Chapter Text
You wake long before sunrise from a poor night’s rest, sleep clinging uncomfortably fast to your eyelids. The mattress in your cousin's back room is too lumpy and the sound of the nearby waves too foreign for you to fall back into even a fitful sleep — no matter how much you know you’ll need it. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.
With your mind racing and your body exhausted, you resign yourself to settle for the next best thing to sleep: closing your eyes and lying still. Your thoughts drift unbidden back to the events of the last few days: the doctor’s orders, your cousin's invitation, the slow boat from the mainland across a stormy grey sea. How initially the appearance of the little islands of Greater and Little Marrow on the horizon had come as such a relief after so many hours out on the water; you had almost begun to believe you would never see dry land again. That relief had quickly dissipated as the boat drew closer and it became clear that the diminutive size of the islands was not just a trick of perspective: they were tiny. Greater Marrow could be circumnavigated in an hour or two, Little Marrow in half that. Were you really to spend the next month of your life trapped here? Surely any health benefits the sea air might bring would be undone by the mental strain of sheer boredom and crippling isolation. How many people even live there? A hundred, maybe two? What if you don’t get along with Archibald? It’s been years since you last saw his side of the family. What if you have no one to talk to? What if you have nothing to do?
It's hard to tell how long your mind has been wandering in that dark unfamiliar room before the sound startles you from your thoughts. For a moment you think you might have fallen back to sleep and dreamt it: the distant, half-melodic song drifting in through the window above your bed. Sitting up, you peer out from behind the curtain into the darkness in search of its source. You can't see much, the new moon was only a few days ago and the thin crescent hanging high above makes no dent into the gloom. Even when the lighthouse's ray falls on this side of the island the inky black sea and the inky black sky remain intermingled into a dense, impenetrable void. Occasionally the light hits the crest of a wave and dances with the motion of the water but other than that there’s little to be seen.
You're about to give up and lie back down when you spot it. It only lasts for maybe a fraction of a second, more movement and a vague sense of scale than an identifiable physical shape, but for that fraction you are sure that you see something huge and serpentine appear above the water. Then it is gone.
As you lie back down the thing is already transforming in your memory from fact to trick of the light. By the time your cousin Archibald knocks on the bedroom door a little after sunrise it has become nothing more than a half-remembered dream.
... ... ...
The next morning your cousin leads you down onto the dock after treating you to a hearty breakfast and a tour of the island, the latter of which involved a ten-minute walk down the main street and little else. Archibald is practically vibrating with excitement as he sets up the gangplank; from what you remember of him from your youth, his enthusiasm is likely more because he gets to show off his prize yacht than out of any love of fishing.
The boat is small enough to be manned by a single person — which is good because you would be of no help with it; you lack both the knowledge of, and any interest in, sailing. Instead, you sit and wait, trying not to get in the way, as Archibald flits about the deck pulling at ropes and sheets of canvas. He sails you slowly out of the small harbour of Greater Marrow and into the bay. In the late morning light you can begin to appreciate what might lead someone to live on these islands, there is a lonely beauty to them out upon the water. Perhaps this month won’t be so bad.
With care, Archie navigates the yacht to a quiet section on the bay, taking great pains to point out all the jagged rocks that he's avoiding as he does, before he drops the anchor and retrieves the fishing rods and bait box from below.
You’re not a total stranger to fishing, even if it has been a while; your childhood consisted of long periods of inattention from your father punctuated by the occasional fishing trip when he had been reminded of your existence. You remember how to pick a bait, how to cast your line, how to entertain yourself in silence as you wait for the inevitable bite. The latter proves to be an unnecessary skill — unlike your father, your cousin is the type to chat as he fishes. He talks without pausing for your input in the conversation, which suits you just fine; you’re more than happy enough to let his voice drift in one ear and out the other, background noise as meaningless as the lapping wave and crying gulls.
There is a long period of nothing before you finally feel a twitch on the end of your line. It's subtle enough at the start that you almost miss it, but the initial jolt is soon followed by a tug so violent it nearly pulls the rod clean out of your hands. Archie is with you in an instant, hands tight over your own, not allowing you to let go. The two of you pull together, two pairs of feet scrabbling for purchase on the wet deck; the line is so taught you're sure it's going to snap but somehow it holds. By the time you reel in whatever is struggling on the end of your rod your arms are aching and it is with one final burst of effort that you pull your catch free from the water.
At the end of your line, you find:
b. A hake, perfectly normal in size, shape, and colouring. Entirely unremarkable.