by Andrew Symon
Trog looked hard at her.
“For seven years I have tracked this fish. I recently dreamt that a Shian youth would come and help me catch it.”
“And eating it tells you where to find the map?” Fenrig spoke up now.
Jack eyed him suspiciously. There’s no way I’m letting him get the fish, or the map.
“Is the race along the beach, then?” asked Lizzie, trying to steer the subject back.
“The main stretch around the rocks is half a mile long.”
Fenrig was first to his feet, swiftly followed by Rana and Lizzie. Jack and Petros exchanged glances.
“Anything to get off this island.” Petros’ terror of the day before had gone.
The tide was coming in, and the youngsters had to clamber over the rocks to get to the beach. Trog explained that a flaming arrow, fired by him at the far end, would start the race.
Like the girls, Jack had decided that beach running was easier in bare feet. Fenrig, retying his laces, looked scornfully at him.
Rana and Lizzie started playing in the incoming tide, while Fenrig practised stretching exercises. Jack and Petros kept an eye on Trog’s progress, keen not to miss the signal when it came, but after a while it was hard to tell if he was still moving or not. It took him ten minutes to reach the rocks where the beach ended.
After what seemed like ages, the flame shot skywards.
Fenrig got the best start, having stolen a few yards while the others watched the end of the beach. He was fast, there was no doubt about it, and Rana put in a good bid, catching him up within a hundred yards. But, unable to maintain this sprint, she soon fell away, joining Lizzie, who was jogging along in last place. Petros fared better, slowly pegging Fenrig back until at last he overtook him. As Petros’ lead stretched to five, ten yards, Fenrig uttered a shrill cry and fired a hex at his opponent’s back.
“Cadolex!”
Petros staggered and fell, sprawling in the sand.
“Cheat!” shouted Jack, some ten yards back.
Spurred on, he sprinted and drew level with Fenrig as they came within a hundred yards of Trog. Edging just ahead, Jack sensed he had the beating of his old adversary, when Fenrig tripped over Jack’s heels. They both stumbled, but while Fenrig fell, spraying sand up around him, Jack regained his footing and completed the race.
“Cheat!” yelled Fenrig, as he limped home. “You tripped me up!”
“How could I?” shouted Jack. “I was in front of you.”
“It was an accident,” said Trog calmly. “Unlike your hexing of the other lad.” He looked sternly at Fenrig. “The prize can only be enjoyed by the one whose heart is true.”
“Well, what does that mean?” scoffed Fenrig.
With a yell of rage, Trog drew a long steel knife from his belt and held it to Fenrig’s throat. Fenrig, his eyes half closed in terror, whimpered.
“It’s all right, Trog.” Jack pulled Fenrig away, and the warrior-savant sagged. His arm dropped, but he continued to clutch his knife. He looked down at the sand, breathing heavily.
Petros and his sisters joined them now and berated Fenrig for his lack of sportsmanship. This change of focus allowed Trog to recover himself, and he said simply, “Jack will help search for the fish. The rest of you can stay here or go back to the house.”
Fenrig stalked off. Rana announced that she and Lizzie would go back to Trog’s bay for a while, as they liked the rock pools there.
“You’d better watch that tide,” said Petros. “Look, I’ll come with you. You’ll be all right, Jack?”
Jack grinned broadly.
“I’ll just get my shoes.”
Jack jogged back along the beach with Petros and the girls. As they neared Trog’s bay, Petros guided his sisters around the rocks, many of which were now underwater. Jack picked up his shoes and started to make his way back to where Trog sat gazing out to sea.
The sun was rising in a cloudless sky, and a warm sea breeze soon dried Jack’s sweat. By the time he reached Trog, he was sticky and very thirsty.
“Can I get a drink?” he gasped.
Trog continued to gaze out over the clear blue water. Tiny distant islands dotted the horizon; beyond them were thousands of miles of water.
Jack cleared his throat, unsure whether Trog had heard him.
