#2024MakeAMonster day 29: Fish

 

Fish

They say in my village that this is how Stupid John died. Or sometimes they do; Stupid John dies many deaths in many stories. But my granny swore she saw this one with her own eyes. It’s why she never let my grandpa go fishing on a Sunday. 

Once upon a time Stupid John let his Sunday dinner burn. There were no vegetables in his garden, for he’d been too stupid to plant them, and no chickens left in his coop, for he’d been too stupid to close the door. So there was nothing left to do but dangle his hook in the stream – and then he felt a tug and pulled out a creature that spoke.

‘Not a fish,’ it begged. ‘Put back.’

‘I need a fish for my supper,’ said Stupid John, ‘and you’ll have to be it.’

‘Not a fish,’ it pleaded. ‘Put back. Please back.’

‘You have a tail,’ said Stupid John. ‘Fish have tails.’

‘Can bird the tail!’ it promised. ‘No supper!’ And its tail, which had been a little ragged trail of blue, opened out like a peacock’s glory, filling his hand with pulsing, vein-dark sheen.

‘You have scales,’ said Stupid John. ‘Fish have scales.’

‘Can snake the scales!’ it swore. ‘No supper!’ And against his palm, the little flicks of silver sharpened like teeth. 

It was dry in Stupid John’s grip now, writhing. Its tail fanned the air, ready to fly – or it would if it thought to add some wings. Stupid John, though, had nothing for his supper, and he was a man for whom one idea was heavy enough to carry. He wasn’t about to take on a new one.

‘You are a fish,’ he said. ‘You have fins. And they can’t be birded, for there’s too many of them. I’ll cut your head off quick, but I have to have my supper.’

‘Can baby the fins!’ it howled, and now the little spars between the webbing parted, splitting into fingers that clutched at Stupid John like a father. Chubby little fists grew from its sides, from its belly; there was even a single hand rising from the middle of its back, waving in pathetic hope. 

Well, even Stupid John had to admit things were getting difficult. ‘This isn’t kind of you,’ he said. ‘Now look what you are. Some of you’s human, and I can’t eat a human. But I never did eat the fins anyway, so if I cut those parts off, I can still have my supper.’

‘Not for eating!’ wept the creature. 

‘It might be hard on you,’ Stupid John told it, ‘but I can’t go with my belly empty.’

And at that, the creatures eyes flickered. ‘Can fill the belly,’ it said. 

They found him with a belly full of offal, they said. Liver, lungs, even sweetbreads. The fact that the creature had found them inside his own body – well, he’d said nothing about needing to keep his ribcage full. 

There are morals to the tales we tell, my dearest children. If nothing else, take this one and ponder: sometimes, my loves, there’s worse things than an empty belly.