Chapter 5 – Preparation
Idiot. It was the word that struck Ambrosius like a hammer as he suddenly awoke with a jerk from his sleep. He could see through the open doorway to his shack that the evening was stealing in and the daylight slowly fading. He had read a good way through the A Piscador's Companion before his unintentional slumber, certainly far enough to refresh his memory concerning the theoretical underpinnings of fishing. Why, then, had this accusatory little word popped into his consciousness. He was offended by it, and rubbed his hand through his hair in consternation. Surely he was well educated - all the more so for today's studies - yet still it had come to him through the ether. Idiot. How could anyone call him such? More to the point, how could he call himself such? He could read the most high-brow books, work out the most complicated equations, craft the most aesthetic carvings, build the most ingenious of contraptions. This insult stung, however, partly because it was the one thing he feared being seen as, but also, deep in some inner sanctum of the unconscious, because he suspected it was true. Idiocy takes many forms, and can affect anyone. One in five people suffer from dandruff, one in four suffer from idiocy. Ambrosius suffered from both. He was not yet consciously aware of this, but perhaps he will learn about this later on in our story.
Such thoughts aside, Ambrosius had work to do and, whilst it was now dark outside save for the pale, ghostly light of a waning Xiphias, he saw no reason not to make an immediate start. He went in to the corner of the room and pulled a clot h off something dusty and neglected on the floor. Anyone who has ever gone fishing will be familiar with what lay underneath. The Box of Things. The Box of Things is a miraculous contrivance. It is a box, medium sized and unassuming, whose lid opens out to reveal many compartments. According to the usual laws of space and time such a large number of compartments should not normally be allowed to fit into such a box. Such laws are made to be broken. In each compartment there is a different trinket, more or less related to the art of fishing.
Ambrosius opened the lid and peered through the gloom at the objects that were lit by the pale lunacy of Xiphias. In the first box was a small bobbin, hopelessly and irretrievably tangled with line. In the second box was a spinner, cast of iridescent silver which caught the light and sent it sparkling back. In the third box was a selection of hooks, covered in the red flaky Rust Fungus that is the primary decomposer of dead Hooktrees. In the fourth box was something entirely unidentifiable. In the fifth box were some dessicated maggots. These, as well as many more miscellanea in many, many more boxes, are all the usual contents of the Box of Things.
Ambrosius shut the lid, clicked down the fastenings, and carried the box outside. Now it is true that Ambrosius had always been a hopeless Fisher, but this is not to say that he was bad at preparing to fish. He had, in fact, become quite good at it in his youth. People had commented that, even with the best set-up in Expiscor, Ambrosius still couldn't catch a fish. He could still remember the preparation process perfectly, and he commenced them now with a look of determined concentration on his face. He set the Box down on the bough, taking a knife out and sticking it in his be lt as he did so. He went back into the shack, returning in a couple of seconds with a short length of rope attached to a harness. Lying down flat on the bough with both arms round it, he passed the rope underneath the bough and tied a sturdy knot in the bo ttom. He got into the harness, testing the strength of the rope by pulling on it a couple of times.
Then, taking a deep breath, our brave hero stepped off the side of the bough. His stomach jumped as he fell and was left dangling a couple of feet below the branch, looking up at the underside. Regaining his composure and taking the knife from his belt, Ambrosius started to carve a straight line across the girth of the bough so that it formed a U-shape which terminated at the end of his reach. He repeated this process many times, sliding his rope and harness along the branch to get to fresh areas of the branch, until a good ten metres of the branch were banded with U-shaped cuts. This took him until midnight.
