THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapter 22

All chapters of The Blackberry Witch

XXII. Eel-skin Soup and Inquiries

“Well, we should head down to the river and look for the grotto,” Thomas said, turning his back to the view and crouching down next to Elwood. “But first, I have some . . . instructions. Suggestions, really, so that everything goes smoothly. We should behave ourselves down by the river. I know that fishermen are sensitive to loud sounds—more than the fish themselves are, sometimes, but I suppose that’s their business. So no barking. That goes for all of us,” he added with a smile, eliciting a chuckle from Cathán and even a chirrup of humor from Avery.

Thomas scratched Elwood behind the ears. “Okay, boy? No barking? and no jumping into the water or causing a nuisance with the fishermen?”

Elwood leaned into the scratches. His tongue poked out from between his teeth, and the one eye that was visible through his tangle of hair rolled back to look up at Thomas.

“I suppose that’s a yes,” Thomas said. He finished scratching with a flourish and straightened. His clothes were a bit rumpled and his hair mussed, but there wasn’t much he could do about either. He tugged on his shoes and brushed the grass from his knees and set off down the hillside toward the eastern river.

The nearer shore was the busier, with a long string of fishermen along the bank, each with a horse and wagon tied up nearby or a pile of boxes and nets for fish marking territory. They were spaced evenly along the river for as far as Thomas could see, perhaps a dozen of them at hundred-foot intervals. On this side of the river, the hillside sloped right down to the bank, with a gap between the edge of the grass and the surface of the water that tempted Thomas with the promise of diving. The fishermen mostly sat on the edge of the tiny ledge with their feet and lines dangling over.

Thomas glanced across the river. A few boats trawled lazily in the bright blue, though it seemed that most had drifted farther downstream. Thomas wondered whether they were following the fish or just the current. The opposite bank of the river was picturesque and inviting in a different sense: A white cliff rose above sandy shores and thick copses of trees scattered along the shoreline, the cliff chalky and standing at forty feet or so in most places. The far shore looked exactly like the kind of place that would hide a forbidden grotto, with its stands of thick trees and its inlets and shallows here and there; and Thomas’s heart leapt in his chest.

He reached the end of the hillside and began to walk along the riverbank, moving downstream with the current toward the line of fishermen. The first was an old man, his hair in tufts and his nose and cheeks browned from the sun. Thomas approached him quietly, respectfully, keeping his distance as he called out a soft cheery “Hello!”

The fisherman said nothing.

Thomas moved a few steps closer, keeping a hand out to hold Elwood just behind him, and tried again: “Hello, kind fisherman. I was wondering if you could tell me about—”

“I can tell you about getting drownt in the river here, boy!” interjected the fisherman in a voice like tumbling stones. He jerked on his line. It tugged back, moving away from the bank, and the fisherman leaned back and pulled with his weight. He spoke again, but this time his words were uncouth and peppered with curses.

Thomas worried his lower lip for a moment, then decided to move on, skirting the fisherman by cutting up the hillside and back down. Glancing back, Thomas saw the shiny scales of a river-trout surface for a moment, a few feet from the shore, before the fish pulled again and disappeared. The old fisherman’s cursing intensified. Thomas hurried away.

He came to the second fisherman, who was a little younger than the first but looked no more amicable. “Hello,” said Thomas. “I was wondering if you could give me some directions? I don’t mean to bother you long.”

The second fisherman looked over at the boy and his companions. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed.

Something splashed in the water. Thomas saw scales and fins in a graceful arc, then another splash as the fish submerged once more. Elwood barked excitedly at the sight and trotted over to the edge of the shore, peering down into the water with his tail beating back and forth.

Thomas knew that the dog couldn’t help himself, but he wasn’t surprised when the second fisherman seemed less than pleased by the distraction. Thomas was taken aback, however, when the surly fisherman produced a fishing-hook from his jacket and raised it threateningly at the dog. Elwood stopped wagging his tail.

Thomas took flight with the dog close on his heels. The fisherman shouted something after them, brandishing the fishing-hook. “Sorry!” Thomas called back over his shoulder, hurrying up the hillside and away from the second fisherman.