“Can I have some water, please?”
As Trog handed Jack a water bottle, he looked at the youngster, searching his face.
“Are you ready for a battle?”
Jack swigged some water, then hesitated. Weren’t they going fishing?
“I … I’m ready to catch the swordfish.”
“I know every bay on this island; the tides and the winds are like my brothers. But this fish has eluded me for years.”
“I … I meant I’m ready to help you.”
Trog stood up, and without a word marched briskly off.
After half an hour they came to a small pebbly beach with rock cliffs to each side. The tide was nearly in.
“The retreating tide leaves rock pools.” Trog pointed to where the rocks on the west side sloped down into the sea. “The moon is full tonight; the tide will be high. He likes to bask in the warm shallows.”
Jack looked up at the cloudless sky. There was no doubt that the shallows would be warm today. But if the fish liked to swim there, how hard could it be to catch him?
“A rock pool sounds easy, doesn’t it?” said Trog calmly. “But you’ve not seen this fish. He’s special.”
Jack’s brow furrowed.
“A legend speaks of a large fish that spears men as if they were mackerel. This is him; I’m sure of it. Whoever eats this fish will be shown the Mapa Mundi. And I seek the wisdom that comes with it.”
“Why’s that so important?”
In response, Trog held his hands up and cradled Jack’s head.
Instantly, a thousand sorrows flooded him. Grief, bitter heartache and every kind of distress poured into his very being. Misery and pain didn’t come close to describing what he felt. Jack felt his head would burst, but it was his stomach that erupted, in a great wave of nausea.
Trog lowered his hands, and the feeling passed.
“That’s what I have felt, day after day. And you wonder why I seek release?” Trog spoke softly. “The swordfish will give me that release. But he carries his own wisdom – he’s too clever to strand himself in a rock pool. He is big and strong, too, even heavier than me. But his weakness is the midsummer full moon.”
Jack squinted up at the clear blue sky. Though daylight, the full moon was clearly visible.
“I had a dream two moons ago that a Shian youth would help me catch him.”
“So what do we do?”
“At high tide he’ll bask in the shallows. There’s a sand bank, where the entrance to the bay narrows. We’ll get him there. But he’s too wise to take bait and there’s few nets would hold him. I can hit him with an arrow, but he’d make straight for the sea. That’s why I need you.”
“You mean I’ve to stop him?” asked Jack incredulously. “A monster with a sword for a nose?”
“In my dream the youth had some power I did not understand. You are Shian.”
“I haven’t got a sceptre,” said Jack firmly, wondering if the race prize was that wonderful. “What can I do against a fish twice my size?”
“Only believe,” replied Trog. “Have faith in your gifts.”
Trog led Jack past the sandbank to the far side of the bay.
“When he rests there, you wade into the shallows. He’ll grow sleepy in the warm water. When the time is right, I fire.”
Jack could think of a hundred good reasons to go back to the house. Not getting speared by a monster fish was top of the list, but then he thought of the Mapa Mundi.
Without that, we can’t find the Sphere, or my father, or get rid of the Kildashie.
Jack sat on a rock and waited. Twenty yards around the bay, Trog crouched and watched the shallow waters.
Waves lapped
up the beach to where a line of seaweed revealed the high-tide mark. Nearly there.
The sun beat down on Jack’s head, and he longed just to dip his head into the water. Trying to take his mind off the heat, he became absorbed in the attempts of a tiny crab to scale a rock, only to fall off repeatedly, washed away by the incoming tide. He didn’t notice Trog stiffen, then stand slowly upright. It was some minutes before he was aware of Trog signalling to him.
Trog was pointing frantically at the water a dozen yards in front of him, but Jack saw nothing. The waves rippled against the rocks on which he sat, hunched down. Trog indicated to Jack to climb down into the water. Why?
Then Jack saw him. The dark purple back was almost invisible, but there … a dorsal fin just poking above the surface.
