Stephen Myer

The Trout and the Lonely Woman

Ahimsa Majub Fiorskaya was a lonely woman. She wanted nothing to do with people because they lied—or were incapable of telling the truth. They greeted her on the coldest, gloomiest mornings, told her how wonderful the weather was, and said she would benefit from a stroll in the warm sunshine to bring color to her pallid cheeks. They declared that many available men looked forward to dancing with her at the village festival, though she could hardly walk, let alone dance, because her right leg had been damaged early in life. Even worse, some callously suggested that someday a handsome prince from a faraway land would arrive at her door and sweep her off her good foot.

I am done with all of it, she thought. I will not waste my time listening to their nonsense.

One day, this lonely woman, who lived in the village of Szaloni, walked into the local fish market. As she studied the large selection of fish, she found herself drawn to an unusual-looking trout. Its mouth was shut, and its left eye was missing, as if it had been gouged from its socket by a careless fisherman’s hook that missed its mark. And if that weren’t horrible enough, the lower half of its slender body had lost its scales.

Ahimsa couldn’t stop staring at the trout, perhaps out of sympathy for a creature whose deformity stemmed from a terrible misfortune—like hers. The sight of the fish brought back memories of the brutality she had endured.

Suddenly orphaned when girls blossom into womanhood, she remembered the night the soldiers on horseback stormed through the village, crouched in the stirrups of their wild horses, which snorted with rage as they reared up and kicked down the wooden doors of the houses.

The soldiers slashed at anything that moved. Her left eye was plucked out by the tip of a mercenary’s sword before her innocence was taken. Ahimsa’s entire family perished that night at the hands of those ruthless butchers. The attack left her partially blind and crippled, forcing her to live the rest of her life in physical and emotional pain. There were still those in her village who remembered that night, yet insisted it never happened—that night love left her heart.

“I’ll take that one,” she said, pointing to the freakish trout.

“He’s an odd-looking fellow,” said the fishmonger. “Why, he must have had a rough time in the Rushing River.”

“I suppose so,” said the lonely woman.

“Surely, Ahimsa, there are more appealing fish to choose from. My counter is stocked with handsome trout.”

“I want him,” she demanded.

The fishmonger shook his head and wiped his wrinkled fingers on the soiled apron wrapped around his rotund body.

“Very well,” he said, lifting the disfigured trout off its icy bed.

The woman noticed its tail flopping back and forth in his hand.

“Wait. This fish is still alive,” she said.

He glanced at the trout that lay limp in his hand, then looked at her and burst into laughter.

“Oh, my dear Ahimsa, you’re funny and have such a wonderful imagination to boot.”

He’s lying, she thought, or too stupid to see things as they are. “I am not being funny. Nor do I have a wonderful imagination,” she said. “That fish moved in your hand.”

“No, no. Impossible,” said the monger. He reached for his spectacles, which dangled from a frayed fishing line strung around his neck. After a thorough inspection, during which he prodded, shook, and questioned the fish, he presented the evidence to the woman.

“You see, Ahimsa. Nothing. He’s quite dead.”

“Don’t make a fool of me, Grub. I know what I saw.”

The bellowing voice of the fishmonger betrayed his kind nature.

“Who knows the truth about anything, let alone a trout? I don’t run a pet store. I sell dead fish. Do you want it or not?”

“Yes. I want him.”

“Him? You seem to have an odd interest in this creature,” said the fishmonger.

“In any case, this fish should be treated kindly, especially if he suffered.”

“How would I know if he suffered? Ask God. Who but the Almighty and the fish know the truth?”

“Ask God?” she said. “He never answers my prayers … and fish don’t talk.”

“All right, Ahimsa.”

In that village, an oath was not taken lightly. He raised his hand and swore on his mother’s grave that the fish died peacefully and suffered nothing more than the quick sting of a hook when caught in the Rushing River.

“Please, Lord,” he said, under his breath. “Forgive me, but I can’t take this mad woman any longer.”

“I heard what you said, Grub. You realize you wagered your mother’s soul?”

A worried look spread across the fishmonger’s face.

“Wrap him up … gently,” said the woman. “How much do I owe you?”

The fishmonger smiled, relieved that his dead mother had escaped relocation to a warmer climate and would continue to rest in peace.

“I’ve never seen anyone so taken with a fish,” said Grub. He handed her the package. “Here. No charge. It’s a gift from me to you. Now go. Go!”

Grub’s unexpected generosity caught her off guard. I can’t remember the last time anyone had given me a gift, she thought. In her heart, she forgave the fishmonger any transgression he committed against her or the trout.

Ahimsa tied the shopping sack around her waist, then limped home along the narrow streets of Szaloni. With each uneven step, the sack slapped hard against her hip. Arriving home, she quickly unwrapped the package and examined the fish.

