Author’s Note: The characters I am presenting here are not human, though it is easy to mistake them as such. I have worked very hard to keep humanity and Earth out of their minds and experiences, and off my pages, with some exceptions.

The creats of Creat are not “down to earth,” they are “of the dirt.” They are not men and women, they are hin and wai (pronounced “why”). We say mankind, they know only tomkind. They are our other fish, like us, but not like us. Similarly, they are not animals, they are humanoid. Like us, they are evolved beyond the simple pursuit of their baser natures. They share our unique ability to imagine worlds that cannot, have not, or should not exist. Through their lens I hope that we can better examine ourselves.

Content Warning: The Other Fish is not intended for children. Ravenna and her siblings live in a world where their kind, the Heathens, are encouraged to be bad in order to make the Cheeters look better. I address a lot of religious themes. Most of it is tame, but there are some rough patches. This series contains language, abuse, and sex (not explicit) among other things. That being said, I hope you enjoy The Other Fish.

Indulge Me

“I have naught to show for all my hard work.” My father spoke those words when I was seven and they are still with me today. Two days shy of my thirteenth birthday, I feel them more keenly than I ever have. I am about to enter adulthood, and what shall I have when I arrive there?

Nothing.

“I have to change Jinn. Don’t kick your feet, Rav.” Emm warns.

I wasn’t going to. It didn’t even occur to me to move until she mentioned it.

She takes it upon herself to be the big sister, changing and feeding Jinn and getting her ready for the day. I only change Jinn’s diaper when I’m asked to. I only move when something makes me. Emma is self-propelled. I wonder sometimes how we can be so different, sharing the same parents.

I don’t have her energy. I’m not an early riser like she is, but I have the whole bed to myself, because she’s got all that energy to herself. It’s a small victory, something for the plus column, so I’ll take it.

“Why can’t you change her in the crib?” I ask. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It's not like our bed is the only flat surface in the house.

Her response is to scooch my feet to one side and lay our baby sister down in the void they once occupied. The whole bed is no longer mine.

I’m losing territory.

“It’s morning!” Emm declares. “Time for widdle babies to get up!” She blows a zerbert on Jinn’s belly, cooing at her, lavishing adoration on her, but her words are directed at me.

My undercover plea is soft and vain, “Just another hour. Maybe two?” There is no real hope in it. Even if Emma took Jinn out of the room, closing the door and leaving me alone in this big four-poster, there are too many thoughts in my head now to classify what I’m doing as sleep.

“It’s nearly eight,” she reminds me. “Jinn’s wide awake! Aren’t you, baby?” More zerberts, more giggles, more reality,  and less dreams. I was content in slumber. The waking world holds only contention for me.

You’re not going to go away and let me sleep, are you? It’s a question I already know the answer to. Pride won’t let her. I’m stuck too. The first shots have been fired. The game is afoot. Retreat is no longer an option. She doesn’t have to sing, but that’s never stopped her before.

“All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel,”

I don’t have to see her to know that she’s drawing circles on Jinn’s belly with her finger. I can hear the soft, anticipatory giggles. This is their favorite game. We play it every morning.

“The monkey thought it was all in good fun,”

I brace myself. I hate this game.

Emm slaps my thigh hard with a “POP goes the weasel!”

It stings, even through the quilt, but I’m stubborn.

She wants me to give in and get up.

Jinn thinks it’s a hoot.

It’s not. It’s a war.

When Emma turned thirteen I hoped these games would end. I imagined she would be gone by now, out of the house. That was a year ago. She wants to get a job, but she can’t. She’d like to get married and start her own family, but she can’t. She doesn’t have anyone in particular in mind, and it wouldn’t matter if she did. We need a babysitter, so Ma is making her wait. It’s a family tradition. She has two more days until her life can begin.

The anticipation tinges her voice as she sings, “A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle.”

I don’t have any pennies. I don’t have any money. I could use a cup of coffee and a smoke, but I don’t wanna get up. I won’t have this room to myself until Emma moves out. All I have is the quilt that hides me from the morning light, and this pillow. It’s cooler on the bottom. I flip it over and bury my face in it. It won’t stop what’s coming, but it’s still one for the plus column.

“That’s the way the money goes, POP goes the weasel!” Another slap, another giggle, another time I don’t tell Emm where to stick her morning rays of sunshine.

If I find a husband of my own, then I won’t have to babysit for a year until Mephi turns thirteen. He’s gonna have it the hardest. Jinn’s four years younger than him. I feel for him, but I’m so glad it’s not me.

If, by some strange chance, I could find someone willing to marry a lazy bones like me, who would let me sleep in until noon, in my own room, or at least in a separate bed, what would that do to our family tradition? Would Ma have to quit her job? There’s no way Emm’s gonna wait another year. Seph already has a job. He did his stint as babysitter before Emm. He won’t go back.

Emm sings, “Every night when I go out, the monkey’s on the table.”

