Heretical Fishing

Chapter 9: Currency

Iarrived at my first destination with a broad smile and my tray of pastries in hand. I stepped into the clothing store, looking at the basic garments hanging on the walls. A kind-looking woman was behind the counter, and she gestured at the tray I was carrying.

“Sorry, dear, but there’s no food allowed in the store.”

“No worries!” I stepped up and displayed the ten remaining pastries. “I got a fresh tray of passiona-stuffed pastries from Lena’s Café just now, and while I admit you can eat them, these aren’t food—they’re currency.”

The woman was giving me an odd look, but at the mention of passiona and Lena’s Café, barely contained greed quickly replaced her suspicion.

Oh. C-currency is always welcome.” She licked her lips absentmindedly. “What are you looking for, dear?”

I set the tray down on the counter. “I’m looking for a few sets of clothes and a roll or two of string or line—something thin, strong, and abrasion resistant.”

“I think I may have just the thing for the line—one moment.”

She all but ran out the door behind the counter, returning a moment later with a crate. She set it down on the counter. It was filled with rolls of different-sized string and plastic line. I felt my eyes light up. I’d been hoping this world had plastic-based lines akin to fishing line from my world, but was willing to settle for fabric string if that was all they had. The crate before me was a treasure trove, and with the pastries George gifted me, I had the keys to the castle.

I sorted through them, picking out two rolls—a one-millimeter-thick roll, and another two-millimeter thick one.

“Y-you can have both for a quarter pastry.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you have extra rolls, or are these the only ones?”

A man came from the door behind the counter. Judging by the bow and deference he showed me, the woman told him of the treats I was using as coin.

“Welcome to our store!” the man said. “I’m Steven, and this is my wife, Ruby.”

I smiled at both of them. “Nice to meet you—I’m Fischer.”

“We only have one of each roll,” Ruby said, “but we can buy more when the merchant comes at the end of the month.”

“Won’t you need them before then?”

“Well, yes, but I’m sure we can make do without . . .”

I looked down at the rolls of line—both of which had what must be hundreds of meters of line. I shook my head. Before I could speak, the man intervened, misreading my intentions.

“An eighth! We only need an eighth for both rolls of line!”

Damn, this passiona stuff is serious business, huh?

I shook my head again with a smile. “I don’t want to leave you without the tools for your craft, and I don’t need that much.” I rubbed my chin in thought. “Tell you what, I’ll trade two whole pastries for half of both these lines, some small lengths of different colored string, and a few sets of clothes to—”

“Deal!” they both yelled, extending their hands. I laughed and shook both.

The man darted to my side of the counter, a measuring tape appearing from nowhere as he rushed me.

Ruby’s eyes sparkled. “What kind of clothes do you need, dear? Formal wear? Pajamas? Active wear?”

I tossed my head back and forth in thought. I didn’t think that far ahead—I was just going to ask for three sets of regular clothes to wear while fishing . . . maybe I do need some variety, though . . .

I started rattling off my thoughts as the man measured me. “I might go with two sets of the plain clothes I’ve seen the farmers wearing, and a set of more formal attire—nothing too ostentatious, but something a little more suited for going out, if that makes sense?”

“Of course, dear,” Ruby said with a smile. “For what you’ve offered, we can do a lot better than that, though.”

“Much better,” Steven agreed as he measured my waist.

Ruby tapped the counter in thought. “How does a formal set, four work sets, and a set of silk pajamas sound?”

“Make it two sets of pajamas,” Steven said, measuring my shoulders. “We can’t have such an esteemed customer left wanting!”

“That sounds perfect.” I stood a little straighter at Steven’s prompting. “Don’t worry about measurements for the work gear, whatever you have available should suit.”

Ruby waved the comment away. “Nonsense. It won’t take us long to have it all ready, so long as you’re happy to come back later today?”

“That’s no problem at all, Ruby. I’d be happy to come back and see both your friendly faces again.”

She shot a humor-filled glance at her husband. “You’d better watch yourself, Steven—this one’s generous and charming.”

Her husband shared a smile with me as he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, dear.”

I arrived at my second destination with ease, Barry’s instructions proving thorough. I walked into the furniture store, a bag containing my prized lines in one hand, my tray of eight pastries in the other. A bored man greeted me, but after explaining my purpose, he became just as energetic as the previous store owners.

“Hooks? I have all manner of hooks! One moment!”

He returned from the back with a tray separated into compartments, all of which were filled with hooks of different sizes you could hammer into a wall and hang things from.

“Think I could have a bunch of each size?” I asked.

His eyes danced as he looked between my tray and his. “For one of those pastries, you can have every damned hook we have!”

“How about half of each size?” I looked around the store and pointed at a section where curtain rods of all different lengths and widths leaned against a wall. “And a few of those rods?”

His hand extended, and I shook it happily.

“Is it all right if I come back for the rods? I have a few more stops.”

“Of course! Come back whenever you want to pick them up!”

I held the tray out, and he tenderly picked up a pastry. As I walked out of the store, a moan of ecstasy escaped the man behind me.

My next stop was a tool store, and I cast a discerning eye at the layout of the wares as I walked toward the counter and the older gentleman behind it.

