All works / 2024 Spring term / A Fisherman’s Tale
🏆 Adult Committe's favourite
A Fisherman’s Tale
By: Niki Fonth
The night felt bleak - it did, every time, even before the fog and dampness settled as white frost over their faces, eyes and beards. In Yreth, the evenings were as brisk as they would ever be: ice formed on the walls, men slipped and fell into their death. The rest had the wind cutting into their faces with countless shards; the air like vinegar when breathed in - despite the cold, the folk felt as if it burned their throats. Some would lose consciousness, or pass out in exhaustion. They would starve or freeze to death - seawater would clean up the corpses. No one mourned on the walls. There was no need to, as there was always supply of the Fishers, bought from prisons and scaffolds.The new ones stayed. The old ones fell and fell again.
Wakret sang as he dressed - tugged and adjusted all the layers he already had on. He could not fix his clothes; not properly, not anymore. With three missing fingers and him still alive - a record in his barrack - he would not button his jacket, and with his trembling, frozen hands, the tears in his garbs remained unattended. It allowed the cold to sweep in more and more with each cut and hole. All the other fishers had their own rags to worry about; no one ever offered to help him there. He was freezing - he always was, each time more than he had ever been.
He moved for another layer - it was no jacket, barely a quilt in size, then, Wakret calmly looked at his shoes, as if he could reach out and fix them. He tied them around half a year ago, ever since then, they stayed on, though with a struggle in the last few months. These were a loyal pair of shoes, and he was thankful: he would not have managed to get new ones if he lost them otherwise. Maybe of someone else's feet - after they did not need it anymore.
He looked through the room: the bed was made, the walls were blank. It was forbidden to change or move anything in the hut - for no one would know when the need would arise to have someone else move in here. He quietly said goodbye. Just in case.
He was cold - his teeth clattered. He stepped out of the room, onto the top of the city walls. A wave of icy seawater slammed into his face - if he did not hold onto the handle of the door so tightly with experience, it would have dragged him over the fences. It did not.
In the Deth of the night, it was the darkest; when most usually slept, he was on duty. He gained sullen eyes for it, and deathly pale skin for it.
Sayet was high in the sky - Dehwa’s fading green and Tien’s silvery light did not outshine her blue hues. SeRuQe, as always, seemed the furthest away. The stars were dim at this time of night - they sparkled weakly.
He ignored the stench of rotting flesh - he had gotten used to it a long time ago. A man worked beside him - he did not know his name, he did not have to.
They may never meet again.
He started picking up the corpses. First the fish. Only the fish. They both avoided the rest; which had faces, blackened fingers, bleary, empty eyes. All towns, residing right next to the waters had walls - high ones, so high, that all the men would seem like ants from below. The water still reached them - it bought hundreds of marine animals and waste in the night. They would collect the corpses - tomorrow, these would be sorted and sold to the richest in the city, students of the Academia, or hidden from the poor - they fed off them, though it was forbidden. The meat spread unholy diseases and caused changes in the body. Still, the beggars hungered, and when they did, they hit - after that, they stole.
Beyond this, the walls needed care, the dams needed cleaning. This was the fishermen's job.
Somewhere around the start of Tiereth, they saw the light of torches, slowly closing in around the city. They continued to work, as he asked: “Wha’ is that?” The man answered. He had a horrible accent, and a voice lacking all power - Wakret could barely understand him. “The priests of Aiher’Khor. They came to lay siege to the city.” Wakret did not say anything after. No matter who won, they would be left at peace - their work was valuable, it was sacred duty. If the city were to be taken, the watchers would be supplied from elsewhere - the current ones would not stay for long, anyway. Sooner or later, they would all fall, walking on fishnets above the great abysses of the dams or straight into the sea. They would fall.
He sang.
Fall, fall, poor beggar's son, The deepest depths await, May your death be the one, Which helps the waves abate.
Call, call, shout up to me, From stones that broke your bones, The harsh fate awaiting. Us all from the long shores.
Tell, tell, son of the walls, The tale of every fate, How we suffer and fall, As numbers on a slate.
Sing, sing the songs in vain, ‘til the winds fade your words, ‘midst the pain, freezing rain, Pray that you fall in first.
A child of shores and walls, Is a watcher of sea, A fisher to stand guard, And never to be free.
‘Till your eyes blur with frost, You’ll never come to see The fewer more futile posts, Then serving to the sea.