The Disjointed Tales Of Renryre Island

12-2: A Fish Too Big [continued]

Feeling wretched, sick, hungover, and generally that she should be lying in her bed instead of going fishing for a possibly non-existent bounty in the bay, Merilyce eventually stopped paddling, and dropped an anchor overboard.

She began to prepare a fishing line, starting with inspecting it for flaws. It looked okay, strong enough to hold a hundred pound browntail, she hoped. At the end she attached the largest hook in her tackle, more of an ornament really. She slid a dead fish from yesterday's catch over the hook, and wrapped it up with more fishing line until it was well secured. She fastened the other end around her arm, tying it over a thick layer of cloth. If she caught anything even half as big as she hoped, she wasn't going to let it get away.

Finally she sat back and pulled a hat across her face, allowing the sun to warm her as she tried to relax. It was about time her hangover received some attention.

"Hi!"

She leapt up, slipping on the water sloshing in the hull as she tried to grab hold of the boat. Once she'd found her feet, she looked forward and spotted the man in the canoe with her. The Scribe.

"What the hell are you doing here? Are you..."

Had he been there all along? She had paddled all the way out into the deepest waters of the bay, and then cast her line without noticing the man three feet in front of her. Fine, she was losing it.

"Am I...?"

"Are you a godsdamned hallucination? Are you a madness in my head?"

"I am nothing of the sort!" he insisted.

"How did you get here?"

"What do you mean? I've been here all along."

She was definitely losing it. And about bloody time; she needed an excuse for being the demented loner. And hell, she could do with the company.

"What do you want?" she asked.

The Scribe was penning something on his parchment.

"I was just considering. You obviously are not here to catch a hundred pound fish, are you? That would make no sense. Or rather, it would make for a boring tale."

The man took a deep breath as he considered his words, his eyes gazing upwards for moment.

"So, I wonder... why are you out here?" he asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. "What could you possibly find out here that would make the story interesting? The boat you are in... well, if there was something interesting in the boat, then you could have found it while still at the docks. But there is nothing else out here. At least, nothing above the water."

The Scribe gestured to the fishing line wrapped around her arm, tied securely. Too securely.

"If I was writing this tale," he said while scribbling on his parchment, "then the next thing to happen, would be you getting dragged overboard by something rather large caught on the end of the line. A fish too big, perhaps?"

Merilyce looked at The Scribe. Looked at her arm. Looked at the water. Looked at the line hanging gently in the small waves. It tightened suddenly, tugging at her arm. She sighed, thought better of it, and took a deep breath instead, just in time, just before she was yanked overboard.

A cold rush engulfed her, a moment of panic as she tried to orientate herself.

"You bastard!" she yelled, but only the sea could hear her.

Her arm was dragged forcefully but steadily downwards, and she felt the pressure building on her ears. She managed to open her eyes and take a quick look around her. No tailsharks. That was one thing she could be thankful for; the tailsharks would finish her long before she would have the opportunity to drown.