Dream Fishing

"Da, I got one!"

Bannibrandt braced his leg on the pier as his fishing pole arced toward the surface of the shimmering dream water. Deep down, a cloudy shadow pulled away from him with increasing strength.

“Two hands, boy, or you’ll lose it.”

Horst popped an almond in his mouth and secured his own fishing rod—making sure to leave the line cast in case of another bite—and hobbled to where his son struggled with his own.

“Be the shadow, Ban. Feel the hook in your mouth, the panic overwhelming you.”

“I’m trying!” Red-faced Bannibrandt cranked the reel. His rod bent lower and lower until it dipped into the drink.

“Don’t reel when it’s pulling away from you. You’ve got to tire him out. Tug-o-war, just like I taught you. Reel when he’s too tired to fight.”

With a zing! the line took off as Bannibrandt lost his grip on the crank.

“Oh no!”

The handle spun so fast it was impossible to catch hold again. Until it the line ran out and it stopped. For a split second, Bannibrandt pulled the rod.

SNAP!

The boy stumbled backwards, and, catching his heel on an uneven board, fell into the waves.

The old fisherman hid a smile as he pulled his son out by the collar. Shimmering liquid dripped from the drenched boy, puddling on the timbers around his bare feet.

“Aw, I broke your fishing pole.” Bannibrandt stared at the pieces of rod that floated where he had fallen.

“It’ll be alright,” Horst said. “The important thing is to build more. You’ll always have a backup, if you do.”

He wrapped a towel around his son’s shoulders and hugged him to his side.

“Whose dream did you fall into?” he asked.

“Some girl’s. She was kissing a frog. It was gross.”

“Ha! Even so, no nightmares?”

“It was almost blinding in there, it was so bright.”

Horst slipped another almond between his lips. “Hmm. No accismus then. Good.”

The boy’s eyebrows went sky-high. “Ax what?”

“Accismus. It’s when the humans aren’t genuine. Out of fear, or greed, or cunning manipulation. It’s one of the reasons the shadows exist.”

The click of Horst’s fishing reel caught their attention. The line moved in circles through the water, making the rod twitch as the circles got bigger.

“Looks like we got another one. Quick, get the cage!” Horst attended the pole while Bannibrandt opened a mesh box and set it beside his father.

The old fisherman set the hook and fought the shadow with ease and patience, his experienced hand a stark contrast to his son’s. Before long, he reeled in the shadow and scooped it up with a net.

Horst dumped the cloudy shadow, writhing and shrieking, into the cage. It lashed out with a cloudy arm as Bannibrandt closed the top.

“Whew, that was close,” Bannibrandt said, backing away.

“Great job, Ban. We’ll make a proper dream fisher out of you yet!”

Bannibrandt knelt to get a closer view of the shadow. It had shrunk, and now looked like a dollop of tar, huddled there in a corner of the cage. Smelled like it, too. But it purred like a kitten.

“Not so scary out here, is it?” Horst asked. He chewed on another almond.

“Won’t they die outside the dreams?”

“No, most of them are docile out here. They gain their power from the people they feed on. When seen for what they really are, well, see?”

Bannibrandt pet the shadow with his finger. It reacted to his touch and snuggled against him. There was a flash inside the shadow, and a small image played.

Bannibrandt watched the scene unfold: a teenage boy stood on the stoop of an old house, a dozen red roses in hand. He offered them to a beautiful girl, who threw them on the floor and stomped on them. The boy trudged away, head hanging low. Then, the girl called out to him, ran after him. But she could never catch up. The scene changed: an old woman in a rocker, holding the portait of a young man. There was no ring on her finger; there never was.

The image faded.

Bannibrandt stood. “When we catch these little guys, the humans go back to regular dreams, right, Da? The girl who dreamt this will sleep better now?”

Horst had stepped away from the cage and gazed into the sunset. A dark cloud gathered and moved toward the pier.

“Bad weather’s coming, isn’t it?”

“There is no bad weather. Only bad clothing.” Horst winked.

“What?”

“Something my granddad used to say. Grab your rain jacket out in the shed. The quicker you catch you your first shadow, the quicker you can have some of grandma’s Kvæfjordkake.”

Bannibrandt grinned. “Those shadows are doomed!”