Gradually, he edged his feet along the rock until he felt sand under his toes, but every downwards movement caused ripples. The water was warm for the first foot or so, then cooler. Inch by inch, he crept away from the rock until he was halfway to the sandbank. The water was up to Jack’s waist, the fish ten yards in front of him.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. If that thing turns on me, I’m finished.
A sickly feeling gripped Jack’s stomach, and his scalp tingled.
Trog had taken his bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow, but he made no move to fire.
What’s he waiting for?
It seemed like an eternity before Trog finally raised the bow and aimed down at the water. A pause.
Get on with it; this water’s colder than it looks. Jack tried hard not to shiver.
Still no movement from Trog. Jack caught a glimpse of a silver blade projecting above the fish’s mouth. He gulped.
Come on!
Twang!
The arrow met its mark; within two seconds Trog had repeated his fire. The great fish rose up, thrashing, then turned and made towards Jack.
Jack got a good look at the sword now: silver, three feet long, and about to kill him.
His mind flashed. Finbogie. Jack’s blue eye blazed, and he raised his right wrist, pointing at the water.
“Negladius!”
There was a golden flash, and the great fish stalled, the two arrows rising from its back. Its momentum brought it towards Jack, who stumbled, submerging himself as he tried to evade the sword. A great cry of triumph rose from Trog: he bounded forward into the water, splashing joyfully.
Jack stood up, dripping wet, and put his hand forward to stop the fish. It made no movement; tiny flurries of blood came from the two puncture wounds on its back.
“You did it!” cried Trog. “You believed!”
He reached Jack and embraced him. Then, turning, he tried to lift the fish out of the water. Realising that it was just too big, he pushed it back towards the beach. Jack clambered back onto the rocks and made his way round.
The tide continued to pulse forward onto the beach, its gentle surge carrying the great fish into the shallows.
“What a size! Six feet at least. And that sword – another three feet.” Trog could barely contain his excitement.
Jack was still trying to piece together what he’d done. Then he realised. When he’d seen the sword, in a flash his mind had gone back to Finbogie’s lessons … how to disarm someone with a sword. He started to laugh.
Trog hauled the great fish onto the beach, well above the high-tide line.
“You didn’t kill him; I should do him that honour now.”
Trog reached into his waistband and drew out his long steel knife. Deftly, he drew the blade around the great fish’s gills. Then he turned to Jack and knelt down.
“You have helped to release me. Do me the honour of eating this fish with me.”
23
Revelation
Jack’s mind raced. He had never seen such a fish – he’d never even known such monsters existed. Even at human size, Jack was dwarfed by it. And now it lay dead, its gills slit by Trog’s steel knife.
Trog gazed at the swordfish, almost lovingly. He seemed at peace.
“I’ll get some wood,” said Jack, to break an uncomfortable silence.
He wandered to the top of the beach and began to scour for driftwood. Returning several minutes later with an armful, he found Trog just as he had left him.
He’s almost in a trance.
Trog gave a start as Jack dropped the firewood. For a moment he looked unknowingly at Jack, then the light dawned in his eyes.
“Thank you.” His voice was almost inaudible.
Jack looked away, embarrassed. “I’ll get some more wood.”
When he returned again, Trog had washed the sand from the swordfish’s skin and lain the fish on some stones. Taking his knife from his waistband again, he quickly separated the beast’s long sword from its body and skilfully whittled a handgrip at its base. Then, for good measure, he serrated the top half of the sword, giving it a sharp, jaggy edge. Brandishing the sword triumphantly, he declared, “For your help in conquering this magnificent creature, I award you this. I trust it will bring you good fortune some day.”
Jack gratefully accepted the sword. It was a ferocious weapon that would be lethal in any fight. He cradled its sharp teeth in his arms.
“We’ll prepare the fire, then the others can join us.”
Trog placed the wood along the stones, creating a trench-like fireplace, and started a fire with a small piece of broken glass and some dried grass. This done, he skilfully gutted the fish and skewered the great beast’s body with a long branch. Resting the skewer on larger rocks at either end of the trench, he sat back happily to watch the fish cook.
