Looking outside the window towards the setting sun, Edda realized the time. “Oh, Pétur! Quickly, take that bucket in the corner and run down to the dock. There you will find a man by the name of Psarás. He is a childhood friend of your father’s. Tell him that you are there to collect what I paid for and give him my name. Then hurry back so I can cook the fish.”

Pétur looked perplexed. “Fish? I thought fish was banned in Monsa.”

“No, that is just some nonsense your mother made up to keep you away from the shoreline. The Monsans would not have survived their migration if not for the Aeqori fishers. Many Monsans still eat fish to this day, like Bydlę, for example. And speaking of Marika, do not tell her that I sent you to the dock for dinner. She will have me in church every day doing some nonsensical penance.”

“Well, at least then you could see me every day,” Pétur jested.

Edda sighed at Pétur in an unamused fashion. “Not the time. You must leave now, or we won’t have dinner until the middle of the night.”

Pétur nodded and started for the door when he heard Edda call out. He spun around and saw her holding the bucket. Slightly embarrassed he took it and darted out the door. Edda chuckled and began preparing the vegetables she had bought earlier from the market. She placed a large pot onto the stove filling it with water. Edda then grabbed a cast iron pan pouring a small amount of fish oil, known as garum, into it. She paused for a moment to organize her thoughts. Edda placed fennel leaves, turnips, carrots, celery, and cabbage on the table next to a large chopping knife. She clasped her hands together where her pointer fingers touched at a skyward point, and her thumbs rolled side by side upwards. Her remaining fingers were interlocked, creating the appearance of a blade’s tip.

Edda began humming a strange melody. She sang, “Spirit of my blade, the music calls. Rise up and dance to cut them all!”

The flat portion of the knife started glowing with soft white symbols. The blade rose into the air as Edda separated her hands. She continued humming the strange melody while her hands made chopping motions in the air. The knife mimicked her movements chopping the vegetables quickly and cleanly. After all the vegetables had been reduced to bite-sized pieces, Edda lowered her hands. She finished humming the ending of the melody and relaxed. The knife began to float down towards the table but suddenly began spinning wildly.

Edda scowled at the knife as it floated around the room, spinning like a maiden drunk at a dance. “Every time! You do this every time! You would think after forty years you would learn to calm down.”

Angrily the knife stopped spinning and hovered in the air. It flung itself across the room in Edda’s direction as if it planned to murder her on the spot.

Edda roared, “Enough!”

The blade stopped midair falling into the table, cleaving another split in the wood. The table was teeming with cracks and holes from past uses of the knife. Its surface was rough to the touch, splintered with years of abnormal wear and tear. The table looked more like a large cutting board than a proper place to eat food.

“Why are blade spirits so stubborn? I should have never traded my scrying cup to that Caeli sword maiden. Honestly, the only thing you have done over the years is destroyed my kitchen.” Edda sighed and turned back to the stove.

The knife fell over as if it had been defeated in battle and lost the will to fight. The blade’s spirit did not necessarily understand Edda’s words, per se. Still, it did seem to appreciate her tone just fine. The two have had decades of struggle since the knife was traded from its creator. Edda seemed dissatisfied at her inability to quell the knife’s unruly behavior. She never feared the tantrums but more felt tremendous amounts of frustration. Edda understood that a magical object could never harm the one who wields it. She often mused that the spirit of her scrying cup had behaved better.

Ignoring the knife’s melodramatics, Edda returned to cooking. Taking a handful of olives, she squeezed them over the pan containing the garum. Edda then dropped the olives into the pan. She dipped her hand in a dish filled with vinegar containing peeled lemon slices. Grabbing a few pieces, Edda also squeezed their juices into the pan. She sprinkled and scattered salt, coriander seeds, oregano, and dill. Edda quickly peeled a few cloves of garlic, also throwing them in.

“I forgot the pepper. Pétur will need that to improve his health. He is not nearly as strong as his father was at his age.” Edda darted over and quickly ground up a few peppercorns in her mortar and pestle. She added that to the mixture in the pan.

