Heretical Fishing: A Cozy Guide to Annoying the Cults, Outsmarting the Fish, and Alienating Oneself

I tried to calm my racing heart as I walked along the road, passing cultivated fields on the way to the small village.

I reached out to touch a stalk of what I knew to be sugar cane—the crop was prevalent in the coastal plains of my hometown on the east-coast of Australia.

Apart from a few patches of wheat, corn, and something unrecognizable, the sugarcane was the only thing being grown. There were acres of it, stretching far to either side of the village’s border.

The settlement itself had no visible wall or threshold, only a perimeter of dirt separating the houses from the crops, showing this was a peaceful area. I’d suspected so already, given that I wasn’t eaten by wolves out in the forest, but it was still nice to know I didn’t have to worry about goblin raids, monster attacks, or some other, equally tropey fantasy-world shenanigans.

Perhaps the smart plan would be to hang back and observe the town for a while, to watch the townspeople move and interact before seamlessly integrating myself among them.

This thought came, and it passed. Through my relatively short yet experience-packed life, I’d learned to trust my instincts when they spoke up. There was something unquantifiable about the hunches fed to you by the universe.

Whether the result of divine intervention, subconscious calculation, or something other, the result remained the same; intuition was ignored at one’s own peril.

If my goal was to form bonds and connections—which it was—my instincts told me to be my authentic self from the very start. While skulking may give me more information, it would undoubtedly alter my later interactions, and may even lead to suspicion and derision if caught doing so.

With the contentment of doing the right thing, and a purpose-filled stride, I entered the street between two rows of houses.

Both my contentment and stride were abruptly halted as I found the blunt side of a scythe’s blade held to my throat.

My eyes went wide, and I stared in shock at the wiry man across from me that held the impromptu weapon. Gray hair, countless wrinkles, a salt-and-pepper beard, and deeply tanned skin atop a farmer’s frame blocked my passage through the street.

“Can I help you, lad?” the man asked, voice firm and as weathered as its speaker.

“I’m—uh—looking for people?”

I found my words failing me. I’d never been physically threatened before—ever.

The man narrowed his eyes, pressing the blunted end of the scythe into my neck.

“And what people would that be, lad?”

“There you are, dad!” a feminine voice called. “Where have you—dad! What are you doing?”

The stranger lowered the scythe, but kept his eyes pinned on me.

A young woman of mid-twenties to early-thirties stepped into view from between two houses.

She grimaced at me in obvious apology.

“By Freya’s bouncing bosom, I’m so sorry!” She put her hand on the scythe and lowered it further from my chest. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“N-no. I’m fine, really…” My voice still stammered, but this time for an entirely different reason—the girl was stunning.

She had sun-kissed skin, with small freckles covering her face and shoulders, and light-blond hair that was partially tied up. Her blue eyes seemed to broadcast her intent, like windows into her soul—she appeared kind, honest, and caring.

Maybe it was because I hadn’t seen people in some time, or maybe it was the fact she’d saved me from the beach-bum grim-reaper, but something about her drew me in.

“How many times have I told you, dad? There’s nothing to worry about here! It’s a peaceful town! That’s why we moved here, remember?”

“I caught this young feller just skulking about, all shady-like!”

The man’s voice was petulant as he defended himself against his daughter—a far cry from the gravelly determination it held earlier.

The woman turned to me, giving me a weak smile.

“I’m so sorry. I’m Maria, and this is my dad, Roger.”

“Oh, uh, nice to meet you. I’m Fischer.”

The man squinted as a suspicious hmmmmm escaped his throat.

“What kinda dumb name is Fisher?”

“Dad!”

I laughed and spelled out my name for the duo.

“Hmmm. Still a dumb name. Your parents cousins or somethin’?”

Maria shook her head and looked between me and her father, lost for words.

I just laughed, unaffected by the old-timer’s transparency. I’d dealt with plenty of blunt people in my previous life, and even I had to admit, Fischer was an odd name compared to Maria and Roger.

I thought I was in a fantasy world—where were the names like Zorian, Wei Shi Lindon, and Carl? Okay, maybe not that last one…

“I’m from a long way away.” I gave them my most disarming smile. “You’ll have to excuse my name—and any other idiosyncrasies, for that matter.”

“We are, too! Aren’t we, dad?” Maria nudged her father, jumping at the chance to bowl through the fact her progenitor held me at scythe-point just a minute ago. “Tell Fischer where you came from.”

Roger nodded, taking the bait.

“Well, I grew up on the coastal town of Yerba. It’s far west of the capital, and back then there weren’t a lot of jobs going around. Before I knew it, I found myself in the Imperial Army…”

Maria guided us through the streets as her father regaled us with a rather storied military career, the chance encounter that introduced him to his wife—Maria’s mother, Sharon—the subsequent retirement from the Imperial Army, and the seeking of a coastal town to relax and raise a family.

As his story wound ever on, Maria pointed out landmarks in what she called their small village.

“That’s the mill—we only have the one, so it gets quite busy round wheat and corn harvesting time.”

The squat building was made of rock and mortar, roughly four times the size of the surrounding houses, with a giant wooden windmill extending above.

“That there is one of the sugarcane refineries—we have plenty of those. Because cane grows so well here, a single refinery wouldn’t be enough.”

