The heavy mist hanging in the cool night air snuffed out the cinders of the bonfire hours ago, yet The Giant is still awake. He lies restlessly in his bed, staring at the ceiling of his cabin and feeling the cold metal of his right hand with the warm flesh of his left.
‘Was it all worth it?’ he thinks to himself, stroking his unbending fingers permanently caught in a loop. ‘I have devoted my life to catching a fish, a fish I released into the Reservoir, no less. All the struggle, all the pain, all the long days of isolation through the hottest of summers, through the coldest of winters… has it all been worth it?’
The answer, given within his mind, is a resounding no. The Giant rises from his bed and slips moccasins on his feet. Tucked beneath his bed is a locked chest, the box made from solid oak and scorched ever so slightly to give it a rustic color to match the metal gildings and slidelock, both crafted by none other than Black Smith. A talented metalworker, that Black Smith, very talented indeed. The Giant feels a hit of gratitude thinking of how enemies of old may one day become the greatest of allies, so long as the Great Spirit wills it. The Spirit, too, is a talented one, very talented indeed, though its talents extend far beyond the field of metalworking.
The Giant pushes the slides in the order Black Smith showed him and the lock goes click. The hinges do not creak as The Giant opens the lid. He reaches his hand in, the one of flesh, not metal, and from the shadowy box he pulls his secret weapon, the one tool of the fishcatching trade no other giant may wield. All fishcatchers use lures – some are simple shiny hooks, some are shaped like the prey of the fish they’re meant to catch – but none have access to what The Giant hangs from his rough, callused fingers.
In the dim glow of the moonlight shining through his bedside window, The Giant watches the grand spoonplug dangle gently back and forth.
The grand spoonplug is the ultimate lure for catching Monksville’s aquatic king. Painted as to resemble an owl were an owl a lakebreather and bent to swim through the water as it is pulled, the grand spoonplug is strapped with hooks big enough to land a whitetail were the beasts of burden capable of a lakebreathing lifestyle. It is the only one of its kind; if any lure will do the job of bringing in Monksville’s last muskellunge, this spoonplug is the lure.
As he removes the longpole from its hooks high up on the wall, The Giant speaks aloud to himself. “All the effort I’ve put in to catch that fish was not worth it, and it never will be worth it. Not until its scaly hide slaps against the floor of my boat.”
The Giant embarks into the night. He heads towards the hill his tribesfolk once referred to as treacherous, the road leading up to Monksville. Tonight will be the night, and if it isn’t? The great shine shall always rise, and then it shall set, and then it shall rise again.
This has been the third subchapter of the last chapter of the book The Monksville Chronicles. Here is everything you need to know about it:
The Monksville Chronicles
- A novel about storytelling
- Book stats:
– 276 pages
– 72,749 words
– Series: The Sandbox | Entry: 0.5
– Revision Date: July 20, 2021
- Click here for the free PDF, buy links, etc
I’ve written a few other books, too. Even fixed the link. Click here to see the list.
If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~