Dennis let his catch run against the drag of his thumb until the line had wound almost to the end of the spool. Then he fought the fish back, loop by loop—wishing he had better equipment and proud beyond words that he was succeeding with what he had.
Dennis was doing this himself, with neither king nor courtier to ease the task.
For a time, the fish struggled in the pond-edge reeds, but there were no trees growing beyond the pink margin to break the line on their roots. If the fish came toward him, though, and crossed beneath, the road’s lower edge—an immaculate 90 degrees despite the untold ages the pink material had been exposed to the elements—would cut the line as surely as a pair of scissors.
“Chester!” he shouted, already poising to jump into the pond if the water were knee-deep and its opaque surface had convinced him that it must be. “How deep is this?”
“It is twice your height, Dennis,” Chester replied calmly. “Or maybe more.”
The fish started its rush at the bridge, just as Dennis had feared.
Instead of reeling the line, he gathered it in great loops by the handful. He could never pay it out again smoothly, but—first things first. It didn’t matter whether or not the line were neatly coiled at the spindle end, if the hook and the catch that was invaluable for Dennis’ self-respect were trailing their way unimpeded on the other side of the bridge, lost forever to him…
“He who thrusts his chest at the spear will surely be slain!” Chester warned—
But the robot didn’t interfere, it wasn’t his place to interfere, and Dennis with his blood up was in no mood to be warned about the sin of pride.
Almost the fish beat him. Almost.
Dennis bent with the spindle in his left hand as the fish tried to shoot beneath him, its fin cutting a flat S-curve of foam in the black surface. When he jerked upright again, the last yard of line was in his right palm, sword palm, and the great, glittering fish flashed up also—will it or no.
They teetered there together, the fish’s tail lashing the water to froth as Dennis tried to twist his torso back to balance and safety. The eyes winked at him and the ring winked; and Dennis dropped the tangled spindle to thrust the vee of his index and middle fingers into the flaring gill slits.
For a moment it was an open question as to which of them was caught, the fish or Dennis. Then the youth curvetted, lifting with all the strength of both arms—nearly overbalancing but not quite, while the fish flopped and slapped and flopped back on the bridge.
Dennis panted and groped for the sword with his right hand. The line had cut his palm, so he left chevrons of blood on the pink surface as he patted toward the hilt.
“Be my lover, dear one,” said the fish in a human voice, a woman’s voice.
Dennis squawked and jumped back, snatching away his left hand that had pinioned his catch while his right prepared to finish it. The sharp gill-rakers had cut his fingers.
“I am the Cariad, dear one,” said the fish, turning so that both its eyes watched the youth in a most unfishlike way. “Be my lover, will you not?”
“By earth and heaven!” Dennis shouted in a mixture of wonder and horror. “You’re a fish and no more than my dinner!”
He snatched up the sword, and as he turned with it the fish—glimmered. He didn’t see the change, but instead of its tailfins slapping him, bare human legs tangled with his legs and they both went back over the side of the bridge—the youth and what had been a fish and was now a girl who clasped him.
Dennis hit the water with his mouth open to shout surprise. The pond was as cold as it was black, and no better to breathe than water of any other temperature or color. They sank in a gout of spray, Dennis and the girl. All he could think of as he went down was: It is twice as deep as you are tall, Dennis; or maybe more.