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In Which September Feeds Herself, By Gruesome Means

“I shall catch a fish, just see how I do!” cried September to no one but the moon. The moon, for his part, smiled behind one white hand and tried to look very serious.

But September had been thinking about the problem of a hook, and when she had her lock of hair tied up to the wrench again, she suddenly seized the hilt of the wrench and brought it banging down on the curlicued head of one of the silver sceptres. The wrench, eager for something to do, quite crushed the wand’s head, and bits of metal flew over the deck of the raft. September picked out a likely shard and knotted it into her long, braided strands of hair.

“Now for bait,” she said, “which I’ve none of at all.”

September suddenly cursed herself, that she had not thought to save a few berries from the beach.

“No points for ought to have,” she sighed.

September pushed the makeshift hook into the pad of her thumb until she could not help but yelp in pain. Blood welled up, and she rubbed the hook in it, all over, until it shone red. Her eyes watered, but she did not cry. The sound of her stomach was louder than the pain of her thumb. Slowly, she sunk the bloody hook into the water, and waited.

Fishing, as many of you know, is a very tedious activity. Fish are stubborn and do not like to be killed and eaten. One has to stay very still, so still one almost falls asleep, and even then no fish might come. Even the moon busied itself elsewhere, watching a pine forest full of martens and harpies chase each other round in circles. The stars moved overhead, racing on their long silver track, and still September sat, her line in the water, patient as death.

Finally, the line went taut and tugged beneath the mild waves. September leapt up. “What have I caught?” she cried with excitement. “What will it be? Why, this is like Christmas, when you’ve no idea what might be in the packages!”

September hauled hard on the wrench, and fell backwards as her prize flew up onto the deck. It was pink, the very color of a pink crayon, and its eyes bulged huge and emerald. It gaped pitifully, suddenly forced to contend with air instead of water. September felt sorry for it, all in a rush.

“I know you don’t want to be eaten,” she said wretchedly. “And I don’t want to eat you! But it’s been two days now and I must have something!”

The fish gaped.

“If only you were a magic fish, you could grant a wish, and I could have more of the lovely spriggans’ feast, or Ell’s radishes.”

The fish sucked at the air but found no sea to breathe there.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered finally. “I don’t want to chew up another creature just to keep on for another day! You’re alive. But I’m alive, too! Alive doesn’t much care about anything but staying that way. Just like you meant to eat my blood, and that’s why you were caught. I suppose I ought to stop talking. I don’t think you are a magic fish.”

September did not know anything about killing fish, really. Her mother and grandfather usually did that part. But she could think logically enough. She brought the hilt of the wrench down hard on the pink fish’s head. She shut her eyes at the last moment, though, and missed. Twice more and she had it, though she quite wished she hadn’t. However, September knew that was not the worst part. You couldn’t just bite into a fish. The guts had to come out. Wincing, not wanting to watch what her hands were doing, September took up the hook and brought it down on the fish’s soft pink belly. The skin was tougher than she thought, and she had to saw at it. Her hands got quite soaked in blood, which looked black in the moonlight. Finally, she got the belly open and reached inside, where it was warm and slimy and she was crying by then, big, hot tears rolling down her face and into the ruined fish. With one pull she hauled the fish’s organ-parts out and threw them overboard, sobbing on her knees over her supper.

You mustn’t think poorly of her for crying. Up until that moment, fish had mainly come into her life cooked filleted and salted with