He cut a wide swathe through the grass before angling back to the side of the river. When he finally stopped, he chanced a look upstream. The second fisherman had turned his attention back to the river, but kept the fishing-hook in one hand. Thomas gulped and headed downstream once more. “Let’s be a little more careful,” he said to his companions. “That was exciting, though. Maybe we’ll see another fish jump! I hope the third fisherman is kinder.”

The third fisherman was kinder but still unhelpful. “A grotto?” said the young man, scratching his hairless chin. “I’m afraid I don’t know the word. Is it some kind of bird? I don’t know much about birds, just fishes.”

Thomas tried to explain what a grotto was, but the third fisherman repeated that, regrettably, he really only knew a few things about fishes and not about birds or caves or sticks or whatever else it was that Thomas was saying about a grotto. With a sigh, Thomas moved on.

They reached the fourth fisherman. Thomas explained their objective and was initially elated at the man’s response. “Grottos? Oh, yes, I know what a grotto is, my boy. Don’t you think a fisherman would know what a grotto is? That’s like asking your dog here if he knows squirrels or sunlight or the taste of his own tail. Yes, certainly, I’m very familiar with grottos, of course.”

But then the fisherman paused a moment, and scratched his head, and tapped on the end of his fishing-rod. “Only,” he began, then scratched again. “Only—the thing of it is, my boy, that I’m not sure I know any forbidden grottos. You see, it’s just that you’ve asked me specifically about a forbidden grotto, and I assume that means you’re not looking for one that any old chap can freely wander into. And there’s the problem, right there. All of the grottos I know permit easy access: no law or regulation saying otherwise. No, I’m afraid I can’t help you after all, more’s the shame upon me.”

It occurred to Thomas that knowledge of any grotto would perhaps be useful; but his subsequent questioning of the fourth fisherman revealed no further information. The man kept muttering, “Plenty of grottos, yes, but none of them forbidden,” and eventually Thomas threw his hands up in frustration and walked on.

The fifth fisherman was asleep, but his wife—herself a fisherwoman, by the looks of things—was awake and attentive when Thomas and his companions approached. Unfortunately, after Thomas had repeated his question about the forbidden grotto three times, the woman finally responded in a language Thomas had never heard before. He stood there and listened while she talked away; but whether she was answering his question or chatting about the weather or the best ways to cook a pike, Thomas couldn’t say. He very much liked the sound of her language, and he thought that, under other circumstances, he would enjoy dangling his feet in the river and petting Elwood and listening to the woman talk. Instead, though, he politely excused himself and moved along the riverbank.

The sixth was also a fisherwoman, and she was more helpful than the others had been, but in exactly the wrong sort of way: “Oh dear! A forbidden grotto is no place for a young man: certainly not one as grass-stained and disheveled as you! And what’s that bit of fluff on your shoulder? And where are your parents? And shouldn’t that dog be better groomed? Why, he can hardly see from under that mop!”

Thomas tried interrupting her, but she laid down her line and took a few steps toward him, talking as she came, so he hurried on around her, taking long strides across the hillside until her voice finally faded behind him.

The seventh fisherman was some distance farther along the riverbank, giving Thomas time to consult his companions and perhaps reconsider his approach. “I would gladly take a turn petitioning for help, friend Thomas,” offered Cathán, a note of apology in his voice, “but I’m afraid the fishermen would be no more likely to assist me than they are you. You’re doing well, though. Often the most difficult parts of a heroic quest are the most tedious, after all.”

“I would help as well, but I’m afraid I’d have the opposite effect,” Avery said from Thomas’s satchel. “My charm at elocution is such that the fishermen, in their haste to provide us with everything we need for our comfort and delight, would completely overlook the information we need about the forbidden grotto. Thus, I shall remain quiet.”

Thomas opened his mouth to object, but then glanced down. Avery was still riding inside the satchel, comfortably situated, a scarf wrapped around his body, snacks aplenty inside for easy access, his head poking out to take in the marvelous view of the eastern river while Thomas carried him to and fro. The boy shut his mouth.

Elwood barked and licked Thomas’s hand.

