13th of Summer, 450AV
Laviku was not happy that day. Matthews Bay was a mess of churning blue, and was tossing ships to and fro like an angry toddler. But it also tossed up tuna, and where there was fish, there were always fishermen.
A motley crew of men in a rickety, mold-eaten casinor was being rocked by the waves, nearly capsizing twice before righting itself with a lurch. On its deck, scores of men, women and children scrambled like so many ants to keep their baby afloat, and to haul in the great net behind the boat hauling in their life blood. They all wore similar garb; durable, moth eaten garb, often handed down a few generations before reaching their owners. In charge of the winch that dragged the net back onto the ship was a rickety little boy in faded blue overalls, with dirty blonde hair, and startling green eyes. He wasn't normally in charge, but the boy that normally did it, a stout, strong-jawed lad of thirteen named Jason, had fallen ill and couldn't leave his bed. A situation his replacement was more than familiar with.
The sea spray stung his eyes, and the wind threatened to hurl him into the raging waters below, but he held fast to the damp wooden winch. His knuckles were white and numb, and his limbs felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. Distantly behind him, he heard a man's gruff voice shout over the battering rain, "Igon! Hoist her up!"
The boy quickly moved to comply, his bare feet trying desperately, futilely, to find purchase on the slick surface of the casinor. Igon slipped and landed on his rear with a loud thump, and the storm was worsening. The little human boy had no intent of giving up however. After a couple ticks of frantic slipping, he was upright again, and he strained again against the stubborn clockwork of the winch.
The first tooth of the gear slid with a loud click. Igon's face was turning bright red, and his teeth were gritted in determination. Splinters dug into his heels as he pushed and pulled and yanked with all his body and all his might against the stubborn steel. It was turning! The net was rising! Sea-soaked rope rose out of the water like a great beast, and the sound frantically flipping tuna filled the air. He was doing it!
And then fire met water. His lungs were burning, collapsing in on themselves. He felt like someone was running a cheese grater along his throat; he was dying!
Igon fell into a coughing heap, the winch snapping back to its original location before, finally, snapping. The aggregate rust on the thing had finally done its work. There would be no fish tonight. No gold. No bread on the table. And Igon was still lying there, shaking, hacking his little lungs out.
There was little they could do other than turn back; the fishermen had no net, and how could you fish with no net? While the older men tried to hide their frustration, simply smiling grimly at Igon's father, and, occasionally, Igon himself, the younger boys were nowhere near as subtle.
"Nice job, vagik!" Benjamin, one of the older boys snapped angrily at the asthmatic boy. He was a huge boy, fifteen at least, and though lean like the rest of them, was as compact and mean as a bull. Igon was walking along the rain-soaked pier, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted down. He didn't want to hear them repeat what was already going through his own head: "This is all your petching fault!"
"I didn't mean to..." Igon said timidly, not bothering to turn around or stop. Suddenly his vision went white, and he felt pain flower in his temple as well as his chest. The sky and the pier switched places, and Igon found himself falling onto his side "That doesn't matter! We're petched because of you!" the boy shouted before one of his fellows delivered a vicious kick to Igon's ribs.
"Why'd they pick you of all people to fill in for Jason?" the other boy demanded. A pug-faced fellow by the name of Daniel. He was much closer to Igon's age, and almost as skinny, but what he lacked in strength, he made up for in spite. "A little canary like you. And now look!" he threw his arm furiously in the direction of the damaged casinor, "What are we going to do about that?! Huh?!"
Another kick.
Igon simply curled up into himself, whimpering in pain, for what else could he do? There were three boys surrounding him, and there would be more if he fought back. And they were right. Fish didn't wheeze. The other boys didn't wheeze. Then why did he? Was he just weak? Daniel spat on him before turning around as if to leave, then delivering one final punt to Igon's shins. Benjamin soon suggested loudly that they go catch up to their Pas, or go grab a Kelp Beer. The other boys soon agreed. After all, they respected Benjamin.
Igon wasn't included, however. Igon wasn't one of the boys. Wasn't one of the men either, by any stretch of the word. He was nobody. A spindly little squirt with the lungs of a canary. But he still had himself. And so, sniffling and wiping away tears that fell despite his best efforts, the little asthmatic dragged himself back home, where mommy and medicine could be found.