My threat is as toothless as an old dog, but I unleash it anyway. “Hit me again and it’s you who’ll get knocked off the table!” I know she hears me, even from under this quilt.

“Take a stick and knock it off,” she says, even more loudly than before, letting me know she’s calling my bluff, “POP goes the weasel!” Her hand comes down hard on my buttock. The sting challenges me to do something. I pull the quilt tighter around my head. I’m not coming out of this bed for anything, even self-respect.

“You could at least sing the verses in the right order,” I grumble from inside my cocoon.

“Jinn likes it this way.”

“Jinn doesn’t have a clue what you’re saying.”

“She especially likes it when I ‘POP’ the weasel!” Another slap, another missed chance to spit out the words I’m chewing on.

Emm could kick my ass easily, instead of slapping it, if she really wanted to. She could kiss it for all I care, but she’d never do that. She could drag me out of this bed like a doll, but she won’t do that, either. Life is boring without the occasional game.

Speaking of dolls, where did I put, Oh, there you are, Mycah! I kiss his little green head and snuggle him against my chest. Fig you, adulthood, at least until Tuesday.

I’m starting to sweat. The summer sun has sided with Emm. I’ve lost the cool night air. At least I still have the darkness, thanks to this heavy quilt.

Emm picks Jinn up and moves her somewhere, probably her crib, so she won’t be in the way for what comes next. Her diaper is fresh, now it’s time for our game to change.

I don’t hear her feet leave the floor. She flies noiselessly across our bedroom sky. I should expect it by now, but I never do.

“POP goes the weasel!” she yells, landing just above my hips with all her weight. She wriggles back and forth, settling in for the next round. “How can you sleep under there?”

“It would be easier if you got off me!”

She digs around, seeking out a weak spot in my defenses.

“Where’s the edge of this…here we go!”

I pull as hard as I can, but she has the advantage. She forces a crack between the quilt and the sheets, sticking her head in, letting the light in, making me buck and roll away in response.

She taps the back of my head with one long nail. “You gotta come out sometime.”

“Fig you!” I grumble.

“Oh! You don’t like my game anymore! You wanna play with fire instead!”

In two days I’ll be considered an adult, for all intents and purposes. Legally I could get married, enter into contracts, get a job, have babies of my own, but legally don’t mean nothing in the Brady family when there are younger siblings to care for. I’m going to be a babysitter for the next year, whether I want to be or not. It’s gonna suck. Jinn, like Emma, is an early riser and a morning ray of sunshine. The only up-side is, Emm will be gone all day.

“I had three more days to sleep in,” I whine. “You’re ruining what’s left of my childhood!”

“It’s Sunday.”

“All the more reason for you to leave me alone.”

“We’re going to the market. Don’t you wanna see the market?”

I do, but I don’t.

Going to the market is a rare treat for kids like us. It’s more than food and clothing, it’s a carnival. Some of the travelers who bring exotic animals and strange contraptions there are even stranger than their captive oddities. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been. Ma typically goes alone. As exciting as it sounds, sleep is more enticing.

“I’d rather stay in bed,” I decide.

“Is she still under there?” Pa asks.

Shit! Game over!

His heavy boots clunk to the end of the bed. Emm clears out.

“Come out little caterpillar!” he says, whipping the quilt off me, nearly dragging me off the bed with it, then tossing it in a pile behind him where I can’t get at it.

I do my best pill bug impression, trying to buy just a few more seconds, maybe a minute.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Up!” he orders, pulling me to the edge of the bed by my ankle.

I’ve got one last trick. I hop out of bed and grab him tight around the waist, burying my face in his belly.

Just a few more seconds of darkness? Please?

He’s not having it. We’ve played this game before.

“Nuh uh!” He unwraps my arms and turns me toward the door. “Go help your Ma!”

“Piss first,” I say, heading for the back stairs, resigned to finally starting my day.

“You best be quick about it!”

I grab a cigarette from the tobacco bowl on the table, on my way through the kitchen. I don’t know who rolled it, or who they rolled it for. If it’s in the bowl it’s communal property. I steal a light from the candle by the back door, and make my way down the rickety wooden steps and across the small courtyard to the outhouses.

My head spins a bit from the first drag of the morning. I hit the cig again, then try the first door. It resists my tug. A gruff voice let’s me know it’s, “Occupied.”

“Sorry Mister Lorne!” I say, as I move to the next one. It opens easily, but a hand reaches out to pull it shut again.

A flustered Maisy Gillem shakes her head at my interruption. “Lock’s broken off,” she explains.

“It’s on my list,” Mister Lorne informs us through the thin walls.

At the third door I decide to knock. No one answers, but it’s a mess inside. I’m not sitting on that! Door number four fits the bill. A moment later I’m settled on the seat doing what I came here to do. My bladder complains that once again I have made it wait too long.

