Fish in a barrelFish in a barrel

Published on August 16, 2016 ⋅ 5min read

# Off the coast of Ari'ielas, 1218pa

Waves gently rocked the boat under a pale moonlit sky. The stillness of the quiet night was broken only by the sloppy, wet lapping of water against the wooden hull. It was the kind of serenity one experiences in the calm before a storm, and Jiqardo knew enough in his old age to enjoy this moment of peace to the fullest.

Jiqardo had been a fisherman all his life, just as his father before him. Born and raised in a small seaside village on the north coast of Ari'ielas, he had not been afforded many choices in life. It was almost inevitable that he would follow in his father's footsteps. However, Jiqardo did not regret any of part of his life. He had come to love the sea and the sway of the boat in the waves was a comfort to him, such like the rocking of his crib as a babe. Each day was filled with small pleasures; the rush of exhilaration when he caught the wind at full sail, the fatigue after finally reeling in that particularly stubborn fish, and the anticipation of a full belly, when he finally returned to the shore, his wife and a warm home-cooked meal. Of course, rarely was the meal anything beyond a bland broth; poor Illia — bless her soul — was not the best cook in the kitchen, not even after near fifty years of marriage, but Jiqardo had long ago learned that expectations were the root of all dissatisfaction and that a marriage remained a marraige so long as he didn't give reason for her to poison him any more than she already did.

Leaning back, feet resting against the gunwale, Jiqardo tugged softly at his line, teasing the fish he knew to be swimming below. On nights like these, he savoured the time where he could justify using his old, trusty fishing rod. Normally he roamed farther from shore, where the large schools swam, increasing his chances of a catch almost tenfold. Tonight, however, with nary a breath of wind on the sea, he was unable to hoist the sail and use his large net to trawl for fish. But rather than sit idle, he had decided to row out to the edge of the bay and cast his line nonetheless. With the rate he had been catching fish, Jiqardo thought he could still return with a reasonable catch by the morning.

There was a strange blue hue to the night. Most unusual, Jiqardo reflected. He was no poet, nor was he even literate, but the cerulean glow of the sky, with a backdrop of twinkling stars stirred a poetic sense of wonder in his mind. He had never had a need to read or write, yet the stellar beauty above left him breathless, and he found himself yearning to put words to paper.

A sudden, resistant pull, fighting against his line and Jiqardo snapped out of his reverie. Sitting upright, he began to wind the spool of his rod. One could tell a lot from the first few moments of hooking a fish. The weight of the pull indicated that this fish was sizeable, but against Jiqardo, it stood scant chance. Within minutes he had it reeled in and the large, fat fish was left to flop helplessly on deck.

Hours passed, with the pile of fish growing ever larger on deck. A slightly narcissistic sense of satisfaction crept over Jiqardo, as he admired his handiwork. It went to show that patience and dedication paid off; something that those eager, energetic, young upstarts recently taken to the waves had yet to learn. With every new generation, there were those that thought they knew best, seeking shortcuts to negate hard work, trying to replace tried and true methods with innovation. He fondly remembered his own youth, and some of his comical efforts to best his father, to prove him wrong in some small way. Yet each passing year had revealed to Jiqardo the wisdom in his own father's words, and invariably he found himself heeding them.

A sheet of lightning flashed on the horizon, accompanied by a wave of oppressive heat that rolled over Jiqardo, tilting him off balance. But rather than dissipate, the sky continued to brighten, and from the horizon emerged a massive conflagration, searing blue, the edges tinged with orange. It streaked across the heavens and Jiqardo tracked it's trajectory, terrified and shocked into silence, as it passed overhead. It's journey seemed to take forever, falling further towards the earth as it went by. Jiqardo could see bits of flaming rock fracturing, breaking away from main mass. Where the shards struck the ocean, there was an almighty splash and an eruption of hissing steam. Then the monstrosity was gone, once again beyond the horizon. A final flash of blinding light, and all was still, save the lingering sizzle of nearby fallen rock, sinking into the sea.

Jiqardo could barely breathe, overcome with adrenaline. What had he just witnessed? His thoughts turned to his wife, sleeping back in their small hut in the village. Was she well? Had one of those flaming rocks fallen on the village? There were too many unanswered questions, bubbling to the forefront of his mind.

I have to return.

All thoughts of fishing forgotten, he turned to gather the oars—

An ear-splitting concussion knocked Jiqardo from his feet, and he crashed to the floor. Breath torn from his lungs, his back struck the hard wooden planks; his head cushioned by a squish of fish. The small boat rocked violently, threatening to capsize. A sickening crack filled the air from far away, followed by a low, constant rumble. He staggered to his feet, winded, gasping for breath. Jiqardo glanced in the direction of where the fiery thing had gone… and saw nothing, just inky blackness. His eyes followed the darkness upwards, towards the blue-lit night sky where, one by one, stars quickly winked out of existence.

What on earth… where are the…?

He felt movement, his boat spinning and slipping slowly towards the rising dark. Realisation dawned.

Blessed Fai'ala, that's a wave.

Heart pounding, Jiqardo grabbed his oars and frantically began to row. If it truly were a wave, he had to crest it before it broke — there was no alternative. Orienting the boat's bow, he pulled hard and fast, the little craft surging forward with every stroke. He could feel himself rising, climbing the wave, appalled at the speed of his ascent. With his back to wave, he could see he was headed towards the flickering lights that marked his village on the coast — and they were fast approaching.

Dread burned acidic in the pit of his stomach.

The village, it will be washed away.

The droning rumble continued, unabated. He gave up rowing, for all the energy he was expending did naught but tire him and the boat continued to be pulled ever higher without his aid. A strange calm stole through him; his fate was no longer in his hands, yet another choice removed from his life. Jiqardo found surprising comfort in this familiarity. Death was an inevitability, his time's end was now a certainty.

From his lofty viewpoint, now almost atop the surging wall of water, he gawked as the shadowy land before him opened wide, inhaling like the yawning maw of a behemoth awakening from a deep slumber. The flickering torchlights in his village sputtered out. He was near enough now to make out the buildings as they collapsed and fell into the earth. The sea eagerly followed, rushing forward with a willful glee. He imagined the screams of his fellow villagers, the sheer terror of his wife, as they fell to their deaths, swallowed by the land, but could perceive nothing over the roar of the chaos.

Jiqardo's stomach lurched as the wave suddenly broke, and the boat tipped backward, almost vertical. Racing downwards, surrounded by a churning, torrent of water, he stared down the void. White-knuckled, clinging desperately to the boat, for what little security it provided, he grimaced as the boat shook and cracked. Something struck his back and one of his hands lost grip, spinning him overboard. Violent currents snagged him the moment he touched the water, tearing loose his remaining hand.

Swallowed whole, oblivion consumed Jiqardo.