The refinery was made of the same material as the mill, but instead of a wooden windmill, four metal stacks reached into the sky, presumably attached to metal contraptions similar to those used to refine sugarcane on Earth.

“This bakery,” Maria said, pointing to a small shop-front with a tanned woman behind the counter, “is the best bakery in the village. Forget what any of the fat cats to the north say—this is the best, bar none.”

“Good morning, Maria!” the lady behind the counter called.

Maria gave her a beatific smile.

“Morning, Sue!”

With the morning sun rising in the sky, people began leaving their homes and heading about their business for the day—except the bakers, whose work had long since begun, and whose chimneys had already been spewing smoke when I first laid eyes on the village.

The people I saw leaving their homes appeared fit, tanned, and focused; they were the epitome of working-class folk. All gave me odd looks, either my appearance or unfamiliarity making me somewhat of a spectacle.

“Now, that was when the war really took a turn for the worse…”

Roger walked ahead of us, well and truly lost in his recounting of his second tour-of-duty.

I wanted to listen in order to glean as much information as possible, but I found myself unable to tear my attention away from the buildings and people of the strange new world I had arrived in.

The buildings were crude, made of large stones and cement that held everything in place. The people seemed to have an almost alien look about them, like some sort of ethnicity I’d never seen before on Earth.

I’d assumed it to be a feature of Maria and Roger, but as I took in more people, it became obvious they all possessed an almost Fae-like quality. There was still variance from person to person, especially regarding skin-color, but as a whole, they shared many physical similarities.

“So…” Maria said, skull-dragging me from my thoughts. “What brings you all the way out here to Tropica Village?”

I’d considered what to say when—and if—I found people, and I’d prepared several lines of answer depending on the situation.

Confronted with the reality of it, though, these carefully prepared plans were torn apart like sugarcane before a thresher.

Following an instinct, I stated the truth instead.

“I want to find a place to settle down, and I want to fish.”

This statement made Maria purse her lips and almost-imperceptibly raise an eyebrow.

Roger was much less subtle. Having somehow heard my statement through his own monologue, he spun and faced us.

“You dropped on your head or something, lad? Fishing is a fanciful hobby of the ancients—not a productive way to live your life.”

“Dad! Fischer’s just arrived here. Can you not chase him away already?”

Roger shook his head and scrunched his face, seeming disgusted.

“If he’s a fisherman, he’s dead-weight. I’m going to the field. I’ve wasted enough time on this fool already.”

Without any further comment, Roger strode off and disappeared around a corner.

Maria immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry. The older he gets, the less his filter seems to work.”

I laughed at the departed man and shook my head.

“Don’t worry about it. Other people’s opinions won’t change what I’m about.”

Maria paused for a moment and wrung her hands as she clearly thought about what to say.

I smiled, able to read her body language as if she were a book.

“You can say whatever you’re thinking, Maria.”

She jolted, then flushed and averted her eyes.

“I… uh… I don’t want to offend—”

“You won’t offend me. As I said, I know what I’m about. What did you want to say?”

“Well, the thing is…” She paused as she gathered her courage. “… fishing kind of is frowned upon, and it’ll be hard to sustain yourself and integrate into this village if you intend on fishing.”

I cocked my head, genuine confusion hitting me.

How is a village in such a prime place for fishing not filled with anglers?

“I thought, given that this is a coastal town, that fishing would be an integral part of the village’s economy. Is that not the case?”

It was Maria’s turn to show confusion—it oozed from her countenance.

“Where have you come from that fishing is ever an integral part of anything?”

“A long, long way away.”

“Well…” She looked at me with keen eyes. “Here, and everywhere else I’ve ever heard of, fishing hasn’t been done since the gods left. Living off the land is the proper way to be, and living from the water is a waste of precious time. If you intend to fish, I hope you’re prepared for the weird looks. I also hope you either intend to work a proper job, or have a large amount of coin to burn through…”

“No ‘proper job’ for me, I’m afraid.” I smiled at her, glad that she was so forthcoming, but also not swayed by the warnings. “I intend to fish, and only to fish.”

She stared at me with a weighing gaze.

I’d felt many such looks fall upon me in my previous life, but it was both surprising, and a little scary, to feel such a heavy stare come from such a young woman.

She sighed.

“Well, I can see you won’t be swayed. Do you intend to buy land?”

I beamed a smile at her acceptance.

“I do.”

“Come with me. I have to get to our field, but I can take a few minutes to introduce you to the village lord.”

Lord? Does that mean the people of this village belong to a fiefdom? Or even a kingdom? I have to get that information…

As we traveled, the layout and condition of the streets changed. The roads grew wider and cleaner, and the houses were larger, made of more organized stone-and-mortar. Some even expressed some artistic flair with the layout and construction of the materials.

If where we’d been previously was the working district, this is the upper-crust part of town.

Maria led me to a building that was more akin to a cathedral than a house.

It was three stories tall—another floor higher than any other structure I’d seen, including the refinery and mill. Made of stone all the same color of gray, with large sheets of glass interspersed on the higher floors, it presented a front of opulence compared to the rest of Tropica village.

Maria knocked on the door, and after an extended stretch of time, it flew open.