They came to the eighth fisherman. This man was about the same age as Thomas’s father and had a clever look in his dark eyes. They darted up and down the river while he spoke to Thomas. “I can help you find the forbidden grotto, yes,” said the man, tugging a little on his line. “I can give you directions to its very entrance if you like. Clear and precise instructions for getting there. Would that be amenable? But I shall need something in return, of course. No one trades away information for naught. That’s not good business. No, I’ll need something in trade. Something valuable—precious, even. For I possess information that is precious to you, I see.”

Thomas reached into his pocket. “I have some—”

The fisherman waved a hand. “Stay your trifles, boy; I’ll tell you what treasure I require. It’s a pittance, really: more of a token of good faith than a fair bargain, but the sun is shining and the wind is cool and I’m in a pleasant mood. You see, I’m a noted purveyor of pies. Fishing is just a hobby and a pastime; baking pies is my true purpose in life. And I’ve been intending to bake some onion pies to sell along the riverside and in the villages and hamlets round about. But, alas! I’m lacking in proper quantities of onions to bake my pies, so I have been thwarted in my true joy.”

“I can bring you some onions,” Thomas said.

“Wonderful!” The fisherman smiled, turning his gaze to Thomas for a brief moment. “Bring me one thousand onions, and I’ll direct you to the forbidden grotto.”

Thomas thought he must not have heard the man correctly. “Did you say—one dozen onions, was it?

The man’s laugh was unpleasant, like the sound of fish flopping in his basket. “One dozen! Certainly not! That would make only a few pies. I am a renowned baker of onion pies, boy, and I can’t have you keeping me from my calling. Bring me one thousand onions and you shall have your directions.”

Thomas, beginning to suspect that the man didn’t know where the forbidden grotto was, and wondering if perhaps he was altogether well, excused himself politely and hurried on.

He hoped for better from the ninth fisherman, but when Thomas came within twenty paces of the little tent and campfire on the banks of the river, the man seated there began to sneeze. The sneezes were loud and racking and wet, and they came in droves, sneeze upon sneeze, with the fisherman wiping his nose and fumbling for more handkerchiefs in between each one. In the wake of a particularly explosive sneeze, the man sputtered: “Dog! Get away! Dog!”

Elwood stopped in his tracks, looking at the sneezing fisherman with a concerned look on his great shaggy head. Thomas ran forward and guided the dog around the tent, calling out apologies to match each of the fisherman’s sneezes. Then he told Elwood to run along the riverbank, as quickly as he could.

The fisherman’s sneezes continued on, so Thomas did as well, hanging his head at another failure. The day was indeed bright and warm, with a pleasant wind and the sound of the river lapping against the bank; but Thomas had an urgent errand, and it seemed that none of the fishermen on the eastern river could help him find the forbidden grotto and its treasured shell.

When he finally caught up to Elwood, the dog was sitting a few feet away from another fisherman—the tenth, by Thomas’s count, though the boy was beginning to despair. Elwood’s tail was swishing the grass outside the fisherman’s little camp, staring longingly at the several crates of fish and kelp and other savory-smelling delights upon which the fisherman was sitting.

This man was young, perhaps barely out of his teenage years, a floppy hat askew on his head and his skin browned from the sun. He held a rod in his left hand and a book in the right. A long strand of grass poked out of his mouth. His feet were bare; he was bouncing his heels off the wooden crate beneath him, humming a little tune. He looked up when Thomas approached.

“Ho there! Welcome!” His voice was clear and kind, lively like the river. “Your dog came bounding up, eager as a fish in the stream, and I was about to offer him a nice bone to gnaw on while we both enjoy the day. But then I thought I should wait to meet his owner and make sure the bone wouldn’t do any harm. If it’s okay with you, though, I’ve a nice ox-bone for him, and a chair for you besides. How does that sound?”

“That sounds lovely,” Thomas said. He sat in the offered chair. It was wooden and rickety and perfectly comfortable. He positioned himself perpendicular to both the fisherman and the river, sitting between the two to enjoy the breeze off the water and to converse with the enthusiastic fisherman.

