Chapter 38: Soft Fur

Chapter 38: Soft Fur

Apond?” Roger spat the word, turning it into a curse.

“That’s right—a pond.”

Maria peered down at the hole, curiosity etched on her features.

“What does it have to do with fishing?”

“Well, while you can fish in a pond, I don’t intend to use this one for fishing—I want to use it for bait.”

“. . . Bait?” Maria asked. “You use bait for catching fish?”

They really have no knowledge about fishing, do they . . . ?

I smiled, happy to answer any questions she had.

“That’s right! To catch the larger fish I target, you have to put bait on a hook. I want to fill this pond with some freshwater fish, let them grow and live in here peacefully, and in exchange, I’ll use some as bait.”

“You put them on the hook when they’re still alive?” Maria asked, scrunching her nose. “I know they’re from the domain of the traitorous gods, but still, that seems a little . . . cruel.”

“While that’s a valid method some use where I come from, I also think it’s cruel—I dispatch the fish humanely before using them.”

I shrugged. “I know even that might seem a little rough, but at the end of the day, it’s part of the food chain. It’s no different from a human eating meat, or a larger fish eating them in the wild.”

Maria still stared down at the beginnings of my pond, and she nodded slowly to herself. “You do everything you can to reduce their suffering . . .”

She turned to me, giving me a brilliant smile. “That’s admirable, Fischer—even if you’re a heretic.”

Roger scoffed. “Still a heretical fool at the end of the day.”

Maria slapped him on the back of his head. “A heretical fool that is selflessly letting us use his land to expand our farming.”

Roger scowled at her. “A fool, nonetheless.”

“I’m not offended by being called names,” I said to them with a smile. “It’s all a matter of perspective, and while it may seem odd to you all, I’m really enjoying my heretical life in this beautiful world.”

“I have to admit, Fischer,” Barry said, “I was worried for you only a week ago, but now, I wonder if the prejudice we have against living from the water is misplaced.”

Roger snorted. “See, Maria? This is why heresy is dangerous—it can be contagious.”

“Dad, you keep calling Fischer a fool, but you’re the one insulting the two people actually helping us right now.”

Barry laughed, the sound filled with genuine joy. “I’m not insulted, Maria.” He turned to Roger. “Keep speaking your mind, Roger. My assistance doesn’t rely on you praising me.”

Roger glared between Barry and me, daring either of us to spout more ‘heretical’ nonsense.

I’m glad my initial assessment of Barry was correct; he’s a good man, and I’m lucky to have him as my next-door neighbor.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Barry,” I said, smiling at him.

I stood from the side of my pond, stretching out my back, which was a little tight after so much digging, improved body or not.

“Well, I feel refreshed—should we start mixing the fields together?”

I did my best to not burst out laughing at the expression on Roger’s face as he glared at us. Maria and her father sat in the shade, needing a moment to recover as Barry and I continued to mix the forest soil into the sandy fields. Roger’s look was somewhere between astonishment and frustration, but definitely leaned toward the latter.

It can’t be a fun experience to be outperformed in farming by a ‘heretical fool,’ can it?

“You don’t need . . . to keep . . . going, guys,” Maria said between pants.

“If I stop, Barry will catch up to me!”

Barry laughed from beside me. “If you keep talking, I’ll catch you, you heretical bastard!”

I roared a laugh and sped up, mixing the soil at a blistering speed to keep ahead of Barry.

All four of us were working the last bit of the first field when Paul came running out from between the rows of sugarcane to the north.

“Mom and I brought food!” he yelled.

A woman stepped out from behind Paul, a tray of sandwiches in her hands as she smiled down at her exuberant son.

“Afternoon, Helen,” Roger said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The second the otter sat down, my right hand started twitching. It was within petting range, and I kept shooting it glances, each time fighting the urge to reach over and scratch its cute little ears. I held my hand atop Snips’s carapace, taking comfort in her armored body.

Patience, Fischer . . . patience . . .

After what felt like an hour, but was probably five minutes, I stood to check the crab.

When I took the lid off the pot, steam billowed out. The otter ran back a few meters, arching its back up like a startled cat.

“It’s—”

A noise cut me off, and I looked down at Snips. She rolled in the sand, her legs kicking out spasmodically as hissed laughs poured out of her. I shook my head at her but couldn’t help but share in some of the joy.

“It’s just steam—it happens when you boil water,” I explained to the otter, who was glaring at Sergeant Snips. It pinned its ears back, squinting at Snips in accusation. The human-like reaction was confirmation of something I’d been suspecting since it offered clams.

The otter has evolved—just like Snips.

The realization gave me a rush of euphoria, and my mind once more pictured myself sitting by the fire, Snips on one side, the otter on the other.

“You understand me, don’t you?” I asked, voice soft.

It returned its attention to me, and with a small chirp, nodded once.

“Since you ate the shovelnose ray I gave you?”

Again, a single nod.

I sat down, back to the still-open pot, staring off into the distance of the western horizon.

That settles it—my food can, most likely, awaken animals. What are the conditions? It has to be my seafood, right? What about targets? What animals will it work on?

Sergeant Snips tapped my leg with a clawed carapace, drawing me from my thoughts.

She blew questioning bubbles, checking to see if I was okay.

“I’m all right—thank you, Snips.”

I rubbed her head. “What would I do without you?”

She sidled up against my leg, glaring at the otter with her eye, which I couldn’t help but smile at.

Jealous, Snips?

I returned my attention to the boiling pot behind me, and with my large tongs, removed the crabs from the water. I’d added some of the still-drying salt to the pot, increasing the sodium content of the cooking water. I was conservative with the amount but wasn’t sure if I added too much.

“Sorry if it’s a little too salty—it’s a work in progress.”

Snips blew bubbles of disbelief and made a gesture with her claws that told me she couldn’t even entertain the idea of a mistake on my part.

I laughed. “I’m not infallible, Snips, but I appreciate the trust.”

I set half a crab down on a plate for me, put a half in front of Snips, and went to place another beside me toward the otter, but paused.

“Do you want a plate?”

It made a soft noise, seeming to consider, then shook its head, pointing at the portion in the sand before Snips. I nodded, setting the crab down on the ground before it.

I grabbed the three clams and went to place them in the boiling pot, but again, paused.

Carefully placing them on the coals instead, I turned to the otter, who was already cocking her head in question.

“It just occurred to me that if I boil them, the flavor might get completely washed away by the salty water. I’ve seen clams cooked in a fire—well, I’ve seen a video of them cooked on a fire, but I think this will make them taste better.”

The otter chirped, the intent of the noise indiscernible to me. It crept forward, staring at the sand crab I placed on the sand, its nose twitching adorably as it sniffed the air.

I sat down between Snips’s and the otter’s portions with my plate in hand. Snips started crunching happily, and the otter walked up beside me, tentatively touching the hot crab with a paw.

“It might be too hot for you yet. It’ll cool in a moment.”

It looked at me, cocked its head, and sat down, smelling the crab intently.

Personally, I couldn’t focus on the food; my mind was filled with a compulsion to pet the otter. I reached out absentmindedly, my eyes locked on the soft fur of the creature beside me.