The Fisherman
12 Days of Fiction 2019, Day 10
Like every day, the fisherman loosened the single rope that kept his boat tied to his home, and drifted off. It was the same path and it wasn’t, since the waters kept changing in subtle ways. Still, he sailed surely, as had been his custom for years.
He turned at the temple and sailed in. As he the entrance to the flooded main shrine, he once again took in the beauty of his surroundings: tall columns rose from the waters, trying to reach and support a long gone ceiling. The ruins of ancillary buildings broke the surface here and there.
High above, sunbeams filtered through the jungle canopy and the temple remains, and illuminated the water surface, painting it with pastel colours. Seagulls soared up there, chatting with each other. Some cranes ran and took off in front of the shrine, while some others fished among the water lilies.
The fisherman missed the people, but it wasn’t that bad. He was the last one left. Or so he thought, because he hadn’t seen anyone in so many years. Not since the flood.
He rowed a bit more, then stopped. The boat drifted for a while and came to a halt. He recalled a time, many years ago, when he had taken his lessons here, in the square by the temple, back when the world hadn’t flooded.
Like he learned then, he prepared his fishing rod, his line, his bait. He stopped for a moment and then dropped the bait into the waters. He saw some carps turn and take a look, but none approached.
The right carp, the one who would honour him by taking his bait, would come when it felt like it. And until that moment arrived, the fisherman just waited and enjoyed this peace.
This is my entry for Day 10 of my 12 Days of Fiction 2019. Again a short one, but I don’t have much time to write. Busy days, these ones.
