Another Experiment, Part 3 – The Fisher

That’s two votes for the honest approach. What law-abiding readers you are.

You walk into the porch, to the door, and knock. The sound echoes around the dip in the landscape, hard and harsh as breaking bone. But there is no reply. You knock again, harder, but when the echo fades there is still no sound at all. You press your ear to the door, and hear nothing at all.

“Hello?” you call. Still nothing. It makes you deeply uneasy. If there is smoke rising from the chimney then there must be someone here – or there was recently. Perhaps they are out – but where is there to go around here, save all the way back down to the river – a journey that took you hours, and would have taken the owner of this house directly past you on your way up? You spare a glance for the thin trees that begin to encroach on the top of one slope, the outriders of a patch of woodland beyond.

“Anyone home?” you call again, louder. Even in the woods, someone would be able to hear you shouting this loudly. Hell, they can probably hear you in Whetstone, wherever it is. A chill runs down your spine at the thought of the bandits you evaded in the woods, and whether they might be on your tail – but, whirling, you see nothing behind you.

The sun is beginning to caress the horizon. Night will be coming, and the chill of the mountain air is beginning to overcome the sweaty heat of your exertions. You need shelter.

A last knock still produces no sound. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. You push, and find that the door is unlocked.

Inside, the cottage is dark, save for the pool of dim, ruddy firelight spilling from one doorway. There are hooks for lanterns, candlesticks, even something modern and alchemical, but all are extinguished. You step forward, trying, for once, to be loud and obvious.

“Hello?” you call again, more softly now. The dark hall is oppressively narrow. Stairs lead up to a low attic floor above, but you head for the firelight, drawn in like a moth. Pushing open the half-ajar door, you see a room clearly built for one: one old armchair, one wooden stool at a small table, a single plate and tankard next to the sink in the little kitchen to one side. The fire is burning low in its hearth, but there are still small flames, not only embers. It was fed, and fed recently. But there is nobody in the chair.

Photo by Stéphane Juban (Unsplash)

You are weary, and there is no-one here. You go to sit down in the chair – and stop, because the cold, sharp object poking into the small of your back makes you suddenly, painfully awake.

“You hold still, there,” comes a gruff voice from behind you, and you slowly raise your empty hands.

“I don’t want trouble. I did knock.”

“Don’t much care if you brought flowers,” the voice replies curtly. “Going to step back. You’re going to turn round. Slow.” The metal point withdraws, and you turn around as ordered.

Standing behind you, more than a little demonic in the ruddy firelight, is a woman who might as well have been carved from teak. Her hair is iron-grey, her eyes dark and narrow, her skin as weathered as a mountainside. The spear in her hands is short, but gleaming. Its long head is barbed and narrow. A fishing-spear, you realise – and one held by a woman who very definitely knows how to use it.

“I really don’t want trouble,” you say, even as the woman steps slowly towards you, forcing you back across the room. “I came from the river. I saw your fire. I –”

“I wanted company,” the woman says, sharply as her spearpoint, “I wouldn’t have come up here.”

“I’m just a traveller,” you protest.

“That’s what the last lot said.” You do not think it wise to ask what happened to the ‘last lot’ – but there is certainly no sign of them anywhere here.

“I just need shelter,” you say. “That’s all. It’s cold out there. Please.” You have been forced back almost to the wall, now, between the fireplace and the window – ajar, you see, with a quick flick of the eyes. Your leg brushes something metal, and you can feel something like a handle pressing into your thigh. Was there a poker there before?

“What you need,” the woman says, “is to leave. You leave on your own, or I make you.”

You could try and talk things out. If you can explain exactly what brought you here – assuming you live long enough to tell the tale – perhaps the woman will show a crumb of sympathy. You are no threat, after all. Trying to fight those bandits proved that.

But the woman is old. She holds her spear tightly, but there is just an imperceptible shake; though her eyes are hard as flint, there is a sheen of cataract over them. The poker at your side feels heavy. It is close enough to grab.

On the other hand, the window at your other side is ajar. You could make a leap for it, into the garden below.

Talk, fight, or run. What will you do?

Just because you were polite doesn’t mean everyone is going to be polite to you…

Votes in these comments, and we’ll see what happens this week.