Wandering to the table again, Edda collected the chopped vegetables into a wooden bowl. She dipped everything in the vinegar dish before tossing it into the pot full of water. After Edda had emptied the bowl, she ran outside to a small bundle of wooden sticks near the door. Rushing back into the house, Edda opened a small door in the center of the stove. She arranged the wood into a stacked square of sorts. Edda opened a drawer and removed a piece of flint. She grabbed the knife from the table and began striking it against the flint near the open stove door. No matter how hard she hit the stone, she could not make any sparks. “You really are a useless blade,” growled Edda while returning the knife to the table.

Walking back to the stove, she placed the flint inside in the center of the pile of sticks. Edda closed her eyes, calling out, “Spirit of thunder, strike your hammer!” She opened her eyes and snapped her fingers simultaneously. With that, the flint sparked up, igniting the sticks. Edda closed the door and returned to preparing the remainder of the meal. She was glad that Pétur did not see any of her magical workings. Edda knew it was not time for him to learn the truth yet. He would find it on his own soon enough. She did begin to wonder what was keeping him, and Edda imagined Psarás was telling stories again. Sighing, she walked over to the flowers Pétur had picked earlier. Plucking a few petals, she whispered quietly to them. Opening her hand near the window, a slight breeze caught the petals causing them to fly away into the night.

***

Pétur darted out of Edda’s house and down the street passing his own home. With the bucket in tow, it took him just under ten minutes to make it down the hillside stairs. He saw several smaller boats, not much bigger than canoes tied to the dock. Pétur looked around for Psarás but could barely see anything. Squinting, he noticed a brightly lit fishing ship slightly larger than a sloop in the distance but still having only one mast. He thought that must be it.

Pétur walked to the edge of the dock. Cupping his hands, he called out, “Hello! I am looking for Psarás! Is anyone there?”

“No need to yell,” came an unfamiliar voice behind him.

Pétur nearly fell into the water from the shock of the surprise. Startled, he turned around to see an older man slightly shorter than himself around forty years old. He had no beard, olive-brown skin, and piercing blue eyes. He was wearing a light-gray wool hat that stood tall on his head with the edge folded upwards. A dark brown tunic tied off with a frayed and twisted rope covered most of him. His knees and arms were exposed to the elements. He seemed as thin as Pétur but had considerably more lean muscle from years of work. His face seemed weathered and weary from a life of hardship.

“What can I help you with?” calmly asked the man.

Pétur nervously asked, “Sorry. Are you Psarás?”

Psarás wryly responded, “I am. What business do we have?”

“My babka. I mean, Edda said she had paid you for a fish and asked me to pick it up.” Pétur held up the bucket.

Psarás began to laugh. “You must be Rybak’s yiós, Pétur.”

“You knew my father? Wait, what’s a yiós?” Pétur confusedly stared.

Psarás smiled. “Yiós is the Aeqori word for son. I was born on one of the islands of Aeqor.”

Pétur transfixed on Psarás like he was a ghost. A surge of enthusiasm washed over Pétur. “Wait! Are you serious? Can you breathe underwater or see in the dark? Do you control the tides?”

Psarás gazed at Pétur as if he was evaluating Pétur’s mind for defects. After a few moments, Psarás spoke confidently, “Yes. You are Rybak’s son. You both have the same diáyesi.” Psarás’s words were met with a blank stare. “It means one’s character or nature.”

Pétur blurted out, “I do? I mean, I am, but that is not important. You said you were Aeqori. I thought they were a myth to scare children. So, are you a son of the great shark, a child of Zale?”

Psarás smiled again. “Wouldn’t that be something if I were? I could call fish into my nets or converse with crabs on the shoreline.” Psarás chuckled and was amused by the questions. “I am not the shark’s son. Think of my people and me more like children of the sea. I am a waterman because I know the ways of the ocean, like your father.”

Pétur froze in shock. He looked at Psarás and wondered if this man was lying to him. Pétur reacted without thinking and spewed, “I am Monsan, and my father can’t be from Aeqor. My mother hates the sea. She would never marry an Aeqori, not that Aeqor is bad, but she really hates….” Pétur felt no deception in what he was told but still could not make sense of it. “… but how?”

Psarás interjected, “But how could Rybak be Aeqori when he looks so different than me?”

Pétur nodded sheepishly, realizing the disrespect in his foolish words.

“The Aeqori people are diverse in their traditions, customs, and even appearance. Despite those differences, we speak one language and are one people. My family lived in warmer regions near the kingdom of Arenosa. Your father and grandmother were born much further north, near the country of Cael. Our legends say that the icy waters of Cael froze their skin which is why it is so light, but no one truly knows why. Despite these differences, we have the same eyes and ancestors.”

“Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. My mother has been very outspoken about the Aeqori, and I did not know.” Pétur was reassured by Psarás’s smile. “So then, if you both are watermen, then are the children of the shark and their powers a myth?”

“They exist but choose to isolate themselves from the rest of the Aeqori.” Psarás sighed. “They feel they are superior because of their closeness with Zale. He has blessed them with the ability to live on both land and sea. They choose to live away from us and other places.”

“That is amazing!” Pétur delighted.

“The world can be when it chooses to be. Pétur, I know that your mother is angry at the ocean and our ancestors. She was not always this way. Before you were born, she loved sailing and the sea. She wanted to leave Monsa, but Edda insisted on staying with the mountain folk. What choice is there when an Aeqori matriarch has spoken? Then after your father went missing, kaumaha took your mother’s heart.”

“Kaumaha?” Pétur puzzled.

“The spirit of grief. He helps to remember the ones we lost. Sometimes when the love is strong, he will live in the heart for a long time. Marika loved Rybak fiercely as only a mountain woman can. I suspect kaumaha will stay with your mother for many years.” Psarás exhaled sadly.

“If you were so close to my father, why have I never heard about you until now?” Pétur asked.

“She never really liked me much, especially because Rybak and I would be fishing for days at a time. That can take a toll. Being a fisher is difficult. The ocean is unyielding and always demands respect. Your father knew this, but Marika did not understand. Shortly after you were born, Rybak obtained his own boat and started to work alone. Traditionally, Aeqori watermen work together when fishing, so I was against his decision. It was a dangerous and foolish decision that led to his disappearance.” Psarás took an internal inventory and realized he may have said too much. “Although we parted ways, we remained distant friends. I would see him at the docks on my trips and sometimes at sea. We talked here and there, but he never wished to anger Marika.”

“You keep saying missing. Isn’t he dead?” Pétur nervously asked.

Psarás gazed deeply into Pétur’s eyes. “Your father was the best fisher I ever knew. Although his ship was wrecked, I doubt he drowned. I disagree with your mother and Edda. I cannot believe that someone as great as your father would ever be killed by the water.”

Pétur teared up a bit. “Thank you for saying that. It means a lot to me.”

A slight breeze blew a small handful of purple petals between the two. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared, depositing the petals right at the feet of Psarás. He looked down and then smiled at the petals. “Vadoma’s tears and a nearly full moon. Looks like it’s time for you to return to your grandmother.”

Pétur was lost by Psarás’s words.

“It is an old legend meaning departure. Well, enough talking. You came here for a fish, and a fish you shall have!” Psarás walked past Pétur to where one of the boats was tied to the dock. He stuck his hand in the water and pulled up a small net attached to the boat. As he pulled the net from the water, a small fish emerged, squirming and trapped midair. “Fill the bucket with water and bring it here.”

Pétur hastily complied, submerging the bucket in the water and pulling it out again. Psarás opened the net, dropping the fish into the bucket with a splash. Although tight, the fish fit into the bucket with almost no room to move. Psarás retied the net to the boat, then turned back to face Pétur. Pétur picked up the bucket feeling the increased weight of it.

Psarás requested, “Please tell Edda that I honor our agreement and will stay a bit longer before departing.”

Pétur nodded, then asked, “So you are staying in Monsa? Do you think I could talk to you more when I have time? I want to learn more about my Papa and … our culture.”

Psarás smiled. “I would like that very much. Perhaps if you have time tomorrow, you could come to see me for more stories. I will be at this dock in the morning selling my catch.”

Pétur frowned. “I can’t tomorrow. I have this Monsan religious thing I need to do. But maybe the day after.”

Psarás affirmed, “Until then Pétur. Go before Edda sends the wolves to hunt me down.”

Pétur chuckled and then headed back to his grandmother’s house as fast as his strength would allow him.

***

It took Pétur twice as long to return to Edda as it did to get to the docks initially. With its increased weight, he struggled to carry the bucket up the hillside stairs. It held just over four gallons of seawater, slightly heavier than the rainwater it ordinarily contained. Pétur wanted to avoid spilling because he was unsure how much Sileny needed. He wondered why she wanted those specific items, never disclosing that information. Sileny only said that they were the key to her freedom.