Thomas unburdened himself of his satchel and set it to the side, casually tucking the flap back down so that only the tip of Avery’s beak was visible. He guessed that the fisherman, who was now marking his place in his dog-eared book and adjusting the floppy hat on his head, wouldn’t notice the hidden raven. Thomas could then feel Cathán slide down the back of his shirt and leap away; he saw a flash of gray and brown scamper into the satchel a moment later, and he settled himself further into the chair.

Elwood shuffled next to Thomas, stared out at the river for a moment, and then looked up at the fisherman with a happy, eager expression. The man fixed his fishing-rod between the crates, hopped onto the ground, and rummaged through his camp until he produced a large bone that was as long as his own arm.

The fisherman knelt before Elwood, whose tail was now catching Thomas’s leg with each beat. Elwood carefully clamped his teeth upon the bone and lowered it to the ground, angling his head to the side so that he could rest upon the bone while gnawing at it. Thomas and the fisherman watched the dog in silence for a few minutes. Elwood mostly scraped at the ox-bone with his long sharp teeth, though occasionally he would pause to lick or sniff the delicious gift before resuming his feast.

The fisherman stuck out his hand for Thomas. “I’m Finlay,” he said brightly. Thomas shook the hand and Finlay hopped back onto the crate, retrieving his fishing-rod. He frowned at the water and began to gather in the line. Thomas watched with interest as Finlay collected the line, replaced the dangling worm on the hook, and tossed the line back into the water.

“I’m Thomas,” the boy said then.

“Pleasure and cheer to you, Thomas! It’s a fine day for strolling along the riverside. Are you and your dog out about business, or just taking in the day?”

Thomas considered pressing the fisherman for information about the grotto, but the chair was comfortable and Elwood still had a long way to go on the bone and, perhaps most relevantly, he’d had such poor luck with the fishermen of the eastern river that he wanted a break from the questions about the forbidden grotto. And Finlay seemed like a kind fellow and talkative; so Thomas replied, “Just taking in the day, and you’re right: it’s beautiful out. We’ve had a wonderful time walking along the bank. Have you been fishing here long?”

“All day and all year, to answer whichever question you were asking!” said Finlay. “Truth is, Thomas, I’m not a very successful fisherman. I don’t have the right patience for it—that is, I’m perhaps too patient, which I suppose is a nice way of saying I’m lazy. I love being a fisherman because I can cast my line and spend the rest of the day reading and napping and not get a crosswise glance about it. That’s the business of fishing, after all. But at the end of the day, the rest of them generally have something to show for their minimal efforts. I usually pull in an empty line.”

Finlay bit off some of the grass in his teeth and spat it into the wind. “I’m getting ahead of myself there, though—or behind, I should say, and you’ll see why presently. A week or two ago I realized that the fisherman’s lifestyle was perfect for my temperament but not my talents; and I realized too that if I wanted to keep reading and napping all day, I’d better learn how to fish something worth selling, or pretty soon I’d be too poor to catch my own food, and that’s a sorry state.

“So I decided that I’d switch worms. It was a minor change, really just a precursor to making some actual effort to improve my situation. You know the kind, I’m sure: a small adjustment, a tweak, and then you feel like you’re at least doing something and it lets you sit back and rest from all that hard work for a little while longer. Well, I found these little black grubby worms down by the riverside”—Finlay paused then, pulling a container from his pocket and showing Thomas the dirt-black worms inside—“and started using them and thought that’d be the end of it for a while.”

“But it wasn’t?” Thomas guessed.

Finlay whistled. “Not by a long shot, no!” He patted Elwood’s head and returned the worms to his pocket. “My first cast out, with the sun barely over the hills and only three pages left in my latest story, and the line goes taut and nearly tugs the rod into the river and me along with it. Well, Thomas, I grappled with that fishing-rod for a time, and I’m sorry to say that it was more work for me that it should have been—but at last I reeled in a gasping shiny eel.”

