The Fisherman’s Daughter

2020 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, Adult Short Story Contest

June 16, 2020 6:31 p.m.

There aren’t many lakes that split apart like frayed rope. So calm and tranquil, snakish as the blue lines wind through the forest and feed into a main pool too large for a pond, but too still for a river, then feeding into the sea quietly. Abundant in a wide variety of aquatic life, so lush and green the earth might as well be swollen, and yet, we are the only ones to walk these footpaths. So, we claim these parts as our own.

My father says there used to be more of us. A whole village, in fact; women and children and men and more, so many more. But they all died out long ago, in a great flood that swept them far out to sea. At least, that’s what we believed back then. Still, we live alone on the far side of the lake, the fire from our hut the only glow in the darkness of woods. He says that in our palms, we hold the last magic in the world.

There are all sorts of legends about what and who we used to be. I’ve heard the whispers like rustles in the trees, wearing my best shoes that click-clacked against the gray pavement of the town square, holding my father’s hand and keeping my eyes downcast.

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Night Watchers, they call us. The people who waved their hands over the moon and pulled away wisps of white light, strands rippling like a ribbon unraveling underwater; we are the people who came down from the high woods at dawn and sold the night’s catch of silver fish to the townspeople below, and now my father and I are all that’s left.

Patula, he would say on those rare days when he took me into town with him, when the night’s haul was heavy and he couldn’t possibly carry the full baskets on his back all by himself. Keep your hands in your pockets. Don’t meet their eyes. Don’t speak to anyone. You must hide your magic, do you understand? The world is a dangerous place for those who are different. Though I had never seen for myself the magic he claimed we had, I knew better than to distrust him. I believed every word.

Despite living alone and never playing with village children, I was hardly ever lonely. The idea of magic kept me company as much as the fish in the lake that we caught each night, and though we had no power to pull the light from the moon, we still fished with it. Light, I mean. Candles were set in jars, the jars tied tight with rope on the end of a line, and I’d sit by the edge of the dock, toes barely dipping into the water, and lower it. As I did, silver fish would come darting curiously to see the sun trapped behind some invisible barrier, the flame drawing whole shoals to marvel and gape in awe of the little light. And then, I’d pull up the net.

It was often times midday when my father returned home from selling fish at the market, so it was then that I’d swim under the dock and set our traps again. The ends of the net were weighed down with rocks, thin lines connecting the ends to a large pole on the dock. When the fish were swarmed about the lantern, we’d pull the net up from under them, a handful of squirming silver, shivering in the moonlight as the warm blanket of water dripped from their fins and left them exposed to the air.

I remember sorting them into woven baskets based on size, setting free the ones with a clutch of translucent eggs tucked away, the ones too young to keep, and, as always, the occasional pink fish. Mouth glowing gold as if it had nibbled at the flame, body shining as it seemed to swallow the light, though I knew it was impossible, I wondered if they actually ate the light.

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There are no more pink fish left now, and that is the story I tell you today.

Even before I could speak, I would babble excitedly at the sight of the sunset-scaled fish, especially when they writhed in the net along with the regular catch, and as I pointed and babbled for the first time, my father saw it and lowered the net immediately. He let them all loose, flickering in ripples of escape and disappearing.

You’ll be a fine fisher yet, Patula. And so I strive to be.

The pink fish were never far from home. Sometimes, hordes of them swirled through the lake, shaped like an arrow flying toward us, then like a teardrop when dragged back out to sea. Sometimes they stayed for days, other times we went months without a single one, and when I was young I worried that they wouldn’t come back at all.

Now, though, everything is different. The pink fish never will come back, but they are never far from home.

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It was early twilight when it happened. I was preparing the candles, setting out jars and wondering what kinds of fish we could catch if we used fireflies instead, when my father collapsed. I ran to him, of course, and though his breathing was heavy, he still managed to speak.

The end has come much sooner than I thought.

No. I shook my head, tears in my eyes. This isn’t the end. I wrapped his arm around my shoulder, shifted his walking staff into his hands and helped him hobble to bed, his bones frail as paper. I had always noticed that I aged much slower than him, as if time didn’t work for us the same way. It wasn’t the speed of which clocks ticked, but rather how hard each second hit, how much each minute was worth.

Patula. He sighed as I laid him down. Follow… the fish. He coughed feebly. The… pink… fish… follow… them… for the… truth. He clasped my hand, and as he did, he slipped a key into my palm. Go… now. Find your… magic. His eyes closed, his breathing heavy. This would not be the end. I pocketed the key.

Though tearing myself away from his side was like the moon breaking itself out of orbit, I forced myself to do as he said. In times of hardship, it is trust that keeps wheels and gears oiled and turning behind the clock face, ticking onward to pull through the thick air of fear. Each second hit hard, each minute was worth an immeasurable amount. I would not waste it by sitting idly by his bedside, waiting for death to knock on the door, walk through the walls, seep through the window like rain. And so, I did as he said with no hesitation.