“G’day, mate. I’m new in town and was looking for a few things to get set up—name’s Fischer, by the way.”

He nodded at me, his long mustache bobbing with the movement. “Welcome to Tropica, Fischer. We haven’t had a new farmer come in a while.” He gave me a wide smile and spread his arms, gesturing at the stocked shelves. “I’m Thomas, and if you need anything to get your farming started, my store is the place to be. What do you need?”

I saw no point in correcting him, so I rattled off what I was looking for. “I need flint, pliers, a bucket, scissors, a file, a hammer, a large nail, a box with separated compartments, and a cart.” I held out the tray. “One problem, though. I don’t have any coin, and was hoping you’d accept some of these as payment.”

Thomas’s eyes filled with a now-familiar need as he saw what was inside. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement, Fischer.”

He started walking around the store, collecting what I’d requested. As he moved, I couldn’t help but analyze the organization of the shelves, a lifetime of learning dedicated to incremental improvements and profit margins coming out all too easily.

The layout makes sense from an organizational point of view, but having everything too easy for the customer to find means they don’t look throughout the entire store and don’t have much of a chance to make impulsive purchases. The average purchaser might experience a bit of frustration, but it’s worth it in the long run for the increased sales.

“That’s quite a bit of gear you need,” Thomas said, but I barely heard him. “I think three of the pastries should be enough to cover it . . .”

I frowned and shook my head in annoyance as I realized I was acting on thoughts of my old world. I didn’t come here to build a business empire—I already know that to be an empty endeavor. I need to keep my thoughts on my intended goals.

Thomas couldn’t believe his luck. His wife had been pressuring him to try some of the more expensive eateries on the north side, but the expense was too much for the frugal man to even consider. Then, in walks a man bearing a taste of the most prestigious patisserie in the entire village, and he was willing to trade.

How much do I try to get out of him? The fact he’s willing to trade them at all tells me he doesn’t know their true worth. Five would be too much—even one of them would more than cover what he’s asking for . . .

“That’s quite a bit of gear you need,” he said, keeping his face neutral as he picked out the requested items in his perfectly organized store. “I think three of the pastries should be enough to cover it . . .”

Thomas looked up to gauge the farmer’s response, and Fischer’s face contorted in anger. Glaucus’ swarthy pits, he does know what they’re worth. He felt his skin prickle as he realized he may have ruined this fortuitous opportunity.

I let my annoyance slide away. There’s no point chastising myself—I just have to remember not to let my business impulses take over. The merchant was speaking, and I hadn’t been listening.

“Sorry, Thomas, what did you say?”

“U-uh, does one pastry sound like a fair deal?”

I thought the tools would be more expensive than that . . .

“You’re sure that’s enough to cover it?”

“Y-yes, of course!”

Thomas ran—literally ran around the store as he collected the rest of the items. I smiled as I watched the man sprinting around his domain, a whirlwind of tools and efficiency.

“Is there a Mrs. Thomas?” I asked.

“Y-yes, Fischer. There is!”

“All right. Take two, then. Call it a tip for your energetic service.”

A look somewhere between confusion and awe filled Thomas’s face as he arrived back at the counter with everything packed in the requested cart.

“Y-you’re sure?”

I laughed.

“I am, mate—take one for yourself, and one for the missus.”

Thomas shook my hand as tears—genuine tears—welled in his eyes. “Thank you, Fischer. She’ll truly appreciate it, as do I. Come back whenever you want—I’m in your debt.”

“I’ll be sure to come back if I’ve forgotten anything.” I held out the tray for Thomas, and he took the pastries with great care, placing them on the counter and staring at them as if he couldn’t believe they were real. “Until next time, mate.”

I made my way to the blacksmith, tray in one hand, my new cart in the other.

“Just offcuts?” the behemoth of a blacksmith asked.

“Yep! The thinnest metal offcuts you have lying around, and do you have any soap?”

He strode with purpose toward a shelf at the back, turning his head in passing toward who I assumed was his apprentice. “Duncan! Thin metal offcuts!”

“Aye, Fergus!”

The similar-sized apprentice had overheard our conversation so far, and his muscular form lumbered around the forge, picking up scraps and throwing them into a bucket he held.

Less than a minute later, Fergus placed the biggest tub of soap I’d ever seen on the counter, and Duncan presented his bucket of metal offcuts. I extended my hand and the blacksmith wrapped it in two meaty paws as he shook my arm with vigor.

“What’s your name, lad?” Fergus asked.

“Fischer. Nice to meet you, mate. Fergus, right?”

“Come back anytime, Fischer,” his deep voice rumbled as he nodded at my question. “It’s been a pleasure doing business.”

“Cheers, Fergus! The pleasure is all mine.”

Watching the bear of a man gingerly pick up a pastry and split it in half with great care was a sight to behold. He passed one-half to Duncan, who licked the passiona jam timidly, then stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. His eyes went wide as saucers as he chewed the baked treat. Following his apprentice’s lead, Fergus did the same. Their noises of joy and laughter were music to my ears as I carted my spoils back toward the furniture store.

After picking up the rods and balancing them atop the rest of my loot, I took a moment to rest in the shade, intending to eat one of the pastries. Before I could even pick it up, someone slammed into my side.

“Out of my way, peasant!”

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