Dodge Tanner: The Boy Who Cried 'Fish'!: (The Battle of Lake Hearth)

Dodge Tanner had fished near every inch of the placid waters of Lake Hearth since he was old enough to hold a rod, but nothing, nothing, had prepared him for his unexpected confrontation with Grandfather Trout.

The lake was still that pre sunrise morning, its crystal-clear surface a perfect mirror of the sky, painted in early hues of rose and gold. Dodge had cast his line with the easy confidence of a man who had done it a thousand times before. But, like many a morning these days, little of intrest tickled his line. Then the water stirred.

A pull, stronger and more determined than any he had ever felt, nearly yanked the rod from his hands. Dodge let out a yelp, scrambling for balance as the line whined with tension.

And there it was.

A Rainbow Trout the size of legend, shimmering with iridescent color as it broke the surface for the briefest of moments. It might well be longer than Dodge, (a Halfling of infinite personality but limited stature), was tall!

Then the beast dove, dragging Dodge directly into a battle that would become the greatest test of his fishing skills, endurance, and possibly his sanity.

For what felt like hours, Dodge fought. He braced his boots against the rocky edge of the lake, followed the fish’s powerful runs, adjusting his technique as the great trout dashed through the water with the intelligence of a seasoned escape artist.

They moved together, up and down the shoreline, locked in a contest of sheer determination. Dodge muttered curses, praise, and perhaps a few desperate bargains to powers unknown, as he struggled to outwit the slippery scintillating mastermind.

And for one glorious moment, just one, he knew victory was in his grasp. The pulls had lulled. The dashing runs shortened. The mighty fish was his!

Then, with infuriating brilliance, Grandfather Trout took advantage of the briefest of slackness as Dodge shook out his arms to prepare for the final fateful pull, and ripped the line forward as it shot between two jagged rocks, weaving through them like a ghost.

The line caught.

Scraped.

Then snapped.

Dodge Tanner cried out in anguish as he fell on his ass and the fish launched back into the depths, free, triumphant, and undoubtedly laughing in its fishy way as it gave a mighty leap through the sunrise as if to show Dodge exactly what he had lost.

Standing at the water’s edge, breathless, rod limp in his hands, Dodge could do nothing but watch his impossible adversary vanish. High pitched, and somehow disappointed, chittering from the bushes let him know that his failure had not gone unseen by his Blink Mink friends.

He knew then that this was not the end of his battle with Grandfather Trout.

No. This was only the beginning.

That night, Dodge stormed into the Barrow and Barrel Tavern, boots muddy, eyes wild with the thrill of the hunt, and absolutely bursting with the need to tell someone, anyone, about the titanic battle he had fought that day.

He slapped a tankard down on the nearest table and launched into his tale.

"And, like a Rainbow-Hued Arrow, the devious mastermind flew into the depths of the lake, disappearing, for now," he declared as he wound up his tale, raising his hands dramatically, as though trying to pluck the very fish from the air. "But I swear, I will get him... Next time!"

The tavern erupted with laughter, winks, and knowing smiles.

Dodge had regaled them with too many tales of impossible beasts, near victories, and close shaves for them to take this one seriously.

"Ah, yes," chuckled Old Garren, the grizzled Tavernkeeper, wiping a hand across his weathered face as he delivered Dodges meal. "Another 'the one that got away', tale is it?"

"Tell me, Tanner," grinned Miriam the blacksmith, leaning against the bar, "was this Grandfather Trout bigger or smaller than the Gale Strider you swore you saw last spring?"

"At least be consistent, Dodge," added a laughing Wayfinder Tamsin, nudging his drink with a mischievous wink. "Last week you said the lake was barren of anything worth catching."

Dodge threw up his hands in mock offense.

"You fine folk may have heard many a tale from me, yes," he admitted, sweeping a hand across the room, "but I tell you here and now...this? This was no mere fabrication."

He leaned in, lowering his voice as the flickering candlelight danced across his grin.

"This was real."

"And THIS. Means. War!"

More laughter. More winks, nods, and shared amusement between the tavern regulars, as they toasted Dodge and his latest unlikely tale, ever appreciative of a good story.

Dodge drank his ale, amused and undeterred, diving into his hearty overfilled platter with a gusto.

Because he knew the truth.

Somewhere beneath the surface of Lake Hearth, Grandfather Trout swam, still waiting.

And next time, oh, next time, Dodge Tanner would be ready.