Heretical Fishing

Chapter 71: Lightning

How do I look?” Maria asked.

I had my back to where she’d been changing, so I half turned, keeping my hands held out before the small fire. When I caught sight of her, I stood, forgetting the campfire entirely.

My clothes were oversized on her; the pants were rolled up just above her ankle, the shirt hanging down well past her waist. Where it may have looked ridiculous on another, it was entrancing on her, and I couldn’t peel my eyes away.

Her half-wet hair was tied back, revealing her freckled nose and the pleasing lines of her face. With my prolonged attention, she blushed, and realizing I’d been quiet for too long, I said the first thing that came to mind.

“B-beautiful.”

She covered her face, letting out a nervous laugh. “Don’t tease me, Fischer—I know I look ridiculous.”

“I mean it. Maybe you should have them.” I pointed at the clothes. “They look better on you than me.”

She laughed again, walking over and taking a spot by the fire.

I held out a blanket. “Here.”

“I’m gonna get dressed into something dry, too.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, smiling. “No peeking.”

She rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Lucky for you, I’m too cold to leave this fire.”

“Be right back, then.”

With a dry set of clothes on, I returned to the campfire, drying my hair with a towel. Maria sat staring into the embers, her hands extended toward the growing flame.

“I’m gonna get some sticks to make a drying rack.”

“I’ll help.”

She stood, but before she took more than one step, a full-body shiver took her.

I shook my head. “You stay warm. If I take you back to Tropica with hypothermia, Roger’s gonna have a fit.”

“I’m fine,” she said, then shook all over.

I laughed. “Please. Let me do it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re really not cold?”

“Nope—not at all. You sit and get comfy, and I’ll sort out the clothes, all right?”

“Hmmm. I guess that is what servants are for . . .”

I grinned. “Exactly!”

I walked through the surrounding forest, picking out sticks long enough to construct a rack. When I had an armful, I returned to the fire. I’d found some dry wood, too—a thick log that had been protected from the rain by the trunk of a fallen tree. I held the log at an angle, stomping down to crack it into smaller bits. When I looked up at Maria, her face was full of incredulity.

“What?” I asked, picking up one of the longer sticks.

“What are your legs made of?”

I pushed the stick into the ground and picked up another.

“Er—same as you . . . I think.”

“If I just did what you did to that log, I’d be more likely to break my foot than the wood.”

“What can I say?” I wiggled my eyebrows at her as I pushed the second stick into the soft earth. “Fish are full of nutrients that make you grow big and strong.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “If you say so . . .”

“I do.”

I finished hanging up the last bit of clothing, all of it easily fitting on my makeshift rack.

“Have you tried the berries that grow around water, Maria? The ones all around this pond?”

She looked up at the patch growing on the far bank. “They only grow by water, so Dad always said eating them would be . . .”

“Heretical? Going against the gods?” I finished.

She nodded, rolling her eyes. “Exactly.”

“Well, they grow in the ground, so I don’t feel bad introducing you to them. More importantly, they’re delicious and full of sugar, which you no doubt need right now.”

She cocked her head to one side. “Why would I need sugar?”

“Because you’re shaking so hard you might start an earthquake. We’ll need to replenish that energy you’re losing.”

I bent and grabbed a pot from beside the campfire. “Back in a jiffy.”

I picked my way around the pond, stripping berries by the handful. Intending to only get enough for a snack, I ended up filling the pot entirely.

I brought it back to Maria, and as I got closer, I saw her shaking had gotten worse. Her teeth chattered, and she looked a little white.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, but even that action made her shake more. I set the pot down in front of her then grabbed another blanket. I sat on the log beside her and draped the blanket over us both. She went to pull her blanket closer around herself, and her hand brushed up against mine. It was ice cold.

“You’re—”

“You’re so warm!” she interrupted.