He then heaved himself up the rope and clambered back onto the branch. Untying the rope, Ambrosius took the harness back into his shack and left it in the corner where it had rested for so long. He walked back out onto the branch and found the start of the bands he had cut. With the skilled hand of an expert carver he took the knife and continued the bands round the top of the branch. This was the difficult bit. He had to continue the lines so that, rather than forming a circle, they instead formed a spiral. In other words he had to connect each line up with the one one cut further along. Many Piscadors could not do this, and relied on buying line from other more gifted members of the community, but Ambrosius was lucky. With a craftsman's talent he continued the carving process until the Smug cast a dull yawning light from just below the horizon. The moment of truth had arrived. With the tip of the knife Ambrosius teased the end of one of the strips of bark between the cuts until it came free from the underlying woody tissue. As he slowly pulled, the incredibly thin yet strong strip got longer and longer. He took a bale from the box and wrapped the line around it as he went to avoid the dreaded tangles. Round and round he went, patiently pulling out the line from the tree. It took him until the Smug was full and smiling in the sky to finish, and then he set the fat bale on top of the Box of Things and sat down to rest.
As he did this he realised he was been watched. It was young Moonrise Husk and her friends, sat on the bough opposite, legs dangling over the p recarious drop without a care. When Ambrosius made eye contact with Moonrise, she put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Ambrosius is preparing to fish,” she said to her friends. They laughed.
Ambrosius' teeth set in annoyance, but he was determined to rise above it. He rested for a minute more, pointedly ignoring his audience, before getting once more to his feet. Taking the bale of line from the top of the Box, he walked back to his shack. It was a moment's work to tie the line round the doorknob, then he walked back along the branch, paying out the line as he did so. At the end of the branch he returned, doubling the line back on itself. It was a matter of judgement, but he estimated that the line needed to be about twenty lengths of the bough to be suitable for fishing. When this length of line was laid out he cut it with his knife and went back and did this twice more, until three lines lay next to each other.
Now was the start of the weaving process. He took the threads and passed them one over the other, keeping them tight and close as he did so. Hours passed. Night came again. Xiphias rose and fell. The Smug chased the night away again. Bleary eyed, Ambrosius made the final pass and the cord was complete. Three strands were now interlinked to form the nascent line. Now all that was left was to Tread The Fine Line, but first he must sleep. He reeled up the line and retired to his shack, where he slept and dreamed of fish.
The next day he got up and walked out to a long bough. He took off his shoes and set them on top of the Box. Making the sign of the Fish as was traditional, he trampled forcefully along the length of the line, rubbing the fibres together as he did and agitating the sap so that it bonded them glue-like together. The Smug grew high in the sky three times as the days rolled by, until at last it shouted midday down at him for a third time, and finally, sweating and exhausted, he finished. The line was now a Line, and Ambrosius could sleep.
It was a dreamless black-hole that Ambrosius fell into, which lasted from midday through until dawn the next day. He woke up with that peculiar, sucking tiredness that affects one after such a long sleep, but he quickly set his brain to sharpness in preparation for his next task: the preparation of the Hook. No trivial matter this; the Hook must be of the right size and shape, be sharp and strong yet flexible, have a loop at the top the right size for the line to pass through and finally not be tarnished by Rust Fungus that would dissolve in the Mist and put off the Fish. To find the Hook required expert knowledge of local geography and dendrology. In his mind's eye Ambrosius navigated the trees in his local area until he found one with the appropriate characteristics. He got out of bed, still dressed from the previous day, and exited his shack. With a hop and a jump he navigated the boughs until he was there at Bough Eight. This was a dangerous place to be. Bough Eight was notorious as a bad neighbourhood, and was riddled with gangs of antisocial ne'er-do-wells who would beat up and rob an innocent Piscador without thinking. Such are the hurdles a determined Fisher must take in his stride. Fortunately it was still early in the morning, and most of the trouble-makers were still sleeping off last night's Stone. There were one or two people about, just setting their morning lines up, but these were the older, more measured inhabitants. They would still rob a Piscador of his catch without thinking; however, they knew Ambrosius as fishless and not worth bothering with, so they left him alone. Some of them raised an eyebrow in amusement as they saw him casting what he hoped looked like an expert gaze on the myriad hooks that glittered in the morning dew.
“Fish me,” said one of the morning Fishers. “If it isn't Ambrosius. You looking for something to hang your coat on?”
Ambrosius glanced over to him nervously.
“I'm not going to bite yer head off,” said the man. “I used to smoke Stone with your dad. He was a right laugh, old Rainstorm. Yeah I know all about you, no-fish. The names Branch Hearthstone. You really looking for Hooks, son?”
