Heretical Fishing

Chapter 24: Perfect Form

The sun warmed my skin as I walked back through the fields. Fergus was procuring the silver for the ring, my belly was still full from a feast of fish, and the future was looking bright.

What a beautiful day.

I scoured the surrounding rows of sugarcane for Barry, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I found Paul, his young and enthusiastic son.

“Hello Fischer!” Paul yelled from behind me, making me jump.

“He wasn’t feeling well. He went home to rest.”

Damn, I hope my fish didn’t make him sick . . .

“Did he, uh, look all right to you? No odd changes or anything?”

Paul cocked his head at me. “Changes? He’s just a little sick, is all.”

Good. No spikes, then—that would have been quite a pickle.

“Let him know I hope he feels better soon.”

“I will! Here, Mr. Fischer!!” Paul held my plate out to me. “Dad said to give you back your plate and to thank you for the pastry!”

Pastry, huh?

A smile tugged at my lips. “Let your dad know he’s very welcome.”

“You . . .” Paul looked down, then back up at me. “You don’t have any more pastries, do you?”

I laughed at the gleam in the boy’s eyes. “Sorry, mate, I can’t say I do. Next time, all right?”

“Right!” Paul nodded, taking the lack of baked goods in stride. “I better get back to the fields—I have a lot to do with Dad unwell!”

“No worries. See ya, mate.”

Sergeant Snips was nowhere to be seen when I got back to my shores, and I figured she was out doing crab things.

It’s been a few hours, right? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to check the crab pot . . .

When I pulled on the line, it felt light, and sure enough, the trap was empty, the bait inside untouched. I knew it was probably too soon to check it, but I couldn’t help myself. It was just so exciting; I had constant intrusive thoughts about checking the trap.

Noted—have a little patience, Fischer, you silly goose.

I walked back to my house, sitting in the sun by the coals of my fire pit. The rays were blessedly warm, chasing away the chill from a strong breeze blowing north. The remains of the fire were still red, and I stretched my feet toward them, lavishing in the sensation on the bottom of my feet.

Probably not a good day for fishing with the wind, so what should I—“Salt!” I yelled, jumping up as I remembered my lack of seasoning. I ran to the kitchen in search of the largest pot I had.

I walked down to the ocean with what had to be a twenty-liter stockpot, waded out into the calmer waters, and filled it almost to the top. The water was freezing with the wind kicking up, but it did nothing to cool my excitement.

I got back to the fire, placed a few large logs on the still-glowing coals, and set the salt water-filled stockpot atop a rack.

I know back in the day you could just dry sea water in the sun, so heating it above a small fire couldn’t hurt, right . . . ?

As for what to do with the rest of my day, I had not yet introduced myself to some of my favorite people in the village—a situation I intended to rectify while my salt water slowly reduced.

I grabbed a few berries to go, setting off with a smile.

Joel meditated, his body in a position resembling that of the perfect form. He contemplated life, the twists of fate, and the miracle that was convergent evolution. He longed for such an evolution to take him, to transcend this inferior form of flesh and its lowly, internal skeletal system. Today may not be the day, but his time would come.

A sense of peace and tranquility took him as he slipped deeper and deeper into his trance. A sharp knocking sounded, three loud raps shattering his focus.

Joel let out a deep sigh. What is it now?

His acolytes all opened their eyes, shooting similar looks of disdain toward the wooden portal, but they quickly returned to their meditations.

Swinging open the door, Joel was met by a man he recognized.

He’d seen him on the beach, watching his cult’s claw ritual with great curiosity. The stranger had also interrupted the procession with raucous laughter, but that was the way of the villagers, unknowing heretics as they were.

“Can I help you?” Joel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“G’day, mate! I just wanted to come say hello!”

Joel winced at the loud tone. “If you wouldn’t mind keeping it down, the faithful are currently meditating.”

