Ikan Berbudi (Wise Fish)

by Jason Erik Lundberg

“Good morning, dear lady,” said the fish. “Today is the day I will die.”

Mrs Singh stood dumbfounded in the kitchen of her food stall. The fish, a grand red snapper with pointy teeth and auspicious markings, lazily trod water in its aquarium above the sink. It had brought Mrs Singh good luck since persuading her to spare its life three years ago. Her pescatarian menu consisted of curries and veg, and business had soared with the fish’s presence. It had also provided a strange companionship after her husband had died and her children had moved away. This announcement terrified her with its consequences.

“Why would you say this, fish?”

“Because it is true. I have lived a long life, in part thanks to you, but it will come to an end later today.”

“What if I buy you a new tank? Or a pond in which you can freely swim?”

“It will not matter, auntie. I will still die.”

“I could change your food, buy the expensive flakes from Thailand.”

“It still would not change the fact that I will die.”

“Is there anything can be done?”

“I am afraid not. It is the way of things. But I do ask for one kindness in return for the years of wealth I have brought you.”

“Anything, fish.”

“Cook me as you would any of my brothers, and then consume me yourself.”

“Very well.”

And so later that day, after Mrs Singh had served her last customer, the fish quietly stopped moving and floated upside down in its tank. Mrs Singh descaled the snapper, gutted it, and cooked it in fiery curry along with fingers of okra and slices of eggplant.

With the first bite, she experienced a heightening of all her senses. With the second, she gained understanding of the speech of plants. With the third she perceived the sticky strings of the vast LifeWeb that connects all living beings. With the fourth, the knowledge that her new perceptions would fade by tomorrow.

Mrs Singh wept for the fish’s gift, eating every last bit of flesh until her wise friend was completely gone.

Basilisk Tracks

by Daniel Braum

At first I thought they were tire tracks, evidence of a child’s bike criss crossing the beach in all directions. But when Michaela said, no they must be basilisk tracks look at the way they stop right at the holes by the boardwalk, I knew she was right.

I didn’t think there were basilisks here, not on this island, certainly not on the beach. Must be young ones I guessed. If it wasn’t such a misty, damp morning and if we hadn’t gone down right when we had to claim a spot for our chairs we would have missed them. Like wind passing through trees maybe this was as close as we could hope to come without turning to stone. It was too dangerous to try and see adult ones at the acropolis. It had been a blissful few weeks on the islands with Michaela and we’d seen Roc’s nests and winged horses and even the tail end of a hydra fleeing into the marsh.

“They should put signs up to be careful at night,” I said.

“Oh, Francois, that would ruin the charm, might as well put in a Starbucks then.”

“Just want to be careful,” I said.

“I want to see them,” Michaela said. “Sleep with me, here on the beach. Tonight. Without protective lenses. It will be so beautiful.”

Poor beautiful Michaela. Never careful. How could she be when everything was about the moment, about the beauty, nothing coming second to it feeling right. I could see us locked in a sweaty tangle, surrounded by young basilisks creeping in the dark as we made love. I bet to her the risk of having our moment of bliss frozen in time, locked in stone forever sounded romantic. It did, but would I turn to stone for her?

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

If she ever left me, I’d miss her sweet gentle voice the most, I think. Everything I see in her is in that sound- her kindness, her visionary eye, and her passion for beauty. I can hear her now telling me she wants to plant Barcelonan moonflowers in my garden. And to be there with me decades later when they bloomed.

I thought of us hand in hand watching the bats at the seaside caves at dusk, taking her son to see the tame hippogriffs at the zoo, our days hunting for phoenix nests on the wild shores. Beautiful days. Pure and true and full of love. I hoped they would be enough.

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