The Fish

[shanmonster]

(This is an attempt at turning one of my short stories into iambic pentameter.)

I ease myself from under woolen warmth
And whisper Olaff's name. I sit on edge
Of wooden bed. I slow my breath and heart,
Then stand and walk o'er to the door. And though
'tis summer still, I see frost all along
The bolt. And frost doth drip and melt beneath
My hand. I lift the bolt and open the door.
I look outside and naught is changed. The chirp
of tail-end summer's cricket song rings loud
In my own straining ears. I close the door
And go to blazing stove. Not by my hand
Was this fire lit. If not by me then who?
I tap my cheek with finger slim, then reach
And take the fish from where they hang. Sic, I
Accept thine gift, dear Olaff. Gyfu. Sic.

At any other time the food would pass
My lips uncooked. And yet the fire doth broke
No argument. I take a frying pan
And set it on the stove. I pause, my breath
Inhaled, place fish inside, exhale, and wait.
In time, I hear the fish begin to spit and fry
And to my awe, they smell quite toothsome, good.
In my own memory, I have not cooked
A food that smelled anything but befouled.

I pull my dagger from my belt and slide
it 'neath my meal. 'Tis stuck to pan. With firm
Resolve I force the knife between, and then
I work the blade from side to side until
The fish tears free and leaves its skin and half
Its flesh behind. I frown then flip it o'er.
The stink which wafts from pan to nose is not
a pleasing one. Acrid black smoke taints air.

I lift the pan and walk across the room.
The table holds my awful feast. I poke
And frown at smoldered flesh still raw inside.
'Tis base, unfit for beast or man, but I
Shan't waste this gift, not I. So dagger digs
Through charred and bleeding meat and I do eat.
Though moons have passed since I last cooked, I pray
Yet many more shall pass ere I avail
Myself of mine own cook'ry vile again.

And Olaff knows I cannot cook, not e'en
To save my life. He maketh sport of me.
Moons past, I chose to share with him a meal.
His eyes were blinded with my kerchief black,
And I led him through mud and darkness 'til
He came to rest with me at hidden home,
Inside embrace of swamp and trees, my tent
Among the secrets of the Shadow Wood.
And there I offered him hot soup and tea.
My lip doth twitch, a smile doth crease my face.
I shake my head and grin despite myself.

The soup was good, thou t'were not made by me
But Chalaonar. The tea was my doing.
I had but one lone pot for food and tea.
And when we'd supped upon the soup I rinsed
The pot with water collected from rain
I added soap shavings to wash it out
And rinsed again before I put the pot
Atop the flame once more to boil for tea.
The tea was rare, brought home from Antioch
By Chalaonar. The finest tea for miles.

But tea most fine doth taste most foul imbued
With flakes of soap. Alas, but I had failed
To rinse it all away. Through honey mask
Came tallow taste of lye and scummy film.
Yet Olaff drank without a pause, no doubt
He feared I'd poisoned him. But brave he was
And showed no dread and drained his cup outright.

I stand aright from off my chair and take
it all away. I tip the pan and slough
The bones into the fire, then scrape
It clean (no soap, this time) and laugh it off.