Finlay said the words with a mixture of pride and amusement. “I’ll show you the eels in just a moment, Thomas. They’re right here in these crates; I’m sure you’ve been smelling them. But I pulled that eel out, and I wasn’t nearly as at peace with this stroke of fate then as I am now, so I almost tossed it back in and my livelihood besides. But something about the shine of the eel’s skin made me reconsider. It reminded me just so of the way a stew of chicken-bones shines on the hearth-fire. It reminds me of the Sunday suppers my mother makes, back in our village away down the river. So I thought, why not make an eel soup? I’ve never tasted one—never tasted eel at all, at that—and it’ll be a new experience even if it’s horrible.”

Thomas wrinkled his nose. “How was it? any good?”

“Good enough that I’m still around. The first bite didn’t kill me, so I tried another.” Finlay winked. “It needed some salt, and then some chopped-up chives and a potato or two—just like any good soup—but within no time at all I had a perfectly delicious bowl of eel soup! I thought I might have found a niche, something to really set me apart from the other fishermen here, so I found some more black worms and caught some more eels and cooked myself up a nice cauldron of eel soup. I started offering it to travelers and some of the folk along the river. Most were hesitant, but a few adventurous souls accepted a gifted bowl, and after that word spread enough that I made my sign. Oh, but you wouldn’t have seen that! Come here a moment.”

Finlay hopped from his crates and led Thomas around to the other side of his little camp, where upon an easel he’d placed a large, flat piece of wood with the words FINLAY’S FINS written in bold red paint. Finlay patted the sign proudly. “Painted it myself. I suppose it’s not that much of a distinguishing feature—lots of fish have fins, after all, not just eels—but for me it was symbolic of my decision to stick with fishing in the river and making my living here on the shore.”

“I like the name,” Thomas said. “It has a nice sound to it.”

They returned to their seats. “It’s only been a couple weeks,” Finlay said, “but I’ve made a good profit so far, and I think people really enjoy the soup. I started offering bowls of eel-skin soup, too, as a bit of a lighter alternative to the regular kind. The skins are nice and flaky and the broth takes on a flavor that’s just perfect for a warm summer’s day.”

Finlay then lifted his gaze to the sky, shading his eyes with a sun-browned hand. “It’s just about noontime, isn’t it? That means lunch. Wait you here just a moment.”

Finlay hopped off his crates and busied about the belongings and fixtures of his camp. Thomas closed his eyes, letting the breeze play through his hair, listening to the clang and clatter of the merry fisherman. Without opening his eyes, he reached down to tangle his fingers in Elwood’s shaggy hair.

A minute or two later, Thomas heard Finlay approach and opened his eyes. The fisherman came close and held out a steaming bowl to Thomas. “Here you have, my friend! A fresh bowl of eel-skin soup, the ideal delicacy for a balmy day like today.”

Thomas took the bowl and eyed its contents. It actually smelled quite appetizing, but the long strips of eel-skin floating amid the broth and slivers of onion and potato made him wary. Still, his stomach was rumbling and the smell was pleasant enough. Thomas glanced down at Elwood. “What do you think, boy?”

Elwood barked.

Finlay laughed. “I doubt the dog would fully appreciate the broth, but how about some scraps?” He set out a small parcel and unfolded the paper, revealing shiny chunks of white eel-flesh. Elwood—after securing his ox-bone in his paws against any possible theft—set into the eel meat eagerly, wolfing down each chunk. Finlay handed Thomas a wooden spoon.

Hesitantly, Thomas tried a bite. It was hot and flavorful, but somehow refreshing amid the heat of the day. He swallowed. “This is . . . wonderful,” he exclaimed in surprise. “I wouldn’t have thought eel . . .” The taste crowded out the need for further words, and he attacked the bowl with as much vigor as Elwood the bone or the chunks of meat, tucking in to the steaming eel-skin soup with enthusiasm.

Finlay laughed again. When Thomas finished his bowl, the fisherman was quick with another, after which he prepared himself one and returned to his crates. They ate together under the summer sun, all three of them enjoying their eel, the wind coming off the river and the grasses rustling and the air heavy with steaming eel and wildflowers and vibrant green growth.

Thomas was almost finished with his second bowl of eel-skin soup when he heard a squeak from the ground. He paused and glanced down out of the corner of his eye. Cathán had poked his head out of the satchel and was gesturing to Thomas, waving his paws in a gesture that Thomas immediately understood. The boy swallowed another spoonful of soup and set his bowl in his lap.

