It wasn't long before the moon and stars were obscured by swirling clouds. We were entering the edge of the storm that hovered over the center of the sea. The winds blew raw and cold. And the water itself began to grow rough beneath the boat. We were getting close to the whirlpool… close to the monster.
"Pull in your oars," ordered the old man. "I'll cast my line from here."
I was tired from the rowing and was glad to stop. I rubbed my aching arms as I watched the old man cast his line into the dark scarlet sea.
My eyes were fixed on the line dangling out of the boat, figuring that we'd immediately get a strike. But soon my eyes became as tired as my arms and I slumped down into the boat, snuggling into the netting to keep warm. Out of the wind, I felt better, safer. With my excitement ebbing, exhaustion finally crept up on me and I drifted off to sleep.
I don't know how long I dozed, but when I opened my eyes, I heard the old man cough and grumble. I felt sorry for him, sitting up in the cold, damp night, fighting to keep his dream alive of catching this one great fish before he died. It seemed like a dream that would go unfulfilled, for the night was passing and he hadn't had a single bite on his line.
Not a single bite.
My breath caught in my throat. In all that time, it was impossible that the old man hadn't had a single nibble, unless the waters here were DEAD. And if that was true…
A terrible fear gripped me, and I wanted to tell the old man to pull up his line. But I didn't get the chance. In that very moment, he shouted, "I've got a strike!"
The fishing line went so taut it almost snapped. And even though the old man was letting out more line to let the fish on the other end run, he couldn't do it fast enough.
The little boat was being pulled through the water!
At first we moved sluggishly across the choppy sea, but then the boat was pulled still faster and, like a dragon in flight, we soon found ourselves soaring across the tops of the waves.
The old man knew better than to hold the line in his bare hands. He had cleverly jammed an oar into the prow of the boat and then wrapped the line around it.
Clever, but not clever enough. The fishing line burned through the wood as the creature on the other end kept pulling farther and farther away.
The old man, fearing that he would run out of line and lose his catch, tied the end of the cord around his body and then held on for the final struggle.
Seeing the old man's bold action, I jumped to the front of the boat to help him. If there was going to be glory, I wanted my share. I took hold of the rope alongside him and tugged at it, trying to stop the fish's run.
Six-Finger Fiske ignored my effort. Instead, he shouted up to the sky, "I've caught the Blood Sea Monster! I've got him, and I'll never let him go!"
'I followed Six-Finger's gaze up into the heavens, but all I saw were heavy, ominous clouds. That's when I realized our direction. The great fish was pulling our boat straight toward the maelstrom!If we didn't change direction soon, we'd be sucked into the whirl pool and perish at the bottom of the Blood Sea.
"We've got to turn it!" I cried. "Look where it's taking us!"
The old man heard me and understood what I meant. He took a deep breath and pulled on the line with every ounce of strength in his aged body. And I pulled right along with him.
The line suddenly went slack. It worked!
"We won!" Six-Finger Fiske cried with joy. "Don't you see? It's exhausted, beaten. It's given up the struggle!"
The old man was short of breath. But though weak, his chest heaving from the battle, he hurriedly began reeling in the monster.
I fell back, watching with glee as he pulled in arm's-length after arms-length of line. We had really done it. The old man would be a legend. And when we hauled the beast up onto shore, I would stand there next to Six-Finger Fiske. People would say, "Look, Duder Basillart was a thieving dark elf, but see what he did? He helped that old fisherman catch the Blood Sea Monster."
I leaned over the side of the boat, anxious to see our catch. After all, I was entitled to two percent. I would remind Six-Finger of his promise when we neared the shore. There was no doubt in my mind that two percent of THIS catch would be worth a fortune.
As I stared down into the water, looking for the fish, the sea began to bubble. And then I heard a roaring sound that seemed to be coming from underneath the boat. No matter what direction I looked, I saw the sea beginning to foam and chum.
"What's going on?" I cried.
The old man didn't say a word. He stopped reeling in his line and just sat there with a look of awe on his face.
The sea started rolling beneath us in a mighty turmoil, and I knew then with a terrible certainty that it wasn't the old man that had caught the Blood Sea Monster. It was the other way around.
"Cut the line!" I screamed. "Let it go!"
The old man seemed undecided. His desire for revenge fought with his desire for life.
The sea began to rage and the little boat was buffeted from wave to wave. And still the old man would not make up his mind. Was it his father he was thinking of? His brother? His sons? Or his poor, unfortunate wife? I didn't know what rooted him in place; I only knew that if he waited any longer, we would surely join his descendants in the darkness of death.
The roaring that I heard from underneath the sea grew even louder, and steam began to rise in a cloud, covering us like a shroud.
The cry of the beast and the enveloping whiteness seemed to finally shake the old man from his moorings. He reached for his knife, intending to cut the line. Except his hands were trembling and he fumbled with the knife, dropping it to the bottom of the boat.
At that moment the sea in front of the boat erupted in a mighty spray. Something hideous thrashed up out of the deep. I couldn't see very much of it because millions of gallons of blood-red water were running down off its massive body. Huge flapping wings made the wind blow so hard I could barely expel my own breathagainst its awesome force. I could see nothing else except Six Finger Fiske's huge, shiny metal hook caught between two massive teeth in the beast's otherwise dark, obscured face.
Without his knife, the old man couldn't cut the line. His only hope was to pull the hook free of the monster, and so he wrenched on the line as hard as he could.
The beast's scream of fury made me throw my arms around my face and cower at the bottom of the boat. I heard something clatter down beside me, but I was too afraid to look.
And I'm glad I didn't, because above the thundering sounds of beast and sea, I heard something that I knew I didn't want to see. It was the old man, going mad, calling out to the beast as if he knew him! Six-Finger Fiske actually laughed-a bitter laugh. "Only a fool would seek you out before his time-and I am that fool!" he shouted. And then, calmly, as if in answer to a question that only he could hear, he said, "Yes, I should have known. It isn't I who sought you, but you who sought me." And then he suddenly called out, "The light!"
It was still dark. I didn't know what he meant. But the fact is, I didn't care. I only cared about myself. And in that moment I thought I was going to die.
"It's not your time," a raspy voice rumbled deep in my head, as if in response to my fear. It was a voice that had the weight of countless years upon it.
In the next moment, I heard a huge splash, and a gigantic wave rose up out of the sea and picked up the fishing boat. I clung to the boards at the bottom of the boat, fearing that the wave would crash on top of me and throw me out into the sea. But the boat hung on the crest of that wave, and it rushed headlong for miles and miles, until the wave finally spent itself.
When the boat lolled to a stop, I found the courage to open my eyes.
The old man was gone. Disappeared.
In my fear and confusion, I scanned the waters all around the boat hoping to find some sign of Six-Finger Fiske. But there was none. It was still dark and I was utterly, thoroughly alone.