She was sure it had its left eye missing and its mouth closed when she saw it at the market. In her house, however, it had its right eye missing and its mouth open.

Hmm. How wonderful it would be if his left eye and my right eye belonged to each other and we could both see as we once did, she thought. Ahimsa set the fish on a platter, shoved it into the icebox, and sat in her rocking chair. She picked up a newspaper and tried to read, but the words might as well have been in a foreign language. All she could think about was the fish.

As the sun set, she lit the candles and offered her prayers.

“The days pass slowly, yet when I look at myself in the mirror, I see how quickly time flies,” she said to herself. “Once, I was young and a great beauty. Not that I’m old, but who would look twice at a woman like me, let alone desire her?”

Ahimsa lit the stove and tossed a handful of herbs and spices into the frying pan, then opened the icebox and took out the platter holding the trout. She stared at the fish, relieved it hadn’t changed its expression since she’d last seen it. She picked it up and held it over the frying pan.

“Please … Please don’t!”

She stepped away from the stove, holding the trout with both hands, and looked around the room.

“Who’s there?” she called.

No one answered.

“Ugh, I must be imagining things. That’s all I need,” she muttered.

Again, she tried to place the trout in the pan, and again she heard the same plea. She looked down at the fish, and the fish looked up with its single eye.

“Yes, it’s me,” said the trout. “Look here. Don’t you think I deserve to live?”

One would have expected the woman to drop the fish and run screaming out the door, but she stared at the trout as if nothing unusual had happened.

“You’re alive,” she said. “I knew it. That liar Grub tried to deceive me.”

“What does Grub know?” said the trout. “He’s a simple man.”

Ahimsa nodded.

“You chose me from all the other fish in the market. I must have made quite an impression on you.”

“I suppose so,” she said.

“I have an idea,” said the trout. “A hot frying pan is hardly a comfortable place to carry on a decent conversation. Why don’t you fill the bathtub and put me in it? I don’t think you’re in the mood to eat me, are you?”

“No. Given the circumstances, I don’t think I could,” said Ahimsa.

She set the trout on the counter. “I’m in no hurry to get back to the Rushing River and risk getting caught again,” said the fish. “I’d love to stay here with you, even if it’s just for the night. Then tomorrow, you can decide what to do with me.”

She considered the trout’s request. “I must be dreaming,” she said.

“What’s the difference if you are or aren’t? It’s not often that two unlike creatures can see eye to eye these days,” said the trout.

The woman placed her hand over her eye patch and started to sob.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry,” said the trout. “It’s just an expression. I meant no disrespect.”

“It’s okay,” said the woman, dabbing at a tear with her apron. “By now, I should be used to such remarks about my deformity.”

“You’re not deformed, and neither am I. It’s who we are. You make too much of it.”

She stood up and walked to the mirror on the wall.

“You know, you’re quite mad,” she said to her reflection. “You’re having a conversation with a fish.”

She turned and walked into the bathroom. “I’ll draw the water,” she said. “But, what about my dinner?” she called from the other room.

“How about that leftover chicken I was lying next to in your icebox?”

He’s perceptive and quite clever, she thought.

After dinner, she visited the fish. She heard him splashing in his new home. Ahimsa cleared her throat, then pulled back the curtain and sat on the edge of the tub, watching his slender body swim back and forth. He looked up at her and arched his lips into a smile. She smiled back and folded her hands in her lap. He darted around the tub in figure eights and somersaults. Ahimsa applauded. She heard herself laugh for the first time since that terrible night, long ago.

She thanked the trout for his dinner suggestion, then confessed she felt guilty about eating a bird after talking to a fish. The trout flapped his fins and winked his eye.

A steamy mist covered the windowpane as they stared at each other. The trout suddenly stood upright on its scaleless bottom and asked her if she would turn the spigot to let cool water trickle over him, like the waterfall by the river.

“Yes, of course,” she said, happy to please him.

“Thank you,” said the trout. “You’re very kind.”

“You may call me Ahimsa if you like.”

They sat quietly, enjoying each other’s company, when she suddenly stood and told him it was best for her to retire to her room. After all, she had had a most unusual day and felt exhausted. She closed the spigot and leaned over the tub, letting her fingers enter the trout’s domain. He brushed against her hand. A tiny bubble escaped from his mouth and burst at the surface. She believed it was a kiss.

He bid her good night as he, too, settled into peaceful rest in the corner of the tub. She drew the curtain and left his room.

That night, she dreamt of a handsome prince from a faraway land, dressed in plate armor, who had chosen her name from the Szaloni Directory of Lonely Women. He visited her and told her she would be lonely no more. The prince asked her to marry him. She immediately accepted.

She awoke the next morning, hoping to find the prince lying beside her. He wasn’t there. Although it had been only a dream, she felt that something extraordinary had happened to her.

