Chapter 5: Chapter 3: Steamfish (Pt. 2)

Unsure of what to do, he waved and shouted a hesitant "thank you."

 

The boy raised his free hand and waved back, smiling.

 

“Are you alright, mister? Come over here,” he beckoned.

 

His father flashed him a look but said nothing and turned his gaze back to Logan.

 

The boy’s voice sounded peculiar, but Logan couldn’t place what it was precisely that threw him off. It wasn't the boy's accent, which reminded him of the American South, but something else.

 

"Go," Mikey said, urging him on.

 

Logan shambled towards the pair. His knee ached, and the scrapes on his arms stung painfully.

 

The man eyed him warily at first, then seeming to make up his mind about Logan, broke out into a wide, warm smile.

 

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said, eyeing Logan up and down.

 

“Only a fool would wade in that part of the springs, do you have a death wish son?” he asked, shoving Logan’s shoulder cordially.

 

The push almost knocked him over.

 

“You know what that thing is?” Logan asked, gesturing to the fish.

 

“Are you hunters?”

 

He eyed the bows in their hands. They were simple curved, wooden bows, obviously handmade. He hadn’t seen anything remotely like them outside of museums. They looked practically made for daily use, though he couldn’t imagine many people using bows and arrows nowadays outside of sport, and he knew that those were high-tech gadgets compared to the primitive tools these two carried.

 

The boy looked too young to be a bow hunter, and the man too large and stocky. The big one, the boy's father, frowned briefly at the question, his mood visibly shifting for a moment before he smiled again.

 

“Not hunters, son; we just come here to enjoy the springs. ‘Path here from the village isn’t too dangerous, but you can’t be too careful, so…” he said, half lifting the bow.

 

“That,” he nodded towards the skewered fish corpse lying in its pool of blue blood, “is a steam fish. A pretty big one, too. They only swim in these upper pools. I’d ‘spect you to know that but, you look pretty clueless.”

 

The boy chuckled, looking up the near foot of height difference at the expression of vacant confusion that had found a permanent home on Logan’s face.

 

“You okay there, bud? You look a little beat,” Huck said, directing Logan to an outcropping of rock that rose to knee height.

 

They sat while the boy retrieved the arrows from the fish.

 

“I’m Huck, that’s my boy, Ryan. Don’t mind his laughin’ atchya, he’s a good kid just got some humor ‘bout him,” he said, and smiled, watching his son.

 

After a few moments with no response, he looked back at Logan who also sat, absently watching the boy playing with the fish, expertly dancing between pools of hot, boiling blood.

 

Noticing Huck's gaze upon him, he turned towards the large man.

 

“Oh, I’m Logan,” he said.

 

What was he doing in the upper springs unarmed? His clothes look funny too, definitely not from Woolam.

 

“You’re not a local, are you son? What brings you around here?” Huck asked.

 

He was sure that it was intended as an innocent question, but it struck Logan that it was one to which he had no answer.

 

What was he going to tell this man who’d casually killed a huge monster like that, unhesitatingly, as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence? And what was that text? The more he thought about what had happened in the last hour the more confused he became.

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“You could say that. I um, got lost. Where are we?”

 

Huck looked at him curiously, wondering what circumstances could possibly have led to the strange man's predicament. He was a straightforward, honest man, though, content to keep to himself and refrain from prying into others business when they didn’t want to share. This stranger, if a bit odd, didn’t seem dangerous.

 

“In the foothill springs, son, a bit north of Woolam. Where were you coming from, Tarik or Kareer?”

 

Logan didn’t want to lie to the man, but he wasn’t ready to share his incredulous story with him yet. Huck was his only contact in this new world, and judging by the steam fish, he anticipated he’d need his help to survive.

 

“A bit further,” he said, then added “thank you."

 

He offered Huck a weak smile.

 

An awkward moment later, Huck smiled back and stood, turning his attention to Ryan, who was jogging gleefully towards them.

 

“None of them broke pa! Poppy’s arrows are awesome,” Ryan said, returning with the arrows from the fish, holding his prize up high under his father’s nose.

 

He was beaming, and even looked briefly at the stranger for approval.

 

Huck rubbed his head with a calloused hand, tussling his hair.

 

“They’re special alright,” he said, taking the arrows and wiping them with a rag produced from his jacket.

 

He returned the arrows to his quiver, then looped his arm around Ryan and swung him over a shoulder.

 

“That doesn’t mean you go runnin’ off on your own to get ‘em though,” he said.

 

Ryan laughed and playfully swung little fists down on his dad’s back. Over his other shoulder Huck called to Logan.

 

“We ought to head back to town, light will be out soon, and you don’t want to get caught in the forest after dark. Come with us, I can take better care of those cuts at home.”

 

Looking down at his knees, Logan contemplated for a moment before responding. He’d never been comfortable accepting hospitality. Noticing his hesitation, Mikey encouraged him.

 

"Come on Logan. We don’t know anything about this place, we need his help," Mikey said, his usual spriteliness toned down to a gently supplicative tone.

 

He can sense my mood.

 

“I know. You’re right. I just—"

 

He doubled over, vomiting onto the stone at his feet. His head was being assaulted by stabbing icepicks. He couldn’t breathe, and suddenly he felt claustrophobic and cold. Sweat beaded on his skin, and he began to shake. The whiplash from the encounter hit him out of nowhere, and he continued in that state for what felt like minutes until a comforting hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing him gently, reassuringly.

 

“You’re worse off than I thought, come on,” Huck coaxed, and helped him to his feet.

The group made their way towards the fish, which had landed at the head of the trail leading down from the upper springs.

 

Huck approached its head, eyeing the pool of thick blue blood, which seemed to boil, bubble, and fume. Seeing no way to avoid it, he stepped in and knelt by the fish’s open mouth.

 

He’d just have to be fast. With a gloved hand, Huck grasped a long fang and tore it free. He examined it appreciatively, rolling it between his fingers, the tooth’s pearly white surface reflecting the fading light. He removed a canvas bag from his belt and began to fill it with the fangs.

 

Logan, having mostly recovered from the episode, also approached the fish.

 

He was struck again by how massive it was; what he’d guessed to be around eight feet in length when he’d first seen it, he now realized was closer to ten: it was a goliath.

 

Its scales looked hard and resilient, like little kite shields stacked in a perfect wall to protect its body. He reached out and slid his hand down its side, feeling its smooth, seamless armor.

 

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