The Salmon of Knowledge and Somewhere Downstream

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. The salmon swam downstream. A dense fog clung to boats at the riverbank, as if trying to hold onto a sense of familiarity. But the tide was changing.

A harsh wind blew through the village of Denmare, carrying with it the scent of salted air and the heavy weight of uncertainty.

The sheep remained unmoved, chewing their cud, while a spare few feasted on the fresh grass from the green field below them. An onlooker silently wondered if the cud was preferable to the masses. Regurgitated. Pre-chewed. Easily digested.

A woman with eyes the color of storm clouds knew this was the Truth. Even without her sight, she could See far more than those with their five senses, for she possessed a sixth. She had learned long ago that people preferred the comfort of simplicity, even if it meant choking on the same cud for centuries.

Brigid knew they had lost their way. The silver wires that framed her face were like antenna, tuned to the vibrations of the village and the Otherworld that lay beyond. The wrinkles on her long face were a map, with the destination unknown. It lay in the hands of all.

Brigid gathered her belongings: a rustic clay pipe, a walking stick crafted from the local blackthorn trees, and a small vial of water with a cork stopper. Her trappings were modest, but ensured her a lightness of travel between the worlds.

She slowly approached the riverbank, not out of trepidation, but respect. Their sands held secrets older than the heartwood and outnumbered the rings of the surrounding tree trunks. The river’s surface was restless, like a tide at war with itself.

Brigid angled herself towards the water, her hair making small wakes. Her face reflected in fragmented ripples before her.

She had her mission.

But this story is not about her.

Finn made his way through the village like most days, stopping occasionally to greet the local merchants and talk about the weather. There was always much discussion of rain.

“It’s lashin’ there, boy!” “Ye won’ be catchin’ any fish today!”

The reports, while predictable, were important. But he didn’t need to catch just “any” fish that today, just the one. He would know which when he saw it, he was sure.

The ferryman’s words were useful to a point, but the day left no time for Finn to engage I pleasantries with Liam. Instead, he rummaged through his pockets for a bit of scraps for the cat. Liam stood, eyes wide, pulling at the cable of his navy knitted sweater.

“Careful, Liam—you’ll put the yarn straight though! You’ll be bare-chested before poor Púca’s done with her snack!”

Liam didn’t seem to notice, or care, but remained absentmindedly tugging at his cable. Meanwhile, Púca licked her chops before cleaning her whiskers and rubbing the side of her face against Finn’s feet. He took that as a better message than any that the time had come to forge on.

Finn returned his hands to his pockets, bent his head downwards against the freshly falling rain, and set his sights towards the riverbanks. His blue eyes darkened as he approached the lone figure, cloaked in black cloth.

“I wondered when I’d be seein’ ye”, she mused, back turned to Finn, eyes resolute on the horizon.

Finn paused, feeling the weight of her words settle like the fog itself. He recognized Brigid, but only in passing. There was something about her presence now that made the air heavier, the rain colder.

Finn stood before Brigid, who sat in a boat, bare feet drawing patterns in the water.

“It’s a strange thing, water”, her voice low and measured. “It can flow, it can fall, and it can crash.” “Which one do you think’s in the cards today?”

Finn hesitated. The river had already done all these things since this morning, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. His gaze dropped to Brigid’s feet, pale and unmoving against the flow.

“Turnin’ yer feet blue, it seems.”

Brigid didn’t seem to notice. Or care. It was hard to say which one. Perhaps it didn’t matter to her. Her stillness was unnerving.

“Ye think she’ll be fair fer me fish today?” he queried.

Brigid paused for a moment, resting her feet in the water. The ripples stopped, the water reflecting just her faraway stare.

“I dunno if she’ll be fair fer ye, but she’ll be flowin’. Which way, well, that’s fer ye to find out.”

The rain stopped as abruptly as it had come. Finn could hear the soft steps of Púca behind him. She curled white fur around his ankles, as Finn scooped the cat into his arms and made his way into Brigid’s boat.

Brigid retrieved her feet the water. They lay shriveled on the wooden floor. Púca quickly took her spot, eager to warm them.

Brigid turned her face to Finn, her unseeing eyes piercing all the same.

“The river won’t tell ye its secrets unless ye listen, boy. It’s been whisperin’ all mornin’.

They were on their way. To where, they knew not. The lines on Brigid’s face lay the journey, but the destination was up to Finn. He had his sheep back home to answer to, and his salmon to catch.

The answers, he hoped, lay somewhere downstream.