The man smiled in apology, dropping his voice to a more reasonable level. “Sorry, mate. I’m Fischer, and I realized I hadn’t introduced myself to you guys yet—I’m a big fan of crabs myself, and I thought we’d get along like pigs in mud.”

Joel looked Fischer over again with a discerning eye. He was lean and tanned, indicating he was likely a farmer.

A working man. Respectable.

“Your admiration of the crab is notable, but our beliefs stretch further beyond their perfect forms. We believe in carcinization, which is—”

“Oh, I know what carcinization is,” Fischer interrupted. “The convergent evolution of different species that somehow all turn into crabs. I’m a big fan, mate—it’s endlessly intriguing.”

Joel had initially been annoyed at the interruption, but as Fischer spoke on, his heart swelled, his very being vibrating with the farmer’s enlightenment.

He stuck his hand out. “My name is Joel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fischer.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, mate.” Fischer shook Joel’s proffered hand, his grip firm.

And the man has a firm handshake—I may have just found our newest recruit!

“Would you care to join me for our meditation, Fischer? We are pondering the perfection of the crab’s form.”

Fischer peered past Joel, who had stepped aside to display the acolytes in all their glory.

“Er—it looks a little uncomfortable, mate.”

Joel sighed, the comment an unfortunate reminder. “Such are the limitations of our inferior bodies—all the more reason to ponder and praise the form of the crab.”

“Do I have to stay for a set time, or is it cool if I take off after a while? I have a few things I need to get to later . . .”

“Of course, of course!” Joel said, ushering him in. “We have another hour left—stay as little or long as you like.”

The meditation was surprisingly relaxing, given that I was squatting down like a crab—claw hands and all.

The cultists surrounding me occasionally made little bubbling noises with their mouths, which was both hilarious and rather endearing. The first time, I thought it was an accident; when it happened a second time, I thought it was just one of the acolytes being a weirdo; when it came from a different direction the third time, I realized it was intentional and had to fight my laughter down. The sporadic mouth noises drew me from my meditation in the beginning, but as the sounds repeated, they settled into the background.

If I’m already doing a crab meditation, I may as well send it . . .

I joined in on the bubbling noises, picturing Sergeant Snips and her impressive streams as I did so.

I lost track of time as I focused on the sensations of the body. The minor aches from the odd posture faded away and melted into a single cloud of tingling and numbness. My level of zen increased, and I felt a content smile settle itself on my lips.

After an unknown amount of time, a soft ding sounded. I opened my eyes. Joel was standing with a tiny gong in his hands, beaming down at me.

“Thank you for joining us, Fischer. How was your first time?”

The surrounding acolytes’ heads turned to me with expressions ranging from sleepy to content, two male and two female.

I stretched, leaning back to sprawl my limbs out as far as possible on the wooden floor. “That was delightful, mate. Thanks for letting me join in.”

“You’re welcome—come back for meditation any time you please.”

I sat up, crossing my legs. “How often do you do them?”

“We do it once a week, every Fielday.”

Er—Fielday? Yikes, I’d never actually thought about the days of the week here . . .

I nodded. “Right. Fielday. I’ll, uh, be sure to come back soon.”

Seeing no raised eyebrows or questioning looks, I confirmed Fielday was, in fact, a day of the week.

Now to work out the rest without revealing I was sent here by truck-kun . . .

Three of the acolytes packed up and left almost immediately, not lingering for longer than it took to stretch their bodies out. I remained sitting on the floor, basking in the afterglow of serenity.

“You know, Fischer . . .” Joel squatted down in front of me. “The Cult of Carcinization is always looking for more members if you’re interested in expanding your piety. You already possess more knowledge than any of our previous recruits, and I’m sure Jess here wouldn’t mind taking you through the scriptures.”

He pointed to the single female that remained. She gazed at me with deep brown eyes, aggressively nodding.

I let out a small laugh. “I think you might find me a bit too heretical for your liking, Joel—I appreciate the offer, though.”