Our people sailed to this land on boats crafted of a thing like wood, though from trees I cannot name. The bow rises and curls at the tip, curls just so as to hang a lantern, half-submerged in the waves. When our people died in the great flood, all the boats were swept out with them, smashed against rocks and splintered into debris, all except one. To this day, ours is the last boat left. The sail is white as the moon and curves into a crescent when the wind blows just so, and as it was that day, it still remains the perfect size for me.

I knew not what to bring with me as I ran around to the side of the house to push it out into the water, only that I would need a jar and a candle to hang from the end of the bow. So, that is all I took for the night’s journey. That, and the key in my pocket.

Drifting out into the center of the blue lake, I began paddling down, down toward the ocean. My father had taught me to sail, of course. I knew where to go.

The silver fish trailed after me, following the bobbing jar with the candle. Soon, twilight deepened to evening, and it, along with the moon, was my only light, guiding me to the sea. As the first star bloomed to life in the dark sky, I caught sight of a flickering flash of pink amongst the blue water of the mouth of the ocean, and called out to it.

The fish swam over to my boat tentatively at first, but darted to the lantern as soon as it saw the light. It nibbled at the edge of the glass jar, and as it did, the flame began to die out.

No! I cried, about to splash it away before I saw its lips glow gold. Then I watched, entranced, as the fish gobbled up the fire’s light hungrily, swam about in a circle as if shaking itself out, and spread the glow throughout its whole body, pink scales rippling with light. Though I had long suspected the pink fish ate the light, I had never seen it for myself. And then, it started off on its way.

So mesmerized by what I’d just witnessed, it took me a moment to pick up my oar and follow after it.

The fish led me along shores where waves didn’t crash, led me up around to the side of the mountain I’d never been to before, then ducked into the shadows between rocks, a streak of sunlight running through the black water. I paddled close behind, making sure not to lose it down the winding paths where there were bends and turns. At first, I tried to keep count of the lefts and rights and the time between turns, but quickly lost track. So infatuated with the glowing fish, I didn’t even notice at first when the boat hit land.

Here? I asked, and the fish prodded at the bank. Laying my oar down, I stepped out of the boat and anchored it to a nearby tree, fiddling in the darkness and dim moonlight. When I turned around again, the fish was gone, and the candle was relit. There was something here that the pink fish wanted me to find. There was something here I needed to explore.

There are many times that I think back upon that day when I found the ruins of the old village. Crooked shacks leaning on poles of rotted wood, stairs carved from stone overgrown with moss, a broken bridge across a break in the land, the battered remains of a place where children once played amongst the willow and sails, now desolate and abandoned. I wish I had taken in the sight of it more closely, now that I can no longer find it.

Climbing the stairs at the base of the bank, I thought I heard laughter in the wind, I thought I saw shadows flickering in the trees, but when I shined my light there was no one there. Finally, I reached a door. Thoroughly worn and decayed but locked all the same, I took out the key and held my breath as it clicked, the hinges too tired to sigh as I pushed the door open. And gasped.

It was a room full of books.

Shelves were carved into the walls, built around branches that snaked through the boards; books were nestled into pockets in the floor, packed tightly behind glass panes, lined up by name and color and size, but in the center of the room, there was one that sat atop a podium. It almost looked like it was lined with silver, though I told myself it was just a trick of the light. This was what the fish wanted me to find.

It is all I have left now to study our ancient ways, and maybe, to find them again.

As I trailed my fingers down the old blue spine of the thick book, sparks raced along the binding, and suddenly the cover flew open, yellowed pages fluttering and turning themselves before settling on the middle part where the stitches that bound the book together glowed. There was no writing, no illustrations, just a blank, bright void that echoed my questions. Spellbound, I reached out and touched a corner, and at my touch, everything sprang to life.

White light twisted and twined into living pictures before me, shooting up into the black ceiling that then blossomed into the blue of the night sky, the leftovers of silver swirling into a ball. Then, a woman’s voice spoke, distant yet familiar.

We are an ancient people. It has long been thought that the chemical process called “life” only originates from water. But that is not true. Life can be found everywhere, anywhere at all in the universe, if only one knows where to look. And as for us, we came from light.

At that, the moon fell apart into glowing smoke, and she began again.

This is who we are. We are an essence of spirit, endless possibility and the chance to be anything. We sought to leave our home to begin anew on the world we orbited: a place called Earth.

The bands of light circled and wound around each other like a dance, weaving the image of a boat.

On boats crafted of moondust and light, we sailed through the stars. And so the silver scene played out before me.

When we touched the ocean, we materialized. We each contributed energy to the pages of this book, recording our memories, lest we ever depart this planet and return to the moon, we shall not be forgotten. Because, we have not forgotten you, Patula.

Though I had already been hanging on every word as if it could save my father’s life, my eyes widened with shock, heart beating fast as I took a step back and the white boats all crashed together, whirling about into a figure just taller than me.

Patula, she spoke, I am your mother.

I remember her as clearly as glass, as defined as shards, every single little thing about her face, but it still is not enough.

Her frame was willowy, her hair long and loosely braided, sleeves of her dress dripping from her elbows, her touch was as soft as her eyes, but this memory alone will never be enough.

