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of cracks in the canopy above. I roll over and prop myself up, brushing the forest debris from my tunic. My neck is searing with pain, but I realize it is only the scar the Taoiseach left me with. The pain flares from time to time, so I disregard it. I search my body for any other injuries, but there are none. Not a scratch, except on my pride. But thatā€™s nothing new.

It seems a good portion of the afternoon has passed. We may yet have time to get our lines in the water. I rise to my feet and search for Goose.

Goose leans against a moss-covered boulder, eyelids closed. To my surprise, it looks naturally comfortable, which aggravates me.

ā€œGOOSE!ā€

He frees his small blade from his belt and flails it about. Wide-eyed and shocked, just the reaction I was looking for. It lightens my mood. One point, Gooseā€”one point, Stone.

ā€œOhā€¦ You made it down.ā€

His arrogance is obnoxious after just witnessing him play the role of a terrified moron.

ā€œWhat day is it? Iā€™m not grayingā€¦ Or worse, going bald, am I?ā€ He combs his fingers through the hard part in his hair, scratches at his tight-cropped beard, and gets up, smacking me on the back with more enthusiasm than necessary. ā€œNo, but seriously, what day is it?ā€

ā€œHow did you not seeā€¦ Never mind. Shall we get going? We canā€™t come home empty handed. Jaymes will never let us hear the end of it.ā€

We head off to our normal fishing hole where we always score dinner.

Itā€™s a remote basin of water hunkered deep in a gully with steep slopes on all sides, except where the water flows. Maybe forty or fifty paces across, located at the base of a waterfall not too far from the castle of twigs we call home. The serenity of this spot is rare for a forest filled with predators of all masses and all sizes of fangs. Small prey often bypass it for others with easier access, which also keeps the predators away. But today, a petite water deer wades in the shallows, hardly acknowledging our approach. Above, cascading willows border the ridgeline, which arenā€™t too tall, allowing for a needed break in the canopy. It adds a majestic sparkle to the clear, red waters. And although the sun is blistering hot, a solid glimpse of it eases the constant damper of darkness this wood creates. Overall, it makes for a great fishing hole and an even better swimming hole. But today we fish.

I lose my footing when something strikes the line. ā€œItā€™s the lunker! It has to be!ā€

Goose sheathes his kukri and drops his most recent catch to rush over and assist me. However, his form of assistance consists of telling me how much better heā€™d do in my situation. Itā€™s a hindrance really, but Iā€™ve put up with it for seasons and wouldnā€™t expect anything less of him.

ā€œYou knowā€¦ if I were you, Stone, Iā€™d already have that thing fryinā€™ by now. Youā€™re too tight. What I would do is give him some slack, so he feels free. Then yank it back, crushing its hope. Do that over and over, and youā€™ll wear it down and have him in your net in no time. Itā€™s a fish, for Susyā€™s sake! Theyā€™re as intelligent as the ones swimming around in your trousers. All you have to do is tug on the line a few times to get the results you want.ā€

Frustrated, I follow his crude and arrogant suggestion. And what peeves me more is his suggestion works. The fish thrashes in the shallow waters in no time. As I pull it out of the water, I hear a horrendous amount of laughter.

ā€œWhatā€¦isā€¦that?ā€ Goose continues in his berserk state of glee for a few moments. ā€œThanks for contributing, Stone, but one fish stick wonā€™t feed the lot of us.ā€ He continues to laugh as he gathers his tackle, his catch of the day, consisting of a half dozen perch, and the arachniwhip he always carries for protection.

ā€œA bloody bluegill! Is that it? There couldnā€™t be a smaller fish in this entire water hole. Itā€™s a mistake. There was a larger one on the line beforeā€¦ Fourā€¦no five times its size. Thereā€™s no way this small fry had that much fight in him.ā€ My face gets warm. How embarrassing.

ā€œBetter luck next time, eh.ā€ He gives me a soft pat on the back as if Iā€™m a weeping boy whoā€™s lost his mother.

We meander back home through the wood mostly in silence due to the night creeping up on us. Goose breaks the silence with his uninvited mockery.

ā€œJay sure is going to be grateful for our catch today. Donā€™t you think? You know how much she loves bluegill. Thereā€™s nothinā€™ better than a mouthful of seasoned scales and bones. Remember that when Iā€™m on my deathbed. Thatā€™s what I want for my last meal.ā€

ā€œWhat makes you think Iā€™m going to be by your side when youā€™re dying? Iā€™d sooner be out catching another lunker, you wanker.ā€ I swing my stringer in his direction. He swats it down. And even though I jape in return, he swats my confidence down as well.

ā€œThese other three silvers you caught sure are somethinā€™, though. Theseā€™ll be great with a hint of lemon zest, a few garlic cloves, and a dash of salt, all smoked over some applewood pellets. You have to clean ā€˜em, though.ā€

Goose knows me better than Iā€™d like, but his feeble attempt to mend the humility doesnā€™t work. Like an ape swinging through the jungle, I am unable to change course mid-air and fly free into the unknown open terrain, so I unwittingly shoot back at him with more defensive sarcasm.

ā€œI donā€™t need to claim your boasts just yet. Just you waitā€¦ When that tribe of beautiful Cerulean women youā€™re always fantasizing about comes down from the southern

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