I certainly didn't want to stay around to face Thick-Neck Nick. So, I bit my tongue to keep from laughing in his face again, and said, "Yes, I still want to go."
Before he could say another word, I started pushing his little fishing boat toward the lapping waves of the Blood Sea, hoping he wouldn't have second thoughts.
Suddenly, he called out to me, "Duder?"
"Yes?"
"You'll get two percent of my catch. And that's final."
I smiled to myself. I was going fishing!
I pulled the oars of the fishing boat until the shore began to shrink out of sight. But our progress was slow because the Blood Sea was still roiling from the storm.
I thought I might get sick from the boat's constant dips into the trough of every wave. Six-Finger must have seen my suffering, but a deal was a deal; he didn't take the oars from me. He offered only one consolation. "Don't worry," he said. "The water will calm down by dusk. It always does."
He was right. As the sun set into the Blood Sea, dazzling crimson lights sparkled on the now-smooth surface of the water. The sea was at peace. And, finally, so was my stomach. Not that there was anything in it, mind you.
It suddenly occurred to me that Six-Finger hadn't cast his line. "You can't catch anything-except your death of cold-without putting your hook in the water," I said.
"Giving orders already, huh?" growled the old man. "I've fished these waters before and I'll not find the Monster hereabouts."
With my stomach calm, I was getting hungry. I'd eaten raw fish before, so I asked, "Do you mind if I use your line and see what I can catch? After all," I reminded him, "I get a percentage of your take."
He shrugged his shoulders. "If you're going to fish," he said gruffly, "give me the oars." Six-Finger heaved on the wooden oars, turning his head away from me as he stared out into the gathering twilight.
My line splashed into the red water, trailing behind the boat as we moved farther out to sea. I closed my eyes, enjoying the steady, rhythmic movement of the old man's rowing.
This is a good way to live, I thought. Someone to row for me, and dinner just waiting to be caught. But then, as always, I started dreaming of more: I'd have a whole fleet of fishing boats with scores of old men bringing in a huge catch every day. I'd be generous and give them ten percent of the profits. Then I stopped and thought, no, I'd give them just two percent.
I smiled to myself and sighed with satisfaction.
I'd be known as Duder, Captain of the Blood Sea. And I'd be the richest elf in the world. The other elves would envy me. They would be sorry they had treated me so badly. I had been expelled from my homeland;
punished for a youthful indiscretion; shunned, made to travel all alone-oh, how I hated being by myself. But when the elves needed my fish, needed my money, needed my power and influence… they'd come to me then and say, "Duder Basillart,we're sorry. Come home." And I would just grin and tell them
"Ouch!" The fishing line was nearly torn out of my hands. My eyes opened wide as I clutched at the line, thinking that though my reverie had come to an end, my dinner was just about to begin.
"Looks like you've got something big," said the old man as he watched me pull on the line.
"I told you I'd be good to have along," I boasted. "This fish will bring in plenty of money. Don't forget," I added, "I get two percent!"
"I remember."
Hand over hand, I pulled on the line. I was counting my money even before my catch broke the surface. But when it did, I stopped my efforts. I had caught a dead man.
"I'm not surprised," said Six-Finger after he helped me haul a drowned sailor up onto the lip of the boat.
"You're not?" I asked, astonished. "Do you catch dead men on your line every day?"
His ancient face showed little emotion. "There is an old folk tale about storms on these waters," he said. "Whenever there's a storm, you can be sure that a ship has been sucked down into the whirlpool at the center of the Blood Sea."
I shivered at the thought; in my lonely travels I had seen so many storms blow across these waves.
"Too bad our fishing expedition had to end like this," I said sadly, figuring that we would head back to shore with the body.
"Don't be silly," said the old man. And with that, he cut the line and let the dead man splash back down into the water.
"What are you doing?" I cried.
"The proper place to bury a sailor is at sea," he calmly explained. "Besides, there is the one fish I've been after all of my life. Tonight, perhaps, I'll finally catch that creature."
It was only then, as I watched the body float away from theboat, that I fully realized the old man's desperation. He was tired worn out-and he knew he wouldn't have many more chances to catch his fabled Blood Sea Monster.
Six-Finger didn't look back as the sailor's body sunk below the waves.
It wasn't long after I picked up the oars and began to row that I saw wreckage floating nearby from the dead sailor's ship. Cracked and broken pieces of wood were strewn about the water. And then I saw a plaque that must have been part of the ship's bow. In the fading light I read the words, THE PERECHON. And then the plaque tumbled away on a wave and disappeared.
Was it a big ship? Had a great many sailors died? I would never know. To me, it was just another ship that would never see land again, just another crew of sailors who would never see the sun again, just another shipload of souls who would never go home again… like me.
It seemed like every passing day took me farther away from my home. And now I was in a little boat, far away from land, somewhere out in the darkness of the Blood Sea in the dead of night. Worse than that, I was sailing with an old fisherman who actually thought he could catch a creature that existed only in the mind of man.
I'm not cruel by nature, but I thought I'd have some sport with Six-Finger. While I rowed, I asked, "What does this Blood Sea Monster look like?"
"I don't know," the old man replied. "No one has ever seen the creature and lived."
"Then how do you know it exists?" I smirked.
"It does," he insisted. "I'm sure of it. Though no one has ever seen it directly, there are stories-hundreds of stories-about the great Blood Sea Monster." He looked away from me, gazing out onto the water. "Some say it's as big as a thousand fishing boats. Others say it isn't the size of the beast, it's the length of its teeth and claws you have to watch out for. But nobody really knows. I knew one man, though, who claimed he saw the beast's reflection in a mirror. He said it had a scaly, blood-stained face that oozed black pus. But it doesn't matter what it looks like. What matters is that I catch it!"
"Why?"
His eye narrowed and his voice grew thick with anger. But he wasn't angry with me. His rage was aimed at the creature he sought. "It killed my father," he said. "And it killed his father, too.It killed my only brother, my sons, my nephews-fishermen, all it took them to their deaths on this sea of blood. In the end, my wife died of… neglect… grief. Now I'm alone. No family. Nobody. An old man with nothing in his heart but the desire for revenge." He lifted his head and stared at the sky with a fire in his eyes. "And I'll have that revenge!" he shouted into the night. "I swear it!"
If Six-Finger kept yelling like that, he was going to scare away the fish. He had already scared me.
I forgot all about his ravings when he offered me one of his wheat cakes. I gobbled it down so fast that the old man offered me a piece of fruit from his bag. "What about you?" I asked, not wanting to appear unmindful of my host (and wanting to keep his mind off the Blood Sea Monster). "Aren't you going to eat?"
"My appetite isn't what it used to be," he said with a sigh. "I don't eat half of the things I bring along. Most of the time I throw my leftover food overboard for the fish to eat. A man can't take from the Blood Sea without giving something back," he said reverently. "If the fish live and multiply, then so will the fishermen."