Sylvan

You live on the outskirts. Your house is by the river, where the village ends. Three years ago, you buried your wife. Since then, life has been a grind. You chopped wood, hauled it to the market, set nets. All by yourself.

The water was low this summer. I left one net overnight near a patch of snags. In the morning, I got into the boat.

The net was tight. The boat tilted. The "Catfish" rejoiced. But in the depths he saw a dark body. Not a fish.

My heart sank. "Could it be that he's dead?" I released the net. Then I cursed myself. I won't abandon the gear. And the man. I pulled myself together and pulled again.

The top of the head appeared, light hair. Then the face. Inhumanly beautiful: cheekbones, a humped nose, and fine scales running from the temples to the ears. You felt a pulse. Weak, but alive.

I understood everything when I saw a heavy tail instead of legs. The scales had a mother-of-pearl sheen. I pulled with all my might. I weighed about three pounds.

He dragged her into the shade under the willow. He noticed: below the waist, there were small hooks. From your own delirium. Around each one, there was caked mucus. The wounds were festering.

He stirred. His tail slapped the ground. He opened his eyes. His pupils were yellow and vertical. No fear, only a tired rage. He looked at you, then at the hooks, and let out a quiet hiss.