Seawater lapped gently against the piers of Kugane, sloshing groggily as if the ocean itself thought it too early to be out of bed. The sun was tucked somewhere behind a gloomy blanket of fog, so thick that the end of the pier was obscured from the shore; but an elderly fisherman strode out into the formless grey with the confidence of long routine. He'd fished the end of this dock thousands of mornings, so he trusted it would be there today, too- fog be damned.
As he walked the wooden length, his footsteps seemed the only sound within a gray universe- his feet, the water- all contained in a bubble, separate from all else. The old man felt momentarily enchanted, as if this lonely moment was a true moment: that in this Now, he was alive in an such an intense way that all else seemed a dream, as incorporeal as the mist now surrounding him.
The end of the pier was at hand, his usual corner; that salt-blasted wood pillar he rested his feet upon was waiting for him like an old friend. The misty air was wet and salty and chill and vibrant. He set down his tackle box with an unconscious grunt. Somewhere in the fog a gull cried suddenly, as if the bird had woke from a strange dream.
The fisherman began to ready his hook, humming a half-forgotten tune that always seemed to find its way back to his lips. The tacklebox opened, an orderly chaos of feathers, insect wings, and sparkles. This was always the hardest part: what to pick today? What would the fish strike in this foggy gloom?
Ah! The fisherman selected a silver-feathered-silver-two-spinner. A fish might not see well this morning, but it would be impossible to miss this one. If felt right. This was the lure to use. He was sure of it. He'd never felt so sure of anything in his life.
Dreamlike, the fisherman baited his line, stood, turned a few degrees to his right, and coiled his arm back, and back. He needed the hook to go far. He just knew it. Which meant he needed to cast the line like he used to when his bones had been thick and his shoulders hard. Kami! It had been so long!
Thwip! Whrrrrrrrrrr….. Hsssssssssssss….
The lure vanished into the fog, but as the sudden surge of vigor broiled through his body, the old fisherman gasped in satisfaction. He hadn't cast a hook like that in twenty years. Or perhaps ever! Was it possible? Had he just cast the best line of his life? Now? At this age? The fog had long swallowed the lure, but he could feel its flight in the reel, and then the soft slack of the landing. A glorious cast!
The fisherman stood a moment in shock, staggering slightly as he briefly lost his balance. The awoke-ness of his mind faded. He was slightly out of breath. His back was suddenly sore. Damn, fool. He'd went and pushed his body too hard. Silly old fool! Now he was gonna have to fish in pain all morning!
The foggy morning now seemed mundane and gloomy, indeed. The fisherman began reeling in the slack of his cast, grumpily thinking he had better damn well catch something off that! If not- what a waste!
The line went taunt. Jerked. The fisherman froze a moment, surprised by the apparent instant granting of his wish. The line jerked again, nearly ripping the pole from his surprised grasp. But instinct borne from long experience kicked into gear, and the fisherman's grip turned to iron, his stance suddenly wide and low. It was a big one, by the kami, great and small- it was a BIG ONE!
The old man reeled, wary of the tension on the line, waiting for the fish to realize it was in a life-or-death struggle. But that moment came and went, still he reeled, the line taunt and heavy. Damn it all, was it just some debris? Had he hooked some driftwood? Fish didn't just let themselves get dragged in so far… unless they were true giants. Was this a giant? Or a log?
The line jerked slightly. Excitement returned to the fisherman. Logs did not jerk. Whatever this thing was, it was alive! He continued to reel in, steadily and warily. Even the most sedate of ocean giants would began to struggle when they sensed the shallowing water of the harbor piers.
But the hook was nearly in, and the fight had not yet come. What manner of creature was this? Was it a log, after all? Had he simply fooled himself with hopeful thinking? He should be able to see it soo-
A surge of water preceded his catch as it neared the pier, and indeed, some sort of log was being pulled by the fishing line. A log that suddenly lifted a arm, kicked its legs half-heartedly, and sputtered a groan. Kami-forefend! It was a man!
"O- o- OY!" sputtered the fisherman. "What are-?! Hang on!"
He gave the reel several more hurried reels until it looked like the drowning man had enough momentum to carry into the base of the pier. He threw down his rod, fell to his hands and knees- and felt pain explode up and down his back and arms. Gah! That had been a mistake! He was still thinking like a younger man!
But nothing was broken, and so he crawled painfully toward the edge of the peer. He looked over the edge to locate his strange catch. And to his shock, it was not only a human being, but an ijin, to boot! He'd reeled in a damned foreigner!
The drowning man had come to rest against the wooden pillar of the pier, but seemed only weakly hanging on, the pillar too large around to grip easily. He looked up at the fisherman, his face was a grimace of pain, fear, and desperation. White hair was plastered about the ijin's head, though he was not old. No, indeed, the foreign hyur seemed to be in the prime of his life. But the sea could conquer anyone, young or old, easterner or ijin.
Lacking any other option, the fisherman lay on his stomach and reached down with his right hand.
"Ijin! Here!"
The drowning man's eyes were as gray as the morning fog, but they locked onto the fisherman's hand with desperate intensity. He surged upward and grasped the offered palm. The fisherman grunted in pain. The man was heavy- even with most of the weight buoyant in the seawater. There was no way he could pull the ijin up! What was he to-
The ijin yanked. The fisherman yelped as his arm felt like it was almost ripped out of its socket. But the ijin had used the leverage to grasp the edge of the dock with the other hand. Casting off the fisherman's helping hand, the ijin gripped the pier with both hands and pulled himself up with a grunting sort of scream. But he made it, and rolled over onto his back with a ragged gasp.
The foreign man's clothing was waterlogged, but the fisherman thought it would look odd even if it wasn't: some sort of black leather tunic over a white shirt. It was nothing like what an easterner might wear, but of course, ijin wore all sorts of strange things that were surely normal to them in their places. But who was this man? Why was he here? Was he a sailor? Had there been a wreck? But the night had been calm- and even with the fog, there were no shoals nearby to hit; that was one of the reasons Kugane was such an ideal harbor.
The white-haired ijin made a gasping sound: "Y'shtola?"
The fisherman painfully pushed himself up to his knees, staring down at the ijin's strange, desperate eyes. Y'shtola? What did that mean? What language was that? Kojinese? But why would an ijin hyur speak the language of the turtle-folk?
"I don't understand," gasped the fisherman, "Do you speak the common speak?"
"No- yes," gasped the man, "I speak it- gods damnit! Y'shotla! Is she here? Did- did you find her- too?"
Oh! Y'shotla was a name! It must be one of this ijin's companions.
"I just now found you! Where did you come from, ijin?! Was there a shipwreck? How many people are out there?"
The white-haired man breathed heavily and looked confused. "A-? A shipwre-? Where is this? Where am-"
The ijin suddenly looked pale. He turned over and vomited, his body wretching with force. It was the thrashing of near-drowning. The old fisherman had seen it before. He shoved on the ijin's shoulder, encouraging him to turn on his side.
"Get it out, ijin. Do that first."
The ijin said something unintelligible between bouts of vomiting, and then went unconscious.
