Heretical Fishing

Chapter 31: Extraordinary

With the midday sun beaming down, I held on for dear life. The fish on the other end of my rod swam away in a straight line, the momentum of its body gliding away above the ocean floor. Its weight felt immense.

Just how big is this thing . . . ?

The line went taut even as I stepped closer to the water, the fish coming to a slow stop as my rod held firm. At that moment, it seemed to realize something was wrong. Either the hook setting or the restriction of its movement changed the fish’s behavior and the fight began.

It took off, its powerful tail pushing it through the water. Instead of swift shakes of the head, it seemed to move in broad sweeps, as if there were a person on the other end of the line, taking one long step at a time to get away.

“We got a big one, Snips!”

She cheered me on from the waterline, standing in the whitewash of small waves that crashed on the shore. Her frantic bubbling and erratic claw movements brought a smile to my face, and I let out a yell, reveling in the moment. Every time the fish tried to swim out to sea, I moved with it, letting it spend its energy. It swam to the side, trying its luck swimming toward the north instead. Again, each time it would pull on the line, I’d stepped with it, keeping the line taut but not allowing enough tension for it to snap.

I slowly took steps back from the water as we moved, allowing for enough room should it take a desperate run out to sea. This contingency proved prophetic as the fish turned and bolted, the rod sweeping side to side in response to broad shakes of its head. I stepped forward with it. Feeling the tension growing too much, I stepped faster, walking up to my knees in the waves. The water was cool on my legs, and the sensation sent a thrill up my spine, my whole body tingling with adrenaline and anticipation.

It kept going out to sea, and I moved further into the waves. I came up to my waist, holding the rod high and letting the bamboo fibers help with the stress placed on the monofilament line. Its run couldn’t last forever, and I felt its body start to lag, the shakes of its head becoming sluggish and sporadic.

With great care, I walked back out of the waves, one shuffling step at a time. Tired as the fish was, it let me guide it, unable to fight off the inexorable pull toward the shore. It changed tact, swimming down to the ocean floor.

I was confused for a moment, unsure what it was doing—but then I felt it stick in place. It had pressed its body into the sand, and when I pulled the line, it moved only millimeters at best.

Is it some sort of stingray? That could explain the weird movements . . .

Unperturbed, I resumed the battle. It hadn’t gone completely limp; its body felt rigid, as if it had used muscles to suck itself down against the sands. That meant one rather important thing: the fish would continue to tire, whereas I had what felt like an endless fountain of energy.

Millimeters and centimeters at a time, I pulled it toward the shore, ever onward. Snips tapped my leg, and blowing questioning bubbles, offered to go in and help.

I shook my head, smiling down at her. “Not yet, Snips. We want to make the fight as fair as possible.”

She nodded, accepting the words without issue, and resumed her cheerleading from the whitewash.

From waist to knee, from knee to ankle, I withdrew from the waves, bringing my quarry with me ever closer to the shore. A dorsal fin poked above the water ten meters from the shore, light brown and gigantic.

“Holy shit, Snips! You see that?”

She hissed her agreement, jumping up and down on the spot.

Is it a shark?

Whatever the thing was, it was tired. There was barely any fight left in it, and with each passing swing of its great tail, it grew more and more lethargic. It was only a few meters from the beach now, its dorsal fin raised high, a long tail moving ineffectually to escape the shore.

“All right, Snips, go—”

I didn’t have time to finish my sentence.

Sergeant Snips flew from where she stood, taking off like a rocket. She landed on the other side of the catch, disappearing beneath the swell. I knew Snips was underneath it when the fish turned, was lifted above the waterline, and emerged from the ocean with eight crab legs visible underneath it.

Snips’s mighty carapace was hidden by the fish’s body, leaving the creature looking like some sort of eldritch horror—the hiss Snips was emitting from beneath it didn’t help the situation. Before I could laugh at the sight, my eyes were drawn in to inspect the catch.

Mature Shovelnose Ray

Rare

Found in the coastal waters of the Kallis Realm, the flesh of this ray is prized for its unique and desirable flavor. Sought by anglers everywhere for its powerful body and difficulty of catching.

The shovelnose ray was over a meter long, a third of its body made up of a shovel-shaped head, the rest composed of a powerful, shark-like tail. It was, quite literally, half ray, half shark.

I felt the System nudge me, but by now the sensation barely lingered in my mind. Snips hissed her victory as she crawled out from beneath the shovelnose ray. I stepped toward it, dispatching the creature with my trusty nail.

“No wonder it was so hard to catch, Snips! Look at this bloody thing!”

She danced on the sands, responding with her body.

“Can you inspect the fish we catch?” I asked, raising a brow.

She cocked her carapace and blew bubbles of intrigue before shaking her head.

“Well, I can—and guess what it said about the shovelnose ray?”

Picking up on my conspiratorial tone, she leaned in, her curiosity palpable.

“It said it was prized for its . . .” I trailed off, grinning and building suspense.

She leaned in closer, her lone eye sparkling.

“. . . unique and desirable flavor.”

Snips clacked her claws to the sky, hopping from side to side in excitement.