“Heretical?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me. “How so?”

I shrugged. “I fish.”

“You . . . fish?”

“That’s right,” I said with a broad grin. “Pretty much all I do, really.”

He stood and stared at me then shrugged back. “That is of no concern.”

“Wait, really?” I let my confusion show. “You’re not gonna call me a heretic, a fool, or something worse?”

Jess answered with her own question. “Who are we to judge you, Fischer?” She gave a kind smile. “We are all imperfect beings, after all. To err is in our nature.”

Man, these crab cultists are actually pretty chill—

“Until we ascend!” Joel boomed, his eyes filled with fervor, hands clacking. “Only then, when we have achieved the perfect form, we will know the way in all things!”

Nevermind.

“Well, it’s been fun, guys.” I gave them a wave. “I’ll see you next, uh, what day is the meditation again?”

“Fielday,” Jess said, still smiling.

“Right. Fielday. See you then.”

I shook my head as I headed back to my land. “I can’t tell if Joel is batshit crazy, or my new best friend . . .”

The convening of the crabs had stretched on longer than the sun remained in the sky, their meeting ending just as the last bit of light fled beyond the western horizon.

Sergeant Snips dismissed her subordinates, and they all scuttled off toward their assigned positions.

After they left, she set off, heading to a cave she’d found in the deepest part of the bay. On the way there, she dispatched two small fish and carried one in each claw as she continued on her way.

When she arrived, she peered into the rocky crevice, curious to see if it was still there. A lone antenna poked out from behind a corner, moving up and down as it smelled the ocean currents. She rounded the rock, holding both fish out so their scent wafted forward.

The sea snipper emerged, larger than even Snips, lured out by the promise of a meal. The lump where its other antenna had been was completely healed, which she was glad to see.

Sergeant Snips placed both fish before it, and the sea snipper grabbed them with two humongous claws, retreating back into its hole. With a nod of respect to the unintelligent creature—a gesture it wouldn’t understand, but still felt right—she began a thorough search of the bay.

It took her most of the night to ensure every nook and crevice was free of threats, and it was early in the morning when she finished. She’d been scoping out the poisoner, Sebastian, each evening since delivering her master’s retribution. She clacked her claws violently—this night would be no different. Thinking of the man made bubbles of fury tumble from her mouth, and she let them flow, agreeing with the sentiment her body expressed.

In the early hours of the morning, a hooded figure draped in a king-sized black sheet crept through the streets of Tropica, large of form and short of breath. They avoided the major thoroughfares as they moved, sticking to smaller streets and alleys between buildings.

When the shadowed figure reached sections that were lit, they dashed—in so far as someone of their impressive form could dash, anyway. Silent as the night, built like a barrel, they cradled their burden with great care.

The sound of the small waves crashing against the rock wall of the shore could finally be heard, telling them they’d almost reached their destination.

A few streets and a quick dash or two later, they stepped out onto the stone walkway that separated the ocean from the houses of Tropica, only mostly out of breath. A strong breeze hit them immediately, almost blowing away their sheet-robe. They spun in circles, one meaty hand grabbing for the corners that threatened to blow away and leave them exposed.

“Triton’s throbbing conch,” they muttered, “is the world itself conspiring against me?”

They stepped up to the wall, gazing out at the ocean.

There is no other option—stashing it for later will only invite more disaster . . .

With one last look at the small chest in their hand, they closed their eyes and flung it out to sea.

A single tear ran down George’s face as he watched his work of the last five years hit the water and sink into the depths.

Curse you and your devious mind, Fischer. Curse you.

A gust blew, almost taking his sheet with it.

And that damned seamstress whose clothes always shrink!

Scuttling toward Tropica, Sergeant Snips clacked a fish in passing, her arcing attack severing its head. With two halves of a fish in hand, well, in claw, she approached the village. A splash came from above, and something descended.

Danger! Attack!