Jack marvelled at the speed with which the warrior had accomplished this task. However, he soon realised that the fish’s size meant a very long cooking time, and he set off to look for more wood.
Initially, Trog seemed unhurried, revelling in his success, but after an hour he too realised that lunchtime was still some way off. He began to pace up and down the beach, finally announcing, “I must tell Marco. He will share in my good fortune. Will you mind the fish?”
Jack nodded.
“Don’t eat it, though …” Trog’s voice quavered, and he coughed.
“Of course not.”
Trog set off, and Jack sat down to watch the fish and the fire.
It was a slow business. The enormous swordfish (minus its nose) hung six inches above the flames. Twice more, as the fire diminished, Jack fetched more wood. Gradually, he could see the fish start to cook properly. A delicious smell hung in the still air.
It could do with some seasoning; maybe Trog will ask Aunt Dorcas for some.
Trog had been gone a long time.
How much longer’s he going to be?
The fish’s flesh was browning nicely now, and the aroma was making Jack ravenous.
Still no sign of Trog.
Where’s he got to?
Jack heard a sound behind him and, looking round, he saw a triumphant Trog leading all the others down to the beach.
“How’s the cooking?” yelled Petros, still some way off.
Jack turned and inspected the fish. He noticed the flesh starting to bubble where one of the arrows had struck home. Without thinking, he pushed a finger against the raised blister.
Oww!
As his own skin burnt, Jack instinctively sucked his finger.
Silence. The sound of the sea had gone. Then a ringing of bells. And a blinding light.
Jack felt as if he was being lifted up bodily. The ringing in his ears continued, and he saw a dark shape in the middle of the brightness.
The dark shape got bigger – or was it moving towards him?
Bigger and bigger, and soon it blotted out the light. Jack panicked; he tried to scream, but no sound emerged.
The darkness engulfed him.
What is time? Jack had no notion of how long he was in the tunnel.
For a tunnel was where he was. After ages (a minute? An hour? A day?) he could see the end of the tunnel approaching. Speed slowe
d down.
There’s light at the end of the tunnel; something’s fluttering … but there’s a shape there. A man … or something like a man … covered in blood vessels … He’s got something in his hand … He’s …
Jack felt a searing pain in his left shoulder.
Then a deep gasp, like he hadn’t taken a breath in several minutes.
Uuuh.
“Are you all right, Jack?”
Aunt Katie was peering down at him.
Jack blinked. The pain in his shoulder eased, and he became aware of the others crowding around.
“What … what is it?”
Luka bent down.
“Jack, something important has happened.”
Jack sat up. Everyone was looking at him … No, not everyone. Trog stood a little way off, pointedly facing away.
“You ate the fish, Jack.”
Jack’s heart raced. He hadn’t eaten anything …
He looked around at the huge swordfish, still on its skewer.
“I … the skin was blistering … I touched it …”
And Jack realised.
He stood up and moved unsteadily over to Trog. The warrior refused to turn around.
“I … I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to.”
Marco tugged Jack’s arm. “We’ll leave him for a while.”
“I didn’t think …” Jack stopped, remembering how Trog had shown him the tormented sorrow he felt each day. That had been worse than anything he’d known, and the nausea returned, though he wasn’t sick this time. As pressing as his own quest was, he couldn’t bear to think of Trog enduring such torment any longer. “Could … couldn’t you just go anyway?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Jack. You had the vision.” Marco led Jack away and motioned to Luka to follow.
“Tell me, Jack, what did you see?”
Jack looked at the two of them, uncertain what to reply.
“After the light,” prompted Luka.
“It … it was like I was moving along a tunnel. As I got to the end, there was a light … Then a man appeared … At least, it was like a man …”
“And what did this creature do?”
“He had something in his right hand … and then I felt a pain.” Jack touched his left shoulder, which bore no sign of any injury.