“Yes,” said Ambrosius in a voice that sounded like a mouse trying to sound like a lion. “I'm going to catch a Fish.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhahaha. Haha. Haahaahaa.”
“Stop it.”
“Ahhahahahaha. Haha. Hahahahaaaaa.”
“I said stop it.”
“Hahahaha. Hahahaha. Hahahaha.”
Ambrosius seethed, but what could he say? This bloke had arms like tree trunks and looked like he could rip Ambrosius in two. This was not someone you could make demands to.
“Ha ha. Ha. Sorry. Hahaha. No, really, I'm sorry. Ha. It's just... I thought you said... ha... that you were going to catch a Fish.”
“I am.”
“Haaaahahahaha. Hahahahaha. Haaaaahaaaahaaaa.”
“Stop laughing at me!”
“Ha. Really, I am dead sorry. Haha. You really think you can catch something?"
“Yes.”
“Hmm, I like your style, son. Never give up.”
“Well, if you'd excuse me.” Ambrosius started to move away, but Branch let out a gargantuan cough before calling after him.
“Wait there, lad.”
“What now?” asked Ambrosius. “If you're going to make fun of me...”
“Not at all, not at all. Like I say, I knew your father. He was a man with problems, that's true, not least when it came to the Stone, but when you got past that he wasn't that bad. We had some good times together, caught some bass, had a good few little smokes. Those were happy days. You're really after a Fish?”
“Yes,” said Ambrosius.
“Then you don't have to go clawing about in all that foliage for the next two hours trying to find the perfect Hook.” Branch motioned for Ambrosius to come closer, before bending down and rummaging in his Box of Things. He stood up again and held out his hand. “I want you to have this.”
Ambrosius looked at the object in Branch's palm. It sparkled dull silver in the Smugshine; a large, perfectly formed Hook.
“Me and your dad, we caught some big fish with this Hook. We came to reckon it was the best damn hook in the whole of Expiscor, so we had it platinum plated. It's sharp as anything, and won't rot with the Rust Fungus like a normal hook. You could catch Fish for the next thousand year's with this and it'd still have a mean point on it.”
“I...I can't take it.”
“Sure you can. Your dad would have wanted you to have it. I got plenty of Hooks myself, loosing one won't do me no harm. Take it.”
Ambrosius nodded. He reached out a trembling hand and took the Hook from Branch's great ham-fist.
“Thank you,” said Ambrosius.”
“Don't mention it. Now go catch a Fish!”
Bait. Such a simple word, but so complex a concept. There are as many type s of bait as there are grains of sand on a beach. Hookworm and Hookfruit are by far the most popular, but there are also Stonemeal, Blossomfly, Fat Hairy Caterpillar, Shrieker Guano, Trunkspider, Little Beetle Type-Thing, Dessicated Hookfruit Maggots, Daddy Shortlegs, Honey Mushroom, Tree Mouse Cheese, Detoxified Hooktree Frog's Leg, Pickled Branch Lizard Egg, Ummagumma. Ambrosius had his own views on bait. As the initial point of contact with the Fish, one must take bait very seriously. Ambrosius first went to a Hooktree that was in fruit and scoured the boughs below for windfalls. He found a nice rotting Hookfruit with a tell-tale hole in the outside and cut it in two with his knife. From it he extracted a somewhat confused looking and rather plump Hookworm who squeaked wordless profanities in protest. He took this worm back to his shack and set it on a particularly ripe piece of Tree Mouse Cheese. Then, as the Smug was setting, he went to bed.
Now a Hookworm loves rot, and a particularly good piece of Tree Mouse Cheese is reticulated with veins of the stuff. Overnight the Hookworm munched his way through so many of these foetid arteries of mould that when Ambrosius plucked it from its wallowings in the morning it was stinking and blue just like them. Just how the Fish like it. Ambrosius gave it a light sprinkling of Honey Mushroom Juice to finish with and then set it squirming in an empty compartment in his Box of Things. He was now ready. Fish on!
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