TadpoleNicholas Jay
1200 words Duty done, favor won. That was the law, in those days. Every morning, the Fisherman and the Shipwright arose and prayed before their altar, exalting the Visionaries for blessing them with bountiful sun and wind. They trawled their nets across the lake, then traveled to market where the Visionaries’ magistrates would reward them with food, fiber, and their masters’ continued favor. A simple, dutiful life. No room for deviation or dissatisfaction. The sailors’ good favor ended one morning when panicked, raspy screeches shook them from their customary pious trance. They rushed to the lakeshore to find a hideous infant water-breather, yowling and flailing about in the muddy shallows. Before the Fisherman could protest, the Shipwright scooped the vile creature in his arms and waded into the chilly lake so it could breathe. “Get out of there,” the Fisherman hissed. “What if more are nearby?” “They never come so close to shore,” replied the Shipwright, unusually distant. “Yet you hold one. It’s dangerous.” His admonitions rang false in his own ears. The sailors had endured countless water-breather attacks during their fishing voyages. They knew well the jaundiced glow of their half-moon eyes, their sun-shy skin, the sucking sounds they made when above water--fearsome features masking slow minds. This small one looked nothing like that. Its eyes were white and docile, its skin a pearly pink, mottled with grey-green freckles. Strangest of all was the translucent film, thinner than a dragonfly’s wing, loosely covering its face. “He’s harmless,” said the Shipwright, straightening out wrinkles from the creature’s mask. His touch was delicate, despite his thick fingers and calloused hands. Like all of the Shipwrights, he was bred for the trade: barrel-chested, brawny arms and shoulders. Though they had known each other many years, the Shipwright’s tenderness still caught the wiry Fisherman by surprise. “We must send it back. The Visionaries would declare it an abomination.” The Shipwright nodded, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. “Best to do as the Visionaries do.” He waded back to shore and passed the creature to the Fisherman. It chirped happily, intrigued by the new face. Now its noises were melodic, peaceful as evening birdsong. The Fisherman imagined the lake at twilight, the sky emblazoned with orange and violet stripes. He sat on the dock next to the Shipwright, their toes tracing ripples in the water… The creature began to cry again and the image vanished. They boarded their catamaran and set sail. Far from shore, the Fisherman held the screeching creature by its ankle and dropped it, returning it to the depths where it belonged. 
Later that day, the Fisherman was cleaning the morning’s catch when sharp cries interrupted him again. The same water-breathing thing lay beneath the dock, screaming itself hoarse. He was alone now; the Shipwright had set sail to test repairs he had made to the catamaran’s pontoons. Wincing, the Fisherman rescued the screaming imp from the shore and waded into the lake, submerging its face below the water. Its desperate wails changed to satisfied mewls. It spun in place clumsily, riding the lake’s gentle waves and grabbing onto the Fisherman’s body to steady itself. He found he didn’t mind being an anchor for the little thing. As they played, he became mesmerized by its peculiar features. Its eyes radiated innocence and its skin glowed against the murky lake. Every time it pawed at his arm, warmth swelled in his chest and cheeks. “Who could you be?” he asked. “Tadpole, I’ll call you.” The child stared at him with ebullient eyes and the Fisherman again was swept away by daydreams. He imagined the Shipwright concealing his face behind a blue kerchief, the same one the Fisherman had sewn for him years ago. Then, a dramatic ripple of fabric, the Shipwright yelling “peek-a-boo!” and Tadpole collapsing into a fit of giggles... “What are you doing?” The Shipwright’s gruff voice sounded from above him. “He came back to us.” “How long have you been here, idle?” The Fisherman bristled at his accusation. “I have been minding--” “Today’s catch? Your duty?” The interrogation ended the Fisherman’s reverie. He noticed the sun hanging low in the sky. The winsome creature now seemed monstrous, its skin marred by grey-green pox, its papery mask shriveled and mildewed. Even its once-soothing voice abraded his ears. “It is an abomination,” the Fisherman droned. “Best to do as the Visionaries do,” sighed the Shipwright. They shuffled aboard the catamaran to banish the creature once more. When they returned at sunset, the day’s catch had spoiled. Their first breach of duty in months. 
The Visionaries issued their reprisal that evening, sending furious storms to batter the lake. The Fisherman and the Shipwright knelt before the altar to pay penance in kind. Lash after lash, they poured penitence down their own legs and backs. Amidst peals of thunder and grunts from their own tortured ministrations, the familiar sound of coarse cries pushed through the rain to assault their ears for the third time that day. They looked to each other, their gaze taut as rigging for a straining sail. “We must take him in,” said the Fisherman. “We cannot,” scolded the Shipwright. “But you felt it, didn’t you? When you carried him?” The Shipwright’s face fell. There was no denying it. Within them both, a timid flame had been lit, a tiny brightness casting images, happy and hopeful, onto the walls of their memory. “Tell me,” whispered the Fisherman. “What did you see?” “It doesn’t matter,” snapped the Shipwright. “He--it--has no place here. It is an abomination--” “He is a child!” “You would so quickly forsake your duty for that thing?” The Shipwright sighed and laid his strong, gentle hands on the Fisherman’s shoulders. “I cannot watch you bring yourself to ruin.” The Fisherman studied the Shipwright’s solemn eyes. The child’s peals grew louder, filling the space between them. “I forsake nothing. Tadpole will do so much for us. You’ll see.” The Fisherman pulled away from the Shipwright, following Tadpole’s cries through the heavy rain. His wounds stung and his body ached, but when he picked up the child, a familiar warmth spread through his chest. They waited beneath the dock, bobbing in the bay’s gentle water, until the rain weakened and the moon hung high. The Fisherman smiled as he carried Tadpole to the house. He would reacquaint him with the Shipwright, show him his grace and the tenderness of his touch. But the house was dark and quiet, candles snuffed and windows closed. Left behind on the Visionaries’ altar, the Shipwright’s blue kerchief lay crumpled and forgotten. 
In the days that followed, a new Shipwright came, identical to the departed one: barrel-chested, brawny arms, every movement imbued with measured tenderness. He kept his distance from Tadpole at first, but as the days went by, he warmed to him just like the Fisherman had. Together, they sat on the dock at twilight, their toes gliding through the water as Tadpole swam confident circles around them. They played peek-a-boo with a new kerchief--an orange one--the Fisherman had sewn. They curled up in bed, Tadpole between them, wearing the water-mask they made for him. But the flame inside the Fisherman, the one Tadpole had kindled, faltered without the tender gaze of the old Shipwright. Though the new one looked the same, the Fisherman felt nothing when they touched. |
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Nicholas Jay
Nicholas Jay is a conservation-minded urban planner living in Atlanta, Georgia. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Metastellar, The Dread Machine, Hyphenpunk, and Tree and Stone Magazine, among others. He enjoys his time most with either pen, violin, or map in hand — sometimes all three at once. Find him on Twitter and Instagram at @kn1ckkn4cks.
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