The Fisher and the Wish

Be careful what you cast into the sea, for the sea may cast something back.

There was once an old fisherman named Harun who lived by a quiet bay where the sky and water seemed to share secrets only the wind could hear. Each day, Harun rowed his worn little boat far beyond the breakers and cast his line into the deep blue, hoping for a catch worth bringing home.

But these were hard years. The sea had grown stingy. The fish had grown scarce. His neighbors abandoned the shore for the cities, and Harun’s wife had long since passed away. Now, only the waves kept him company.

One grey morning, after hours beneath a sky smeared with clouds, Harun caught nothing but silence. In frustration, he spoke aloud to the water:

“Sea, I give you my days, my strength, my hope. Give me something in return.”

The sea, as always, said nothing.

But as Harun reeled in his empty hook for the final time, something strange happened. The sky cleared in an instant. The water beneath his boat began to shimmer as if stirred from below by a great light.

Then, rising slowly from the depths, came a fish unlike any Harun had ever seen. Its scales gleamed like silver coins, and its eyes glowed softly like lanterns in the fog.

The fish did not struggle. It hovered beside his boat, looking directly at him.

“You’ve called out to the sea,” the fish said, its voice neither loud nor soft, but certain. “I am the answer it sends.”

Harun, though surprised, did not drop his rod or flee. He had lived too long to fear talking fish. “Are you to be my supper, then?” he asked.

The fish gave something like a laugh. “No. I grant a single wish, nothing more. One wish, fisherman, and no more lines will you cast.”

Harun thought. He thought of gold, but gold rusts in time. He thought of youth, but youth cannot mend a lonely heart. He thought of his wife, but no power could draw her back from where she had gone.

At last, Harun said: “I wish for a life without hunger. Not for feasts or fortune, only enough. Enough fish, enough warmth, enough peace to see my days through.”

The fish closed its eyes. “Then listen well. Tomorrow and each day after, cast your net not with hope, but with trust. You shall not go hungry again. But take no more than you need. Should you forget this, your wish will turn upon you.”

And with that, the fish vanished, leaving behind only a single silver scale that floated atop the water like a coin on a well’s surface.

Harun took the scale and placed it in his pocket. True to the fish’s word, from the very next day his nets came back heavy with fine, fat fish — but never too many, just enough. His nets never broke. His boat never sank. His belly was never empty.

Other fishers returned to the bay when they heard of Harun’s luck. They cast their nets beside his, but their hauls remained poor. Harun told no one of the fish, and he took only what he needed.

For many years, he lived content.

But as the years stretched on, contentment turned slowly into curiosity. If the sea could fill his nets so easily, might it not grant him more? His roof sagged; his boots leaked. His hands ached with age. Why not ask again? Why not catch again?

One evening, under a moon sharp as a sickle, Harun rowed farther than ever before. He dropped his net deep into the blackness and whispered, “Enough is no longer enough.”

The water answered. His net pulled taut, heavy as stone. When he hauled it in, it was not fish that filled it, but treasure: gold goblets, pearl necklaces, coins so ancient their kings had been forgotten. Enough to live a dozen lifetimes in luxury.

He laughed aloud. He laughed all the way to shore.

But the next morning, his nets came up empty. Not just empty of fish — empty of water, as if the sea itself had been scooped away. His boat sat stranded on cracked, dry mud where waves should be. The bay had vanished.

Panic spread through the village. Rivers dried. Rain fled. Crops failed. Fishers cursed the sea, but Harun said nothing.

That night, he returned to the bare bones of the bay with his boat dragged behind him like a coffin. He found the silver-scaled fish waiting in a shallow puddle, watching him with eyes no longer soft but sharp as broken glass.

“You wished beyond your need,” the fish said. “You broke the trust. The sea withdraws.”

Harun fell to his knees. “Take it back, all of it! The gold, the pearls — I want only the fish, only the sea!”

But the fish shook its head. “Wishes do not return, nor do seas undone.” It sank into the mud, leaving nothing behind.

Harun’s treasures turned to salt in his hands. His house crumbled. The village withered and fled. In time, so did he.

Some say the sea did return, centuries later, swallowing the bay and more besides. Some say that beneath those waters, you can still hear an old man’s voice casting his final wish into the dark, and a silver fish waiting to answer — once more, but never twice.

Moral:

Enough is a treasure no wish can improve upon.