.17th bell.
.43rd of fall, 514av.
.43rd of fall, 514av.
Desperation drove her to it, and she stared distastefully at the short staff in her hand. A fairly straight pole nearly as long as she was tall, tip sharpened to a keen edge, it was her gigging spear. No good at all to her as a weapon against people, it was nevertheless a very good tool for capturing frogs. For food. A disgusted look twisted her face at the thought, but the food shortage had caused a rise in casual fishers, and Nellie had grown very tired of all the new competition. Not that there weren’t plenty of fish to go around, but all of her favorite fishing spots seemed to be occupied incessantly.
So she was here, on one of the smaller riverbeds on the opposite side of Sunberth, spearing frogs out of the murky dark mud of the shallows. There was a market for them, as unpleasant as she found the idea, and especially right now – if it was edible, someone wanted it. And the process was peaceful, at least. Standing ankle deep just along the shore at sunset, she saw a different side of Sunberth, and could almost pretend that the misery of daily life there was tolerable, palatable, normal. Nellie snorted softly; the romantic notion was unlike her, and a bad fit for the current activity.
Lofting the spear to shoulder height, she peered into the shadows for any sign of froggy movement. The raspy croaking had begun, echoing up and down the line of the water’s edge as the creatures began moving about, hunting their own dinner. Nellie smiled grimly. She had an empty bucket and feet that would soon go numb in the water. Every frog she saw was fair game tonight; the quicker she could finish this job and head back home, the better.
A splash to her left drew her attention, and she looked over just in time to see a smudge of greenish-brown diving beneath the sparkling surface. Too late, she thought regretfully, not bothering to cast her gig. It was a focused art, gigging. She’d learned, through trial and error, mostly, that the best way to catch a frog on her spear was not to throw the pointed weapon at the small creature, but rather to sneak up on it, getting the gig as close as possible without disturbing it. Once the target was in place, and the gig was in place, the gig was just thrust forward, relying on speed and force to finish the job.
And never, under any circumstances, did she let the gig leave her hand. She’d lost a few that way, in the speedy currents of the bigger rivers, and no longer took that chance.
So she waited, patiently, for another frog to show itself. It wasn’t a long wait, and soon enough she had her sights set on a fat, slimy specimen just poking its head out onto the muck of the shore. Inching her gig closer, so slow it seemed as if the frog was approaching her, she inhaled softly, tensed her arm, and jabbed at the unfortunate amphibian.
With a slightly disgusted grimace, she lifted her spear to see the wriggling thing on the end slowly cease its thrashing. Once it had stilled, she steeled her nerves and reached her hand out to remove it from her gig. Dropping the lifeless body into her pail, she resumed her ready stance and scanned the shore once more.
