Merilyce sat on her own at the damp wooden table. It wasn't unusual for her to be alone, at least not in that tavern. In most others, she would be swamped by suitors spewing drunken promises of love, offering a simple trade of a few drinks or coins for a night of passion, or occasionally threatening to take her right there on the table.

Of course, those men usually left very soon after their approach. It was the smell. Only a certain type of man could put up with that smell; the same type of man that put up with the foul odour every day of their lives; the very same select group that crowded The Perfumed Fisherman that evening, as they always did.

Merilyce had never figured out what had drawn her to the profession. It certainly wasn't the unpleasant odours that came guaranteed with a successful expedition. Nor was it the fine class of gentlemen that tended towards the occupation. There was no great financial reward to it, or even a half-decent sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. All she did was row out into the bay, cast some nets, and come back when she'd caught enough fish to eat, and to pay for a few drinks in the tavern.

And yet there she sat, alone, subjected to constant exclusion from society, waiting patiently for Mr Absolutely-anyone-will-do-except-for-anyone-that-happened-to-fish-for-a-living to come along. In a tavern filled with fisherman – who refused to speak to her.

"To hell with you all!" she suddenly yelled as she got up and marched towards the bar.

General laughter broke out, along with a few cheers and impolite words – the typical fare expected in such a tavern. She waved off the patrons with a rude gesture, and promptly indicated to the barman that she wasn't pleased with the state of her mug, given that it was empty.

She glanced around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Two dozen filthy fishermen, twice that in empty mugs and half eaten stews. Nothing out of place. Except, at the far end of the room, a man wearing a dark cloak sat with his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on Merilyce. She presented him with the same gesture she had to the room, and turned her back on him to collect her drink.

"Thanks, Deklow," she said to the barman, giving him a lame wink.

"Last one for tonight, Lyce," he said. "Any more and I'm going to have to carry you home again."

"I'm really not that drunk, see," she protested, and tried unsuccessfully to take a few steps in a straight line to prove her innocence.

Many of the patrons burst out laughing, and even the barman was chuckling. She realised she probably was that drunk. But of course, she wouldn't admit it.

"Put the drink down girl, before you hurt yourself!"

She turned to the crowd of fishermen to try to find the source of the voice, but she couldn't guess who it was.

"I can handle my drink!" she insisted, though she realised she was only encouraging the laughter.

"You're barely five foot tall and half a foot wide. I'm surprised you can even carry the drink!"

"I can carry more than you can!"

"Can you carry a hundred pound browntail?"

She spotted the antagonist then. He'd taken the name Browntail a few years back after catching a spectacular browntail on a hook and line, the biggest fish ever caught in Helen's Bay; it weighed nearly a hundred pounds. Nearly.

"Ninety-nine, Browntail. You claim it was a hundred pounds one more time and I'll put ninety-nine bruises on your face to help you count in the mirror."

The room erupted into raucous laughter, at her lame threats or at Browntail she couldn't quite tell, nor did she particularly care.

"Think you can do better than that?" challenged the champion fisherman.

"Of course I can."

"As if you could catch a hundred pound browntail!"

"You saying I can't?"

"Damn right."

"Fine. I'll prove it."

"Will you now?"

"Tomorrow!"

"Ha-ha!"

She stormed away, rushing for the door, trying to figure out how the hell she had managed to get herself into this mess. Must be the ale. Deklow had served her some dodgy ale.

"That was silly, wasn't it?"

"What?"

She turned and found the odd-man-out sitting next to the door, his back still against the wall in a casual pose. He had a parchment in front of him, and he was writing something down. His cloak was clean, she noticed. Very odd.

"I was remarking on how silly that was."

"I heard you. I meant..." she barked, and then couldn't quite figure out exactly what she had meant.

"For someone who questions whether or not you are in control of your own destiny," said the man, "you do seem to step right where a puppeteer would guide you."

"Er, what? Question my... puppeteer... what?"

"Excuse me," he said. "Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. I am The Scribe."

"The Scribe?"

"Precisely."

"There is only one scribe?"

"Is there only one fish?"

"What? No."

"What about the hundred pound fish?"

"Well, no. Yes. What? What the hell are you on about? And what about this puppeteer and destiny?"

Merilyce glanced around her; the merry fishermen had returned to the task at hand, ensuring that mugs returned to their natural state of emptiness whenever burdened with ale. None of them appeared to notice that she was still in the tavern, or talking to the odd man beside the door.

"Ah, the puppeteer. Yes," said the scribe, nodding as if considering. "Allow me to explain. As a scribe, I tell tales, yes? No, I weave tales. The characters of my stories have no free will of their own. They are the puppets, and I am the puppeteer."

The man made a show of controlling the imaginary puppets hanging from his hands, before his fingers returned to his chin, rubbing it as he resumed his explanation.

"Now," he continued, "were I to weave a tale of a girl that sailed out to sea for some unrelated purpose, I may begin such a tale in a tavern, where experienced fishermen ridiculed her, wounding her pride, forcing her hand, and tricking her into sailing alone into dangerous waters."

"What? What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing really," admitted The Scribe before gesturing around the whole room. "Just that this whole opening scene seems rather pointless really."

*    *    *

Merilyce awoke with a horrible taste in her mouth, a throbbing headache, yesterday's clothes stretching uncomfortably, and a sinking feeling she had said something incredibly silly the night before. She also discovered she was about four feet away from her bed, frustratingly close, yet far enough away to suggest she might have had at least one drink more than she should have.

She rolled over, struggling to get up on her knees, then continued rolling, managing only to get into a sitting position.

"Good morning," said a cheerful voice.

She started, blinking as she tried to focus, searching the room and spotting a well-dressed man in front of her, sitting in her only chair with a parchment and feather pen, scribbling away.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"The question, really, is what are you doing in your house? You made a commitment last night, remember? The hundred pound fish?"

Godsdammit. It all came back to her then. She sighed as she dropped her head in her hands, shaking it gently as the events of the night replayed in her mind.

"I remember," she acknowledged. "But you didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

"Just ignore me. I will try to keep out of your way as I write your part in this tale."

Was she losing it? Probably. But it was light outside already, and she had a fish to catch. She jumped up as fast as her aching body could carry her, washed her face, rinsed out her mouth to try to combat the foul taste, then jogged down to the docks. She found her fishing canoe just where she had left it, and launched into the bay. She paddled hard, trying to reach the deeper water before the day caught up with her.

Merilyce's Tale continues in A Fish Too Big part 2 >>>