“Finlay,” Thomas began, “I wonder if—well, you’ve been very kind, and your eel soup is delicious. You’ve been generous with Elwood and with me. I’d hate to impose further, but I wanted to ask—would you mind sharing some of your soup with my other companions? They’re . . . unconventional, I suppose.”

“Of course!” Finlay replied around a mouthful of eel. He motioned with his spoon. “Reveal them or fetch them and we’ll continue on with our lunchtime feast!”

Thomas reached down to open the satchel. He lifted Cathán up to the top of the crates, then Avery, careful not to jostle the raven unduly.

Cathán walked over to Finlay. “Good fisherman, I am Cathán Caolán, First Captain of the Thistledown Kingdom and friend to Thomas. This sleek raven with me is Avery of the Blackhill Clan. We’ve accompanied Thomas on many of his adventures. We don’t mean to bother you, but the soup you’ve prepared does smell lovely.”

“Then let me prepare you some, little mouse!” Finlay seemed not at all perturbed by the talking mouse nor the talking raven. He prepared each of them a bowl of the eel-skin soup: human-sized servings, but in bowls low enough that both could reach over the edges to eat their lunch. He also set out a few of the black worms for Avery to munch on alongside his meal.

“These are wonderful,” Avery said of the worms, clacking his beak in approval. “I see why the eels are so fond of them.”

“When you’re finished, I’d be happy to look at your wing,” Finlay offered. “I can see that it’s injured somehow. I’m sure Thomas and Cathán have administered to it already, but I’ve a deft hand if you need it.”

Thomas finished his own bowl and leaned back in his chair. Elwood had polished off the scraps of eel-meat and was gnawing again on the ox-bone, though his movements were slowing and Thomas suspected that the shaggy dog was a few minutes away from a nap. Cathán and Avery continued to eat from their bowls, each bite interspersed with appreciative remarks and noises.

Finlay stretched out on the crates and tipped his floppy hat over his face. After a time, he said, “You just tell me if you need more food—any of you. There’s plenty to share. Despite that, I’ve been doing quite well.  People seem intrigued enough by the concept of eel-skin soup and various other eel-based delicacies. Then they pass along the word to their friends. Today’s actually a mild day for business, though this morning I sold a fair portion. But I’ve been wondering if I ought to find a way to increase my notoriety. Perhaps change the name of the shop?”

“I like the name,” said Thomas drowsily, his eyes half-lidded. “Finlay’s Fins sounds like great name for your business.”

“Maybe I could lean into the alliteration a little more,” Finlay mused. “I was thinking about something like Finlay’s Forbidden Fins. Something to really highlight the appeal of my enterprise, give it some mystery. What do you think?”

Thomas sat bolt upright and Cathán gave a squeak of surprise, but it was Avery who first responded. “Mightn’t that make your clientele think that they shouldn’t be eating your wares?” The raven snapped another worm in half and swallowed. “Then again, perhaps that’s assuming too much—or little—of them. I suppose they’d be intrigued by the mystery of it all, as you say.”

Thomas interrupted Finlay’s next reply: “Wait!” cried the boy, jumping to his feet. “Why forbidden?”

Finlay crooked the brim of his hat to peer at Thomas. “It’s no great answer! It’s just that there’s a local grotto along the river, very close to here, where the eels are best fished. Some of the travelers along the road have called it the forbidden grotto. I’m not sure why. It’s a fabulous fishing-ground for eels. I didn’t feel like making the walk today, which is, in fact, why you caught me here as you were passing by; normally at this hour I’d be out fishing for the evening’s bowls.”

“Have you ever been inside the grotto itself?” asked Cathán.

Finlay sat up. “No, but it wouldn’t be difficult. It’s only about a mile away, and although it’s across the river, there’s a shallow rocky place to ford. You can walk there—or perhaps swim, honored Mouse Knight, if the urge comes upon you.”

The fisherman angled his hat jauntily across his brow and looked at them each in turn. “We can go there now, if you’d like. I’d be happy to show you the way.”