I smiled at her. “I thought we’d have crab for lunch, but what do you say we cook this up instead?”

She braced herself as a slew of affirmative bubbles came flying from her mouth with such velocity that her carapace shot backward.

“If you collect some wood and get the fire going, I’ll prepare the ray—deal?”

She didn’t bother responding, simply tearing off across the sands toward the house, a dust cloud of sand kicking up in her wake.

This thing is gonna be way too big for cooking whole—filleting it is.

Before beginning, I laid my hand on the top of its head, thanking the magnificent creature for the nutrition it would provide us. I didn’t take joy in ending its life, and even though I was a willing participant in the food chain, I still thought it an important step to show my gratitude.

I took my time processing the shovelnose ray, taking care to get every bit of flesh possible from its frame. I was surprised to find a cartilaginous skeleton rather than a bony one, but that meant there weren’t any pesky pin bones running down the length of its body. When I’d finished, I walked toward the fire my ever-reliable Snips was no doubt building, fillets on a board in one hand, the head and frame of the ray in the other.

On the way back, I separated the head and the rest of the frame, throwing the cartilage in the river out front of the house, and taking the head back with the fillets. I had a devious plan, and I grinned at the potential of it coming to fruition.

The otter was searching for clams off the shore from its den. The meal she’d managed to steal from the angry snipper and its two-legged pet had been a welcome treat, but she found that it only filled her body with the energy and desire to find more food.

She dug up a clam, and swimming to the top of the water, cracked it open with her favorite rock. She ate the flesh within. It was tasty, sure, but it just didn’t hit the same spot as the stolen crab had. Since when had clams, her favorite food after oysters, become undesirable?

She was just contemplating this anomaly when an aromatic scent hit her nostrils. It held the promise of a tasty meal, with an added flavor to it that was unrecognizable. With a start, she realized the unknown smell was akin to the scents that sometimes wafted from the two-legged animals’ village.

With the hunt for clams forgotten, the otter swam in search of the source, her curiosity and hunger too piqued to ignore.

Sergeant Snips and I lounged in the midday sun, the scent from the cooking fillets making my hunger grow by the second. I hadn’t managed to lure my target in yet, so I’d taken a bit of flesh from the ray’s cooking head and thrown it into the river beside the frame.

Hopefully that’s enough to bring in my adorable quarry . . .

I cast the worry aside. If the otter came, neat. If it didn’t, I’d get to have a delicious lunch with my favorite crustacean.

I renewed my petting of Sergeant Snips’s shell, and she bubbled contentedly.

As the meat grilled atop the flames, the smell grew more and more irresistible. The rising steam and smoke danced languidly in the midday sun, only somewhat distracting me from the coming meal.

Movement down at the water caught my attention, and I squinted against the light, trying to make out what it was. A small brown head poked up above the water, staring intently at Snips and me. Butterflies churned within my stomach, and I held my mouth closed as a wide grin spread across my face.

It worked!

Sergeant Snips had noticed the otter too, and she’d stiffened before forcing herself to relax again.

“It’s okay, Snips,” I whispered, stroking her carapace reassuringly.

The otter emerged from the water, its nose sniffing the air as it skulked up the bank toward the grilling food. I slowly stood, not wanting to spook it. The creature paused, frozen on the spot. I picked up the head of the ray with a pair of tongs. It had already cooked through, flat as it was, and I walked with small steps down toward the otter. It backed off, retreating into the water.

I continued moving forward, and the otter swam out into the river, its head held above the surface—watching me and the food intently. I knelt down on the shoreline, and with glacial movement, placed the piping-hot head into the water.

It’d be no good to burn the poor thing with food fresh off the fire—the water should cool the fish down enough, hopefully.

I walked backward up the bank, watching the fish’s head moving in the small waves hitting the sand. The otter crept ever forward in my retreat, and just as I’d gotten halfway back to the fire, it burst forward, grabbed the head, and swam away just as quick—well, it tried to, but the ray’s head was both an awkward shape and as long as the otter was, making it a rather awkward and endearing withdrawal.

“Cute little bugger . . .” I said aloud, watching it disappear from sight.

It took the otter much longer on the return trip than the way there, overburdened as she was. The entire time, she could feel her mouth salivating, the taste of the stolen food driving a desire to stop and eat it on the spot. Despite her need, she knew it to be unsafe; the aroma of the fish would doubtless bring in scavengers, and it would be much safer to consume within her den.

She pushed the head up onto the rocks before her home, shuffling up beside it to drag the meal back and into the safety of her cavern. Her claws skittered across the rocks, but driven by the taste she’d already experienced, her small muscles convulsed, all working together to achieve her goal. With a final heave, the head made it up and over the rocky shore, and she scrambled backward with the momentum, dragging the stolen meal all the way back into the den.

As soon as she reached the back wall, the feast began and she lost herself to the experience.

Each subsequent mouthful was better than all those before it, and the indescribable and incomparable flavors seemed to build upon themselves. The meal filled her with energy, renewing the effort spent in getting the fish home.

Just as she ate the last bite, with her stomach filled almost to bursting, something extraordinary occurred.