I was getting worried, so I grabbed the corner of her blanket and opened up her cocoon, throwing the blanket over both our shoulders so my body could warm hers. As she felt the heat radiating from me, she sidled closer. Her small body shivered; my heart thundered in response. Her hand brushed up against my arm, and she withdrew it immediately, as if burned by my touch.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

I grabbed her hand, holding it between both of mine.

“Oh . . .” She put her other hand atop mine. “You’re like a furnace.”

“. . . Are you calling me hot?”

She laughed hard, her body shaking with shivers that made the laugh halting. She accidentally snorted, then held one hand up to her mouth, her eyes going wide.

“Why am I so embarrassing?”

“I think you mean endearing,” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling it back beneath the blanket.

With one of her hands held in each of mine, we sat and stared at the fire, a comfortable silence stretching as her shivering slowly receded.

Barry ran across the sand flats of Fischer’s domain, only stopping once he reached the covered awning of his home. He removed his hat, shaking it free of the water atop it.

“Usually I like the rain, but this downpour is a bit much.”

Snips shrugged, standing in the rain with her eye half closed, clearly enjoying the drops hitting her carapace. Beside her, similarly enjoying herself, was Corporal Claws. Unlike Snips, however, her eyes were filled with anticipation.

“Is it all right if I grab a towel from inside?” Barry asked.

Snips nodded her acquiescence, gesturing for the door.

Barry walked inside, and after only a little searching, returned to the creatures outside, drying his hair.

“All right . . . where should we start, Snips?”

The crab shrugged, blowing indifferent bubbles. As they left her mouth, they were hit and popped by the sheets of rain. She scowled at the sky, stepped under the roof, then blew bubbles of annoyance, followed immediately by the indifferent variety. Barry laughed, and Snips cocked her carapace, clearly questioning him.

“I always find it funny how, well, human you are. We’re told stories of ascending creatures as kids, and none of them involve annoyance when rain pops their bubbles.”

Snips shrugged again, as if to say, “So?”

Claws dashed under the roof and let out an indignant chirp.

Corporal Claws, first of her name and cutest of Fischer’s disciples, grew tired of the meandering conversation. She dashed out of the rain, making her frustration known with a sharp chirp and accusatory glare.

She’d been waiting a long time for the revelation of Barry and Snips’s plans. Every time she asked what they were doing, Snips would reiterate two things: not yet, and don’t tell Fischer—both of which were as anger inducing as the other. What reason could they have for keeping master in the dark, and why couldn’t she know?

With Fischer gone on a trip with the speckle-faced human, Snips had told her they would let her in on the secret—finally. That was two days ago! Claws was a patient and magnificent otter, but there was only so much waiting she could handle. She chirped again, frowning at Barry and Snips in turn.

“You’re right. Sorry,” Barry said. “You’ve been most patient, Claws, and we’ve decided it’s time we brought you in on the plan—well, plans. There’s a lot to go over.”

She nodded, chirping her agreement with just how patient she had been.

Much more patient than Snips would have been in the same situation.

“All right . . . where to begin?” Barry tapped his chin in thought. “Perhaps we should start with why we’re keeping this all a secret from Fischer . . .”

The rain battered his face as Leroy ran, but he neither shielded his eyes nor closed them for a moment. They traveled down the main road toward Tropica, and with each step, his confusing emotions churned and billowed.

Trent was giggling to himself, muttering something about women and going home with a cultivator, but Leroy barely heard it, consumed as his thoughts were. He had dared to hope he’d one day return to his family, to shed his chains and come back a free man.

To come back like this, though . . .

The village grew closer with each step they took.

“Stop!” Trent yelled, pulling up short.

He glanced down at the artifact in his hand, spinning around on the spot. When he was facing to the southeast, he looked up, a vicious snarl on his face.

“This way.”

Trent, crown prince and leader of the expedition, glared at the two cultivators.

“Well? Lead the way, morons! I’m not cutting through this field!”