Bursting into Edda’s house, Pétur saw Edda cooking at the stove. He sat the bucket down on the floor, causing a loud thud. “We are Aeqori?!?”

Edda sighed. “I did hope to be the one to tell you, but yes. You are half Aeqori, specifically of the Kítos.”

“Babka? What does that mean?” Pétur’s frustration grew.

Edda began explaining while continuing to cook. “In ancient times, the Aeqori lived on the island nation of Kóra. All Aeqori descend from the original families that lived there. Each family was blessed with a sacred gift by a different spirit. The gifts worked together, transforming the families into one people. The five great spirits of sun, wind, sea, forest, and moon gave our people the gifts of sovereignty, reverence, strength, love, and wisdom.”

Pétur excitably interrupted Edda, “Are you saying that our ancestors prayed to the sea and the moon? Does this mean we are evil? Kaplan Rufa said that people who pray to Zale and Vadoma are….”

Without missing a step, Edda reached into the bucket, pulled out the fish, and chopped its head off. The noise and site startled Pétur into silence. “The Kaplan, like many Monsans, do not know the truth of Krása. All they know is lies, fear, and destruction.” Edda looked up to glare at Pétur with a seriousness he had not seen ever. She looked back down and began preparing the fish. “Our family has been blessed by the moon spirit, whom the mountain people call Vadoma. Kítos means whale, which is the animal form the moon spirit takes while in the ocean. Psarás’s family, the Delfíni, have been blessed by the spirit of the forest and their name means dolphin. Before you ask, a whale is a gentle fish as large as a ship, and a dolphin is a large playful fish that swims together with many different creatures.”

Pétur seemed frozen and in disarray as he processed all the information. “Wait! Does this mean that Zale is the sea spirit and Vadim is the sun spirit?”

“Yes and no. Zale’s family line is called the Manō, which means shark, but Vadim is not our sun spirit. I do know where he comes from. Our sun spirit bore the Honu and took the form of the turtle. The Honu were skilled craftspeople building boats, tools, and houses. Vadim is not known for building things.” Edda moved the descaled fish to the frying pan that had been slowly heating the garum and other ingredients. They began to sizzle, releasing an enticing aroma filling the room. “I think the last family may interest you as it shares some connection with Monsan mythology. The He’e were skilled hunters and fishers who shared their knowledge of sailing. Their spirit was the wind and took the form of an octopus. How do I explain… Think of a small fish with no bones and eight arms.”

“Babka, but how does that relate?” Pétur had plenty of references to fish and sharks, given their Monsan demonization, but he had never heard of whales, dolphins, and octopi. Edda’s description of them created surreal caricatures that might only be viewed in the deepest dreams.

“Well, Monsan religion states that women may not hold power, including goddesses. Women with actual power are said to be insane or do not exist in that view. Remember in their stories states that Zale created monsters to devour the sun’s people. So, in our stories, the sea spirit was also rejected by the moon and blamed the sun, but he did not create the monsters. Zale consoles himself in another goddess called Stacia, the Lady of the Tides. Her power stills or moves the waves and grants swift travel on water and land. Stacia is the Aeqori wind spirit. Our story says the wind became jealous of the sea’s love for the moon. She feared the sea’s wrath and instead sought to attack the sun, brother to the moon. This means that Stacia created those creatures from Monsan myths. Still, because they were unwilling to say a woman had such power, early Kaplans changed the story to blame Zale. There was never a war between sea and sky. It was between wind and sun to spite sea and moon.”

Pétur did not know what to think. If the Kaplan heard any of this, he would likely have Edda stoned to death. He never knew Edda to lie but never heard anyone claim that kaplans could betray divine truth. He was overwhelmed and just tried to listen as his babka spun lifetimes of stories. As he absorbed the stories, Edda plated the banquet of cooked food. Pétur ate the Aeqori dish, feasting as he never had before. Despite its deliciousness, all he could think about was how Sileny had shared similar ideas. Two people important to Pétur claimed that the church had a history of lying and doing harm. This contradicted everything his mother had raised him to believe. He did not know what to think or do. Pétur was not prepared with what he had learned tonight and remained in a partial state of shock the rest of the night.