The Beekeeper

They ask me where the slipperfin serpents are born. I tell them I don’t know. They say they fall from stars, on tiny comets, deep into the sea. They say they bubble up through cracks above the ceiling vaults of hell. I tell them I don’t worry about where slipperfins come from. I worry about the waxwater.

I sit on the shore, fishing rod in hand, line cast. The sky is grey and swirling, the water dark. My seagull traps are baited, but the gulls know better here. I haven’t come for gulls. I am here waiting for the only prize that matters.

My vassal, a young troubadour, approaches me from inland. Though he is cautious, quiet, even silent, I can tell that he has driven off the slipperfin. I make a note to add his eyeball to my tackle box. He delivers his message with anxiety enough to warrant the interruption, “a beekeeper has come to Mongerhaven…”

Impossible. In this patch of this corner of the Wither, nothing ever grows above the ground. There are no plants, there are no insects. Not even ants. But beneath the water, life is underway, flourishing in pods and shivers and schools. Flourishing while everything up here rots.

I banish my vassal for his insolence, but not without slipping him a mackerel. He has been listening to too many tall tales. And now, I am too tense to attract a proper fish. I sit up and focus on the water and breathe. Calm.

It is for this calm that Anglers are chosen. It is the only way to lure a slipperfin, though most lifetimes are squandered on ordinary fish. We guard our secrets carefully. None beyond the Anglers’ Clique may hold a rod, or learn our knots, or cast a line. The punishment is merciless.

I settle deeper, beckoning the slipperfin. To bring one home is to return a king. In Mongerhaven, the Angler’s Keep, my catch will be well honored. The slipper’s priceless blood will be distilled into waxwater, a potion of eternal youth. Caravaneers will trade down to their shoe soles for a single vial. My title will be added to the Constellation Story, within the Horns of the Bull Who is Mother of All.

I sense it now, its body one long coil, its fangs adrip with venomous blood. I am alone, and this time, I am ready.

But when I feel a bite, I am afraid. Not because I may lose the slipperfin, but because I realize I may catch it. Because I know what will happen if I do.

I cannot worry about that as I reel in the achievement of my lifetime. I cannot worry about anything, because my fear gives way to concentration. My calm gives way to cruelty as I struggle against the writhing serpent. It is no match for me. Not with my hook already sunk.

I draw the creature from the water, drag it out onto the sand, hoist it up until it dangles on the fishing line before me. It is smaller than expected, for all its power, but it is a slipper. I take it by the back of the head, wary of its bloody fangs, and hold it up.

The creature’s face is one I’ve seen a thousand times. Twisted beyond recognition, and for that reason unmistakable. It is the face of my great grandfather, the last Angler to catch and keep a slipperfin. I am not surprised. Waxwater keeps you forever young, it's true. But that doesn't mean it lets you remain human.

I reach for a rock to finish what I’ve started. And then, out of the wind, something impossible occurs. A small creature lands gently on my knuckle. A delicate machine of yellow fur and metal. An insect. I am dreaming, I think, knowing that it is no dream.

I hold the slipperfin in one hand, the bee in the other. I let the bee fly away, let the serpent slide back into the water. And then I go inland, to meet the beekeeper.