Heretical Fishing

Chapter 33: Collar

What in Apollo’s delicate lute are you planning behind that toe-like face, Trent?”

Trent, first in line to the throne, and only marginally resembling a toe by his reckoning, closed his slackened jaw. He turned away from the parapet he leaned over, facing the speaker.

His sister Tryphena stood behind him, blocking his way down from atop the wall. Her usually schooled and beautiful features were scrunched in an ugly scowl, her derision clear.

“Nothing, sister,” Trent replied. “I’ve simply decided it’s time to step up as a man and the future king.”

“We both know that’s not true, so why don’t you cut the malarkey, Trent?”

“Maller key?”

Trent felt his jaw drop open again as he tried to parse the unknown words.

“What’s that, and why would I cut it?”

Tryphena laughed, loud and condescending. “You’re a moron. I don’t know what you’re planning, but I suppose it doesn’t matter—you’re more likely to get yourself killed by the cultivators you’re taking with you than to succeed.”

Trent’s eyes narrowed in anger. “They won’t be able to hurt me with the collars on. You know that.”

“You’ll still find a way to mess it up.” Tryphena turned, walking down the stone steps and out of sight. “I have complete faith in your lack of ability.”

Trent’s eyebrow twitched as he realized she’d gotten the last word—again.

Mock me all you want, overconfident sister of mine.

He reached a hand into his pocket, removing the artifact his father had given him for the search. It was a simple thing compared to the room of relics he usually hid in, able to fit in a single hand. There were two sides to the handheld artifact, one depicting a human, the other a group of animals. Each side had a small bulb that would light up when within range of an uncollared cultivator.

With this, I will find and bring in whoever this ‘Fischer’ is.

A rather disgusting smile crossed Trent’s face, one that was usually reserved for the girls he paid to come to his chamber.

I’ll collar Fischer, and I’ll torture his secrets out of him.

I sneezed, covering my mouth with an arm so as to not hit the ray I was storing for later. I felt Snips tap my calf, and I smiled down at her.

“Thanks, Snips. Someone must be talking about me—only good things, I hope.”

She nodded sagely, unable or unwilling to entertain any other possibility.

I stretched. “I think I’ll head into town, Snips—I have something planned that should take our fishing adventures to the next level.”

She froze, and after only a moment of thought, started ushering me out the door.

“All right, all right,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll get going, then. Meet me back by the fire at sunset for a ray and crab feast?”

She blew happy bubbles, and I beamed a smile at my enthusiastic guard crab.

“Hey, mate. Are you Bradley?” The man carving the back of a wooden chair looked up at me, his eyebrows subtly raising.

“I’m Greg—Brad is my brother, but if you’re looking for a woodworker, I can help you just as well as he can. We run this place together.”

I smiled. “Well, pleasure to meet you then, Greg!” I held out a hand. “Name’s Fischer, and I am indeed looking for your woodworking expertise.”

He shook my extended arm with a heavily calloused hand. “Ah, Fischer. I was wondering when I’d meet you—I’ve heard your name thrown about the past week like sugarcane during the harvest.”

I laughed. “Only good things, I hope.”

Greg let out a light chuckle. “Aye, mostly good things. You’re some sort of benevolent ascendent if the praises can be believed, but with an odd penchant for heretical activity.”

He stretched, arching and rubbing his lower back as he stood straight. “What can I do for you then, Fischer?”

I grinned at his ‘heretical activity’ comment.

Not entirely wrong, but I’m glad he’s still happy to work with me . . .

“I’m looking for something a little unconventional.”

I passed the schematic I’d carved into a wooden plank to him, local measurements helpfully provided by a certain literate crustacean.

Greg looked it over, his brow furrowing in consternation. “Is it some sort of wheel? It shouldn’t be a problem . . .”

“Not a wheel—it’s a reel to help me with that heretical activity you spoke of.”

His eyebrow raised for a moment, but quickly dipped back down. “What do you want it made of?”

“Strong wood, and I’d like it oiled or waxed with something that helps keep water out.”

“Something that keeps water out, eh?” Greg rubbed his chin. “Ironbark wood treated with linseed oil is probably your best option for keeping water out.”

Huh. They have linseed here. Neat.

“Ironbark and linseed oil sounds good to me, mate. Do you mind if I help with the reel, or at least watch you create it?”

“Called a reel, is it . . . ?”

Greg trailed off as he eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering on my arms. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try your hand at woodworking—you look like you have the strength for it. So long as you agree to step back if I think it’s not working, I’m happy for you to help.”

I nodded. “Works for me, mate—if I’m ruining the reel, tell me, and I’ll move aside.”

“Deal.”

“What will it cost me?”

“Hmmm. With these materials and dimensions . . . let me just check if we have any ironbark offcuts.”

He strode over to a back shelf laden with different planks and slabs of wood, rummaging through the pile.

“Ah, you’re in luck, Fischer!”

He picked up a gray-tinted chunk of wood, hauling it back to the bench with little effort.

“This is just big enough, and should bring the base cost down—does two iron coins sound fair to you?”

My eyebrows raised a little at the cost. “Is the wood rare? That seems quite expensive for a bit of wood compared to most things I’ve come across in the village.”

He gave me a wincing smile. “It is, aye—the trees don’t grow in these parts, and it’s hard to work with, hence the name. We can use another material if that’s too much for you . . .”

I shook my head and smiled at him. “Nah, mate, I want the best material I can get—I’m building this reel to last.”

I felt a moment of desire to bargain Greg down, but quickly quashed it.