I was frozen as she reached out a hand, brushing aside a tear I didn’t know I had cried.

Mother?

Yes, she whispered, wrapping her arms around me, holding tight as I let myself cry into her shoulder. I’ve missed you so much.

I’ve missed you, too. Even though I never really had the chance to know you, I missed you. Unexpectedly, she tore herself away suddenly, seriously.

Listen, Patula. I don’t have much time here with you, and I have much to tell you. For many years, our people lived in peace on Earth, building a small fishing village and pulling down moonlight to help keep up our strength. We needed it in order to maintain human form.

You didn’t fish with it?

You can’t believe all of the stories about us. There was never a flood, either.

Then how did you all die out?

Oh, my love, she sighed. We never died. When I fell in love with your father and had you, I gave away much of my power, my essence. Little did we know, this would affect more than just the three of us. All of our people lost something that day, for we are all connected as one. We could not pull moonlight down anymore, and we didn’t have enough power to maintain our human forms or to go back. So, we turned ourselves into fish. Pink fish, distinctive enough that you could always recognize us. Each night, the moon pulls the tides, pulls us closer to home but farther from you. We cannot stay like this, Patula. Where is your father? I must speak to him, I am running out of time, she realized suddenly, and it was then that I saw how she was fading. Her moonlit outline was dimming, her eyes worried and pained, her dress frayed in wisps of smoke. Is he not here?

He’s sick, I told her. We were preparing the lights, and he collapsed. He told me to follow the pink fish. To follow you, I suppose.

As you did, you will again, she nodded. Here. She took off her necklace and handed it to me, clasping my hand tight. Take this out on the water into the moonlight. It will call the fish and we will return to the moon once more. Keep this with you and he will heal. I love you, Patula. Her voice was growing quieter and quieter like the way the sun slips down the horizon, and before I could blink or say goodbye, she was gone.

I stayed there for a while, sitting there on the floor of the old library, tucked into myself and pretending she was still holding me tight, I stayed until it struck me that the night wouldn’t last forever. I had to move.

Before I left, I tore off a part of a curtain hanging from a shattered windowsill, and wrapped the book in the brown cloth. Though it was riddled with holes from where moths had eaten it through, it was better than leaving the book completely exposed. It was filled with far too much knowledge to abandon, and there was no choice but to take it with me.

The night was ticking on, and each second was hitting harder than ever as I tucked it underneath my arm and ran down the stairs like wind, tugging apart the knot that anchored my boat to the shore, and leaping aboard. I didn’t need a lantern to know the way out of the rivered forest, for there was moonlight in my hands, the magic my father always said we had was now shining in my palms, running up my arms and flowing in my veins. I was lighting my own way.

As I paddled, pink fish began dipping in and out of the water alongside the boat, more and more of them following me out to sea. They knew I would set them free. When the wind ceased to push my sails along the way, I could feel that I was where I needed to be.

In that moment, the world was so blue I couldn’t tell where the sea ended and the sky began. There was no horizon, no waves and no clouds, only blue as far as the eye could see. As I unfurled my hand, I saw that the necklace my mother had given me was a simple pearl on a thin strand of fishing line, and it hung like a tiny moon.

I took one last look at my glowing fingertips, the sight of my magic. It would be the last, I was sure. Then, I closed my eyes and gave it up.

Letting the moonlight stream through my body, I channeled it into the pearl, and though I tried to keep my eyes closed I could not, and as I peeked, I gasped.

The pink fish glowed so gold they turned silver, swam in circles around the boat and grew longer, narrower and less solid until they were pure moonlight, swirling about and rising out of the water and into the sky, all the while the pearl emitted a light so bright any regular human would go blind. But I was made of light half as much as my mother, and so I stared boldly as all the magic flowed out of me, drawing out my strength along with it.

The last thing I saw that night was the faint outline of a woman, pushing my boat back toward home before flying up into the sky.

Some people say that all life comes from water; that without it, we can never be sure of life beyond Earth, but they’re wrong. I know they’re wrong because my people came from light of the sun that shines on the moon. I know they’re wrong because when I drifted in one morning, drifted from far out at sea to our dock, the book was still in my boat. I know they’re wrong, because as soon as I hung my mother’s necklace around my father’s neck, he could breathe again. But most of all, I know because the magic never truly left.

Night Watchers, they call us, and I smile. I smile because there is still moonlight in my fingertips and hair, because I can read the book of blank pages, because I can remember the pink fish. But most of all, I smile because I can remember my mother.

Life is everywhere, if only one knows where to look. It flourishes in the nooks and crannies of the universe, the edges of the world’s end, the bottom of a dusty drawer and the dreams of what could be. It plays in the lake, walks through town, and comes down to visit every once in a while, every once in a blue moon when their power is strong again, she comes down to see me.

One day, perhaps, I will sail so far out across the sea that when the moonlight dips its beams through the water, it will become one with my boat, and the pull of the tide will carry me home. For, who could sail better than a fisherman’s daughter?

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