Chapter 6: The Carp and the Old Man

Just then,

I heard a splash break the quiet of the riverbank.

Water sprayed everywhere in the river.

A huge blue carp leapt out of the water, tracing a graceful arc in the air before landing heavily in the mud on the bank. The splash echoed like a gunshot in the stillness.

The carp writhed and rolled in the mud, its silvery scales glinting weakly in the sunlight, its movements frantic and desperate.

Its stranded state was almost comical, a little pitiful, and somewhat helpless—a déjà vu of river tales I’d heard as a kid.

I stood up, picked up a tree branch, and pushed it back into the water, my heart racing and hands trembling as I did.

As soon as it hit the water, it vanished in the blink of an eye.

A few minutes later,

Another splash sounded.

It jumped out of the water again, landing hard in the mud on the bank.

I picked up the branch again and pushed it into the water, sweat prickling my palms.

Strangely, a few minutes later, it leapt out again, the same scene repeating like a strange loop.

Watching it, I sighed and said, more naturally:

"Lucky for you, I’m not much for fish. If it were someone else, you wouldn’t have survived today. I’ll help you one last time."

With that, I used the branch to push it back into the water:

"Go on, don’t come out again."

After it went back in, I waited a few minutes, my relief growing but unease lingering.

This time, it really didn’t come out again.

I sat back down, brushing mud off my jeans, feeling oddly relieved. The river was quiet again, save for the gentle lapping of water against the bank. I glanced at the candles, their flames flickering low, and wondered if the carp had been some kind of sign.

I stood by the riverbank, dazed.

Could this fish understand human speech? Was it something more? I was still lost in thought, about to go back to the shade, when suddenly the scent of hickory smoke and sizzling fat drifted over—classic American barbecue, mouthwatering and familiar.

The scent was rich and smoky, making my stomach grumble despite the weirdness of the day. I scanned the trees and spotted a thin column of smoke rising just beyond the bend, where the river curved toward the old railroad bridge.

I turned and saw, not far away, an old man in black roasting something over a fire—the aroma was mouthwatering.

He looked like someone out of a Mark Twain story, wearing a battered black hat pulled low over his eyes, boots caked in river mud, and a face lined with years. The fire crackled, casting orange light on his weathered features as he turned the meat on a spit made from tree branches.

I swallowed, hesitating whether to go over, when the old man waved and called out, more colloquially:

"Hey, kid, come grab a bite."

His voice was rough, but friendly—like someone you’d meet at a roadside diner. I hesitated, a flash of childhood memory about stranger danger crossing my mind, but the smell was too good to ignore.

I answered and quickly walked over.

But as soon as I saw what he was cooking, my appetite vanished.

He was roasting a huge yellow eel, as long as a fishing pole, over the fire.

The eel was golden all over, with two bulging lumps on either side of its forehead, making it look almost supernatural.

The sight was strange, almost unnatural. The fire made the eel’s skin glisten, and the lumps pulsed as if alive. I took a step back, feeling uneasy.

"Young man, what are you doing by the riverbank at noon?"

The old man flipped the eel and said:

"It’s almost ready, come have some to fill your stomach."

"I—I’m just here to cool off."

I quickly shook my head and said:

"You go ahead and eat, sir. I ate too much this morning, I’m not hungry now."

I tried to sound polite, but my voice cracked. The old man smiled, showing crooked teeth, and leaned closer to the fire.

"Noon is the time when the shadows run deepest."

The old man looked up at me and said:

"You’re cooling off here, aren’t you afraid of running into something unclean? At this time, water ghosts, they say, turn into blue carp and leap from the water. Anyone who tries to catch them will be dragged into the river and become their replacement. You’ve got the look of death about you—are you risking your life for someone else?"

He spoke softly, but his words cut through me like ice water. I shivered, suddenly aware of how cold the river breeze felt against my skin.

"What did you say?"

I broke out in a cold sweat, knees weak, my voice rising:

"Water ghosts turn into blue carp? I—I have death energy on me?"

My heart thudded in my chest, and I glanced back at the river, remembering the carp and wondering what it all meant. The old man just smiled, his eyes glinting with something ancient and knowing, as the sun slipped a little lower in the sky. I wondered if I’d survive until sunset.