She tossed off the quilt. During the night, she had removed her gown and now lay naked on the bed, ruminating on her dream lover. Only when she sat up did she notice flat, shiny fish scales covering her body from her waist to her toes.

Ahimsa jumped out of bed in horror and limped to the bathroom. She pulled back the curtain and found the trout just waking from his watery dreams.

“Look at me!” she shouted. “I’m covered in fish scales. What have you done, you evil creature?”

“Fish scales?” said the startled trout.

“You cast a spell on me, Devil Fish!” she cried.

“I certainly did not,” insisted the trout.

“Liar! You are no better than the rest. I thought I could trust you.”

She wrapped herself in an overcoat, bolted out the front door, and hobbled down the street toward the police station. Ahimsa told the constable she was turning into a fish, the result of an evil spell cast by the trout in her bathtub. The constable looked at her but saw no evidence to support her claim and said she must have had a nightmare. She lifted the bottom of her coat to reveal the scales. The constable, surprised by her immodesty, told her a second time that he saw nothing unusual, except the attractive leg of a woman.

“You liar. Look at my body! Am I the only one who can see them?” she said.

“Ahimsa, this is foolish. You’re imagining things. Go home and make yourself a nice cup of tea. You’ll soon forget this nonsense.”

She refused his advice and kept pestering him until he agreed to visit her house and see for himself. When the policeman saw the trout swimming in the tub, he immediately snatched the fish from the water and arrested it.

*  *  *

The trial lasted several days. Ahimsa sat alone at the rear of the courtroom, hidden behind a veil and a long black dress that covered her entire body. She hoped to remain unnoticed by the distracted townspeople who argued over the best seats. None of them wanted to miss the most bizarre case in the village's history.

The trout kept his own counsel but never spoke in his own defense. What was the point? He knew only Ahimsa could understand.

The prosecuting attorney argued that the perverse fish was a drifter disguised as a trout who had arrived in Szaloni, using sorcery and deceit to take advantage of a lonely, helpless woman. When the judge asked the trout to respond to the prosecutor’s accusation, the fish remained silent. The crowd in the courtroom gallery laughed, then hissed at the trout.

The fish looked at the glum jurors and knew he was in trouble. The verdict seemed obvious even before the prosecutor’s closing remarks.

The weather turned pleasant, and the sun shone brightly on the final day of the trial. A beam of light pierced a crack in the courtroom window and struck Ahimsa’s forehead. As she bent forward to avoid the annoying glare, her eyes caught a pool of glitter on the floor in front of her. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was a pile of shiny fish scales.

Ahimsa slowly ran her hands up and down her legs. Scales fell from her like rainbow confetti. She cautiously looked around, then lifted her dress and saw her skin had returned to normal. Ahimsa scooped up the flakes and put them in her bag. Confused by this reversal of fortune, she thought it another humiliation piled on top of all her others.

She held the bag full of fish scales, wondering if the fish had truly deceived her as she had claimed. The trout had shown her respect and compassion. Perhaps I made a terrible mistake, she thought, and overreacted to the strange transformation. Love returned in a disguise I failed to recognize.

Nevertheless, she refused to speak in the trout’s defense, fearing her testimony would amount to nothing more than an admission of madness. As expected, the jury of befuddled villagers found the trout guilty. One week later, the fish was brought before the judge, who pronounced sentence.

“We do not know who or what you are, only that you resemble a fish. You have failed to defend yourself and have no witnesses to support your innocence. Therefore, I sentence you to Death by Drowning.

The trout stared at the judge, dumbfounded by the ridiculous punishment meted out.

Whoever heard of drowning a fish?

The next day, the trout was taken to the banks of the Rushing River and placed in a sack. The executioner lowered the bag into the river, where shallow water slapped against the rocky shore. After the mandatory five minutes of submersion, the trout was pronounced dead. He was removed from the sack and tossed back into the Rushing River. The strong current carried him downstream, far from the village, into the deeper waters of his true home. The trout decided he had had enough of the foolish village of Szaloni. He swore he would never be caught there again.

Time passed, and Ahimsa grew old. Although the trout was long gone, she kept him in her heart. She no longer felt troubled by the insensitive words of others, for she came to understand that truth could be as deceptive as a lie.

She kept the bag of fish scales on the mantelpiece. Every evening, before she lit the candles and prayed, she tied the bag around her waist and limped along the banks of the Rushing River, casting a scale into the water as if sending a love letter, hoping the trout would find it and return to her.

Desire became her only hope, and hope her only desire.

End

Did you enjoy this? Share your comments here.

Stephen Myer is a writer and musician in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in Tales from the Moonlit Path, Roi Faineant Press, Grand Little Things, Bewildering Stories, JayHenge Publishing Back Forty, Kafka Protocol, and Masque & Maelström Anthologies, The Avenue Journal, Close to the Bone, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blood Fiction Anthologies Vols. 2 & 3, Fiction on the Web, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award for Literary Fiction.