed vaguely familiar to him. There was a scent in the air of drying sheepskin and Steven could just make out his vest lying over an iron kettle to dry. He realized suddenly that all his clothes were draped over chairs, table, and mantle, and then the most beautiful visage Steven had ever seen came into view.

“Selah?” he asked, hesitantly.

“What is that, my fine funny fish?” the woman asked coming toward him. Steven realized his mistake at once. This was not Selah, and with that realization he adjusted his opinion of her as the most beautiful visage he had ever seen downward. No doubt there was beautiful and there was Madame Selah Welinska. This woman was merely more beautiful than any non-dragon lady that Steven had ever met.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were someone else.”

“A wonder you can think at all with that knot on your head,” the woman said good-naturedly. Steven felt his head and found a bandage that covered part of his forehead. Then he felt further and discovered that his hair was cut short and his beard had been shaved smooth. “I had to trim your hair away from the area that I bandaged,” explained the woman. “It seemed silly to only barber a portion of your head without doing the whole thing.”

“I seem to have no clothes on,” said Steven shyly.

“Well I wasn’t going to put you beneath clean blankets in soaking clothes,” said the woman. “I wasn’t even sure there was a person in there when I pulled you out of my net.”

“Are you a fisherwoman?” Steven asked.

“I am a woman who fishes;” she answered, “as well as I hunt, farm, weave, cook, and build.”

“Who are you?” Steven asked, bluntly.

“I am Cherissé,” she answered. “And who are you?”

“Oh, my apologies,” Steven said. “I am Steven George the Dragonslayer.”

“Such a mighty name for such a bedraggled fish!” laughed the woman. “Did you get hit by your dragon’s tail? Did he burn your charger and melt your armor?” She was clearly having a good time ridiculing Steven, so very politely he let her continue. “From what mountain did your dragon throw you that you would end up in the sea?”

“The dragon was a long time ago,” Steven answered quietly. “I am on another quest now.”

“Ah. A quest,” she nodded knowingly. Steven had a difficult time focusing on what she was saying as she gently removed his bandage and cleaned his wound with fresh water. “What would you be questing for?” she mused. “The golden fleece? The Holy Grail? The One Ring? The Fountain of Youth? The Meaning of Life? Dear me, there are so many things on which one might waste one’s life.”

“The Terror,” said Steven simply.

“What foolishness,” said Cherissé. “Certainly there must be enough terror in life to go around without seeking it out. People generally make their own terror, flee from it, and blame it for all the world’s ills. Few face it and certainly no one seeks it.”

“I do,” Steven answered. Something about Cherissé caused him to be subdued and quiet. He could scarcely put more than two words together.

“Well, you will be questing after nothing for a time, my hero,” Cherissé said mockingly. “You must stay abed and let my medicines work on your wound. Here, let me feed you some stew so that you may gain back your strength.”

Steven found himself lulled by her soothing voice, and comforted by her gentle hands. He ate the stew hungrily. In fact, he could not remember having tasted such a savory mix before. He tried to identify the flavor. When he asked, Cherissé answered simply, “Goose.”

Cherissé went about her business as Steven watched sleepily from the blankets by the fire. He did manage to remove his vest from the kettle before it was cooked. It would take some work to clean the fur before it was fit to wear again. Cherissé washed Steven’s other clothes and hung them to dry, then went out to feed her “pets,” as she called them. Steven could hear the honking of the geese as they gathered around her. When Cherissé returned, she checked Steven’s head wound and he felt her cool hand against his hot skin.

“You must rest, my hero,” Cherissé said. “You are not strong enough to quest. We can entertain ourselves with stories as you mend,” she added.

“Do you mean to Once Upon A Time me?” Steven asked.

“Well,” she answered seductively, “I suppose once would not hurt.” Then she stood from where she knelt beside him and said simply, “But not tonight. You are not well enough yet and the medicine has not had a chance to work. Go to sleep. You will feel better in the morning.” And Steven slept.

***

The next day, Steven sat up on his bed of straw and Cherissé handed him his clothes, which he donned beneath the wool blankets. Cherissé made everything he did and thought seem like it shouldn’t be done. It was a new feeling for Steven, and he did not know how to describe it. He was not at all comfortable with the hot redness that touched his cheeks whenever he glanced in the direction of Cherissé or felt her hand touch his brow.

By afternoon, however, Steven was able to stand and he joined Cherissé in feeding her geese. The flock seemed oddly tame and Cherissé called each goose by name as it came to rub its cheek against her hand and take the offered food. The calls of the geese seemed oddly plaintive and made Steven homesick for his own village that he had left so long ago.

“Such unusual names you have for your geese,” said Steven. “It is almost as if they were people one might meet on the road.”

“One never knows what one might meet on the road,” replied Cherissé. “Perhaps a goose has spoken to you and you failed to hear its voice. There are certainly enough people you might meet who are little more than silly geese.”

After they had eaten and Cherissé had changed Stevens bandages again, they sat together companionably in front of the fire as Steven began to work the tangles out of the fleece vest with a brush he drew from its pocket.

“Well then,” said Cherissé. “Shall we begin?” She smiled and Steven nodded. Then Cherissé began her story.

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Next Chapter: The Bowl of Light