The long-haired cultivator shrugged and stepped into the field of cane, knocking aside swaths of the crop with haphazard swings of his arms. The other cultivator stared into space, looking at the village with an unreadable expression.

“Go!” Trent screeched, stepping toward the man. He looked at Trent, blinked rapidly, then walked behind the longer-haired man after a long moment.

I swear, Trent thought, these idiots would be lost without me. Look at how they take turns staring into space—each cultivator is as mad as the other.

As he followed them through the demolished crop, Trent reached into his bag and removed one of the spare collars.

His grin returned as he looked down at the relic. It was blinking rapidly, showing that the cultivator in question was in the direction they traveled. Soon, he’d return to the capital with this ‘Fischer’ in chains, added to the ranks of cultivator slaves. The kingdom would grow stronger, and his father, the king, would reward him for his efforts. He would have riches, accolades, and all the serving girls he wanted.

With one more swing of the cultivator’s arm, the way forward was clear; no more crops remained to hamper their way. A house stood before them, directly where the artifact was pointing. Trent stepped past the cultivators, striding toward the home.

“Follow me.”

“No . . .” came a soft voice from behind.

Trent whirled, glaring hate at the short-haired cultivator.

“No? You dare say no to me even now? This isn’t about going to stay in a tavern—this is our mission!”

Trent slapped him. The cultivator’s face didn’t move, the strike shaking nary a drop from his head, still as it was.

“Useless!” Trent snarled, turning back toward the house.

As he approached the front door, he looked down at the artifact, then stopped; the blinking light had slowed. He turned to the right, then to the left; the blinking increased. Confused, he looked up in the direction he was facing, seeing sandy flats before him. The artifact wasn’t pointing at the house—it was pointing past it.

“Fischer isn’t in there!” he yelled over the rain. “With me, gentlemen—er—cultivator scum, I mean!”

He marched off toward the sand, and a sharp tone cut through the storm like a knife. Knowing what the sound meant, Trent dove forward. He crashed into the sand, scrambling to all fours. He glanced up, his eyes going wide, expecting the cultivators to descend upon him. But that wasn’t the case.

Instead of attacking, the short-haired cultivator had stepped toward the home, his arm outstretched. The light on his collar was glowing red, threatening to detonate if he continued going against orders. The long-haired one looked between them with a grin of the purest joy.

Trent had assumed one or both the cultivators had attacked him from behind, and he’d meant to get as far from the subsequent death-inducing explosion as possible.

He got to his feet, channeling every ounce of indignation—his clothes were covered in sand and dirt!

“One more step toward that home and you’ll die, you idiot! Your collar is beeping!”

The cultivator ignored him, staring at the closed door. Before he could say something, the door flew open, and a woman stepped outside.

“Leroy?” She fell to her knees. “It’s really you?”

“Helen . . .” the short-haired cultivator replied, his whimper barely heard over the storm.

After an impressively short amount of time—by his estimation—Trent finally understood. The short-haired cultivator and this woman knew each other.

A flash of lightning lit the sky above the mountains, highlighting the stricken lines of the woman’s face. Trent grinned, baring his teeth at the short-haired cultivator the woman had called Leroy.

“Punch her in the face.”

That seemed to snap Leroy back to reality, and he turned toward Trent.

“ . . . What?”

Trent grinned. “Remember all the insults on our way here, cultivator? All the times you refused to escort me to a tavern? All the nights spent in leech-infested forests? I order you to punch that lady you know. In the face.”

“That . . . would be going against our handler’s orders. It could hurt the mission.”

An idea occurred to Trent, and he grinned even wider. He threw one of the collars to the long-haired cultivator.

“Put that on the woman. She can come with us back to the capital. I bet our lover boy Leroy here would just love that.”

The cultivator gave a cruel smile and exploded into action, moving as a blur for the woman, one arm extended with the collar spread wide. Trent watched the collar closing, his own smile growing wide.

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