Fergus said he was trustworthy when I asked for a local woodworker, so I’ll believe him. Besides, I have plenty of coin and it doesn’t feel right leaning on villagers that are already doing it tough.

“Well, my mates at the smithy recommended you, so I’ll take your word for it, Greg. If you say two iron coins are fair, I’ll pay it.” I held my hand out, and Greg shook it.

“Are you free now, Fischer? I’m ahead of schedule with our work orders, and we can probably finish your job today if we start now.”

I rubbed my hands together as a grin spread across my face. “I certainly am, mate. Let’s get into it!”

“You’re, uh, sure you haven’t done this before, Fischer?”

The man looked up at Greg, cocking his head in confusion before smiling. “Nah, mate—never worked with wood before. How am I doing?”

Greg looked at the astonishing amount of wood Fischer had already managed to shave off the hardwood section.

I was just going to let him have a go . . . but this . . .

Fischer was shaving it down faster than even Greg could, slowly taking the corners off and rounding the square slab.

“Uh, Greg . . . you right, mate?”

Greg jolted, realizing he’d been staring in silence. “Oh, s-sorry, Fischer. Yeah, you’re doing well—keep going.”

Fischer grinned and laughed. “That I can do!”

He bent down over the vice again, shaving down the ironbark once more.

Unbelievable . . . just how strong is he? He’s carving through that slab like it’s made of pine . . .

Just as impressive was the precision. He didn’t stick to a single section for too long; he shaved an area down, then opened the vice, spun the wood, closed the vice, and resumed shaving away.

There’s no way he hasn’t done at least a little woodworking, is there?

There’s something so satisfying about doing physical work with your hands.

I let my thoughts get drowned out by the steady movement of my arms, the rhythmic planing of the wood a meditative process. Slivers of wood shaved off with each push and they flew from the plane in my hands, hitting my forearms before falling to the floor. I lost myself, removing thin ribbons with sweeping movements before spinning the ironbark wood in the vice and attacking the next area.

Before I knew it, I’d reached the mark on the wood, and with a final arc of force, the initial shape was done. I turned to Greg, who was watching intently, eyes focused on the finished wood.

“All right—what’s next?”

His eyes seemed to clear, and a discerning gaze settled on me. “Next, we chisel out the concave section you wanted—do you want to give it a go?”

“Mate, if you think I won’t ruin it, I’m happy to have a crack.”

Greg nodded. “All right, you can start, and I’ll step in when you get to the intricate sections.”

Greg handed me a pointed chisel with a ninety-degree angle between two cutting edges, followed by a wooden mallet.

“Start in the middle. That way, if you take too much off, we can smooth it out.”

“No worries, mate. I’ll give it a shot—just pull me up if necessary.”

I set the chisel to the middle of the reel and raised the mallet high.

Brad, Greg’s brother and business partner, walked into his workshop to a flurry of banging and wooden chips. There was a man he’d never seen before chiseling away at a slab of wood, presumably pine with how fast he was working. He stepped up beside his brother, who was watching intently.

“Who’s this then, Greg?”

Greg jumped, then turned to his brother. “This is Fischer—the one we’ve been hearing so much about.”

Brad nodded. “Well, that explains why I’ve never seen him, but why is he hammering that wheel of pine like it ran away with his sister?”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Pine? Look again, brother.”

Brad did, not sure what he was looking for.

What other wood could someone be chipping through so easily?

The mallet swung down again and the expelled sliver of wood bounced along the floor, landing at Brad’s feet. He bent down to pick it up, and as he brought it up to the light, his eyes went wide.

“Hephaestus’s rock-hard anvil,” Brad whispered, “is that ironbark wood?”

Greg nodded vehemently.

“Right? He’s shaving it down like it’s made of butter and hasn’t slowed in the slightest.”

“Gods above—his muscles must be screaming in protest . . .”

A small smile made its way to my face as I chiseled away patiently at the wood. It didn’t seem as hard as Greg made out, but it was certainly stronger than the logs I’d split for my fence.

I guess that could be my improved body coming in clutch again, though . . .

I’d gouged out most of the section that would house the fishing line, so I started chiseling smaller sections, shifting from shaping to smoothing. After ten minutes, I pulled back, inspecting my handwork.

There’s no more I can do with the chisel—I’d guess it’s time for sandpaper, or whatever equivalent they use in this world.

I turned back to Greg but saw another man beside him. “G’day, mate—I presume you’re Brad.”

“Y-yes. You’re Fischer, right?”

We shook hands, and I turned to Greg, who was looking a little unwell.

“How’d I do, mate—er, are you all right?”

Greg gave me a smile that was incongruous with his pallid features. “I’m fine, Fischer, just a little shocked. You did marvelously. Here.” He held out a curved file.

I accepted it. “You don’t have sandpaper?”

Both men gave me a funny look.

“Sand . . . paper?” Brad asked, voicing the question for both of them.

Add that to the list of creations I can bring to this world.

I made a dismissive gesture with my hand. “Forget about it—the file is all I’ll need.” I returned my attention to the almost finished reel and started filing.

With a furrowed brow, Greg watched Fischer use the file on his reel. Each stroke was that of an expert, and with each movement his confusion only increased.

Brad nudged him in the side, leaning in to whisper. “I never expected another woodworker to come to the village, let alone someone so experienced . . .”

Greg leaned over, whispering back, “He claims he’s a novice . . .”

Brad snorted softly. “That’s not possible, right? Do you think he’s—”

Brad cut himself off, and Greg’s eyes went wide as the reel shrunk and morphed before them.