For the Fisher Who Toils

Описание: The Fisher’s lips burned as he kissed his son’s fevered head. He feared to cast off into the cold, clinging morning because he feared it’d be the priest watching his return. But he went. He went because wheat was scarce, rent was due, and the sawbone was expensive.

The old wooden stool creaked and cracked as he put his boots on. He worried it was disturbing the lad. A new chair would be nice… A silent and solid build so the lad could sleep in fevered peace. He stepped outside, and the morning clung to him as the sun fought its first battle against the veil of mist.

He prayed as he worked; that had started these past weeks, since the fever started. He mumbled to the gods as his calloused, aching, hands searched the nets for breaks. This morning he was crying, making it hard to see, and he was asking for respite for the lad. He’d never avoided prayer; he just hadn’t much bothered. He was a good votive: he visited the chapel, lit the proper Tallow at night (Red, for that was the color of the High Seat), and blasphemed not the Holy Palace. Despite his obedience, he’d never much felt those three Lords jousting for supremacy in heaven much affected him. Even the election of the new High Seat was a cause for feigned joy. He’d never once seen the Seat change and grain get cheaper. The most he’d ever considered that holy mouthpiece of the gods was when he thought about the Greatwood, a galleon owned by the holy church that had wrecked on these jutting razor shores five hundred years ago: he used to dream of dredging up a holy chalice, all glittering with red, green, and blue.

He set sail. The chop was light and the haze of mist blended the water and sky into a continuous vista. After hours, he felt the tug. He pulled and the fibers stayed firm. He pulled again and again and yelled and strained but the foundations of the deep seeming to war against him. With might and patience, he persisted. After what seemed hours, hands raw, the cosmos released its bounty with a wet sloshing and a dull thunk as the thing came aboard.

He stared.

And then laughed.

A chair.

Old, covered in green seaweed. Despite its time in the brine it seemed of solid and cunning make. He needed a new chair, and a chair from the depths was as good as any. It sparkled with salt and sea and was dark brown, not given to rot or bloat and in the right light seemed even beautiful. So he kept it, looking at it as he finished the day’s excursion.

The sun was burning red when he neared the shore and it cast the priest’s shadow like a dagger o’er the stone. The Fisher slumped in the slimy chair, salt of tears mixing with centuries of brine on the found chair, but when he came closer he stood.

The priest was yelling and waving, repeating o’er and o’er: Come and see! Come and see!

The Fisher was out of the boat and splashing through the water before wood even breached shore. And he ran. And he held his son and they wept together, and he gave true thanks to Passion, Rime, and Rauwt alike.

It was dark when the Fisher remembered the boat adrift. Even the dread thought of his boat sundered against the stones could not take his smile, but something turned in his stomach when he saw the boat tied and the priest onboard. The Fisher could not understand what he saw, but as he drew near, he saw the priest was praying to the chair. When the priest saw the Fisher, he ran to him and kissed him and called him "Saint" and many other titles strange to The Fisher. He talked excitedly of the Greatwood and it’s cargo: not gold and jewels, but a chair. The High Seat. The ancient relic possessed by the supreme pontiff of the holy religion. After kings and cardinals voted at the decades turn, if the First Tallow changed, then the Seat was sent wrapped in ribbons of the color of the victor as a show of good faith to the new Cathedral. And all those years ago, when the First Tallow had changed from Green to Red, the Greatwood had sunk before its gift was delivered.

“A feast is needed, for the Seat has changed!” the priest said. “The Green Brethren must be notified of their ascent to power.”

“Is there not a vote?” the Fisher asked.

“The vote is a shadow of the will of the gods. Today, the gods chose themselves!” And the priest kneeled and kissed the Fisher’s hand.

And the Fisher could not help but think that he should have thrown the chair back and in the pale moon the seaweed appeared as ribbons. But the Fisher had never known the Seat to change and the price of grain to lower; and as he stepped away to break from the grasping and kissing priest, he became tangled in his nets hanging to dry.

In his ecstasy, the priest did not notice but called out: “Come and see, come and see, for Rauwt has chosen and that evil Red Cathedral shall be cast down! Light the Green Tallow first and sing praise to the gods!”

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#ambient #backgroundmusic #sleepsounds #study #peaceful #piano #soundtrack #dark

Music and story of human hand alone. Image of robotic communion