Fisher

Fisher

You find the medallion near the edge of a ravine, half-tucked beneath a log slick with moss. The air smells of cedar and cold water. When you brush your fingers across the bronze, the forest stills.

A rustle—then a low growl.

“Oh great. Another human. Let me guess, you’re here to ask if I’m fishing.”

You blink, and from the shadows steps a long-bodied animal, dark-furred and low to the ground, with eyes like polished amber and a permanent scowl.

“I’m a Fisher. That’s my name. Not because I fish. Not because I have a pole. And not because I wear stupid floppy hats. It’s just… the name. Which is a bad name. They should’ve called me something respectable. Like ‘Shadow Dagger’ or ‘Silent Death-on-Paws.’ But no. ‘Fisher.’ Might as well call a cougar ‘Tree Cat.’”

You try to speak. He waves a paw at you irritably.

“Yes, yes, you touched the shiny thing. You hear me now. Congratulations. Welcome to the club.”

You ask, gently, “Why can I talk to you now?”

He snorts. “Talk? You mean listen. That’s new for your kind. Most of you just name things wrong and then assume that makes you experts.”

He paces in a tight little circle, muttering.

“But I’ll tell you what I think. These medallions—they’re like splinters from something bigger. Something that cracked. Something old. Maybe a story that wanted to be heard again.”

He pauses, sniffs the air. “Or maybe they’re bait. We’re all nibbling on it, waiting for the hook.”

“Do you think something will happen when I find them all?”

“I think everything will happen. Or nothing. That’s the thing about traps—you don’t know you’re in one until you’ve chewed your own foot off.”

You stare. He sighs, long and loud, like he’s already tired of explaining.

“Look. I don’t trust these medallions. I don’t trust you. But I do like the way they taste.”

He licks his lips, then vanishes behind a tree root like a ghost.

“Also,” his voice floats back, “if you run into the raccoon, tell him I’m still mad about the tuna can incident. He knows what he did.”