Honey-Do

By A. M. Reynwood

Never thought I’d die on a fishing boat. Don’t know why. Then again, never thought I’d be finding m’self fishin’ for Merithian sardines, either. Horrid things, make no mistake. An’ if you get ’em riled enough, their frenzied numbers can sink ships faster than wreckin’ on a reef.

I stare over the bow of the Folly Fisher―one of the more unfortunate names for a fishing vessel. But Folly’s the captain’s name, so what can a man do? Salt waves slap the barnacle-encrusted hull, white foam swelling as the fish surge and writhe in the deep. My skin crawls just thinking about those slimy, wriggly bodies. Inside and out, alive or pickled, these bally things are disgustin’.

Why did a fishing trip―and for Merithian sardines, of all things!―have to be the only charter out of Kelphaven?

“Man the nets! Ready the weights!” Old Captain Folly roars from the aft deck. I can hear his peg leg tapping wildly, his hook banging on the rail over the rushing and crashing of sardines. I don’t need to see the mad gleam in the captain’s one remaining eye―his voice is as unstable as a cracked mainmast. The fish’s mud-blue scales flash in the naked sunlight.

Gimpherbert Sniggs hands me a towline. “Think we’ll give the ol’ snake the slip, Mr. Umpee?”

“By Gurgen’s green toes, I’m hopin’ so,” I say, but I scan the waters all the same, my hands strangling the towline. Very little escapes the sea dragon. Our stopping to snag some insufferable sardines on the way to Corkshire won’t help matters.

But I can’t let her keep me here forever.

“Steady on, lads,” the captain bellows.

Sniggs breaks into a lopsided grin. “Could be the Folly’s lucky day.”

I open my mouth to warn him against such foolhardy talk―tried that innocuous optimism on a wizard once and got myself turned into a cricket and squashed for my trouble. Nasty business, that―but a stray sardine takes the opportunity to jump into my face. Spluttering, I bat the hateful thing away. Shivers crawl up my spine at its slimy touch.

Captain Folly’s voice rattles the air. “Haul ’em in, boys! The ol’ snake just might pass—”

A rough jostle on the Folly Fisher knocks me against the taffrail. Damp wood digs into my ribs.

The captain swears, gripping his tattered tricorn hat. “Never mind!”

Something heavy rams into the boat, tossing us into a jumble of arms, peg legs, and harpoons. The surf erupts in salt spray and flailing sardines. The fish tumble through the air and into the gaping, toothy maw of a magnificent serpent the color of silver sea pearls.

She snaps her jaws shut as the Folly Fisher rights itself. Instead of diving for another pass, the ol’ girl turns her reptilian head toward us. Toward me.

“Did you really think you could get away from me, Skeer Umpee?” Her voice hisses through her snarling fangs.

I squint under the rain of her dripping chin. “Perish the thought! We’re just out for a harmless bit o’ fishin’.”

She lowers her head and glares at me with those gigantic, sapphire eyes. “For Merithian sardines?”

Flibberty flapstacks, she doesn’t believe me. I knew she wouldn’t—too sharp, this one. Don’t know why I keep trying.

I brush my hand over my newly soaked hair. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”

“Only the one thing I want most.” Hissing like water on a screamin’ hot skillet, she rears up and smashes her tail against the hull. Wood splinters, the sea bucks, and my feet leave the deck.

I’ve fallen off a kicking horse before—broke my neck on that one—but instead of hard ground, I hit the frothing sea. Still bally hard, though. The din of rushing water, cracking wood, and hollering men is blotted out by the thunder of bubbles. All-encompassing noise. Blinding scales. Bruising bodies of panicked fish, slamming into me left and right, pummeling the air right out of me.

Ach, for sure I knew it would en―

I breathe that telltale gasping breath and fill my empty lungs with the scent of salt air and rotting fish. Sunlight prickles my crusty eyelids, and beyond the quiet lapping o’ waves on the sandy shore is the gusting wind of a dragon’s breathing.

A smile cracks my lips. “I never met so dogged a creature in all my lifetimes.”

“Honestly, Skeer. Immortality is not an excuse for being lazy. Are a few home repairs really so much to ask that you’d rather tangle with Merithian sardines?” Exasperation fills her voice.

I peel my eyes open to look on her alabaster scales. Gleams like starlight, she does. Her image fades into the obscuring mist, then she steps out in her human form and settles beside me. She’s just as gobsmackin’ly lovely as ever, even with that frown in her dainty brow.

I take her hand in mine. Just about anything is better than being slapped to death by oozy fish. “I’ll fix the roof.”

“And the porch?”

“And the porch.”

“And the cupboard? And the rocking chair? And the door hinge? And—”

“Ach! Lass, I’m half starved. When’s supper?”

“—the floor.” She pauses and gives me an absolutely draconic smile. “The Folly Fisher limped back not too long ago with a full haul, so I picked us up some sardines.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. M. Reynwood is a story smithing, kitchen wizarding homesteader in the Fingerlakes region. It’s her firm belief that food and fiction are the gateposts to the human heart, and by them and the grace of God she aims to spread joy and light to the folk who cross her path.

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