I hate the little quarter-moon cutout in the outhouse door. It’s supposed to let light in, a job it performs most admirably, but it also reminds me that not long ago I was wrapped in the sweet blanket of night. I want to block it up. The thin sliver that pours through it hits me right in the face. I slump forward out of its path. I cannot move it, so I will move me. I despise it even more for the energy I have to spend to escape it. What little I have left is draining through the dark hole beneath me, with my piss.

My shoulders slump. The cig dangles from my hand. My head falls against the door. The smoke gets in my eyes, so I douse the cig in the cesspit. My lids droop as my will fades. Just a few more seconds...

“Wake up in there!” my father yells, pounding on the door. “It’s been fifteen minutes!”

I guess I fell asleep.

“Rav, eat!” Ma says, holding out a bowl for me as Pa chaperones me to the kitchen table.

“That bowl’s not a pillow,” he jokes. “Keep your face out of it.”

“Are we out of beer?” I ask, taking note of the water pitcher on the table.

“No work on Saturday means no beer on Sunday,” Ma says. She is paid for her work in food and beer or whatever people have a surplus of. Things are tough for lots of people right now. So they are either doing for themselves or not doing at all.

Too bad. I could use a cup of beer. I don’t even bother asking about coffee. The pot Ma makes it in has been hanging empty on a hook for three days.

All I can do is stare at the stew, but not without difficulty. My energy is in the abyss with the water I drank last night at supper.

Ma comes over to encourage me. “Hurry up, before it’s cold.”

I pick up my spoon and move the brown sludge around to prove my obedience, hoping she’ll go back to whatever she was doing. No such luck.

She helps me stir, then guides the laden spoon to my lips, happily singing, “Pease porridge hot. Pease porridge cold. Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old.” She is always bright and shiny. Emma is cut from her cloth. I got my darkness from somewhere else.

The stew is good today, but it’s still just stew.

We eat it three meals a day for most of the year, as does everyone we know.

It’s not the same stew. Well, It is, but it isn’t. It’s Eternal Stew that changes with our fortunes. There’s a pot over the fire in our kitchen that we lovingly maintain, because the most important rule of Eternal Stew is never let it go cold. Of course, the penalty for this is not so bad. Cold or hot, it’s still stew, and we can always warm it back up. Some of the other rules have more dire consequences.

The rules of the stew are simple. Keep the fire low so it doesn’t burn. Add water so there’s always plenty, and so it doesn’t turn to sludge and burn. If you add too much water, thicken it back up with flour. Not too much, or it’ll turn to sludge and burn. Any morsels you acquire throughout the day go into the stew for all to share. And the most important rule, never let it run dry. If your Eternal Stew pot is empty, you have failed all the other rules and will go hungry.

Ma moves my hand in a circle, pushing the sludge around, guiding a second mouthful out, then informs me, “You’ll have to do the rest yourself.”

“And you best hurry it up!” Pa warns, wolfing down his own stew. Maybe he’s the source of my darkness? Am I destined to be a grump like him? Is that what adulthood holds for me?

Pot luck! My excitement nearly gets away from me, my eyes dance in front of the treasure on my spoon. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed. If they did, they make no sign of it. Pop it goes, straight into my mouth before anyone can see what’s on it. My teeth break apart the prize I have found in my bowl. My tongue confirms the texture. My taste buds revel. My day has just improved dramatically. “How long’s it been since we had meat,” I ask, feigning casual interest.

“We had some venison two weeks ago. Don’t you remember?” Ma reminds me.

“Mm! Mhmm.” I remember now. Pa came home with a whole roast, reward for a job well done. The stew’s been particularly good since then.

I swirl the sludge and confirm, one, two, no three more pieces of meat that have somehow been overlooked for two weeks in the bottom of the stew pot, and which have magically found their way into my bowl at this opportune moment. The odds are incalculable.

Two weeks is not so long, really. I’m sure it’s fine. We’ve eaten older meat. Haven’t we? I can’t ask without the risk of giving away my secret.

I could share. That thought hits me only after the last piece is in my mouth. Too late.

***

“Black, Rav?” Emm groans as I lay out the clothes I’m gonna wear. “It’s going to be a scorcher. You’ll roast!”

“Eyes on your own paper, Nosey Nellie.”

“Suit yourself.”

“She’s right, you should put on something cooler,” Ma tells me.

“I have three shirts. This is the lightest one,” I argue. It’s closer to dark gray than black.

Emm tosses a peony-colored blouse at me. I don’t even try to catch it. “She won’t wear my hand-me-downs,” she complains, retrieving it from the floor and folding it neatly again.

“Rattle-tail,” I hiss.

“Stubborn little mule,” she responds, moving threateningly toward me, balling her fists, trying to make me flinch.

I don’t. I’ve taken her punches before.

Ma just shakes her head. “You’re gonna be an adult soon. You have to make your own decisions.”

“If you faint, I’m not carrying you home,” Pa warns. “That’s the decision I’m making.”

“I won’t faint.”

“You better not.”

“Try to stay in the shade,” Ma urges. She knows I will. She doesn’t need to say it. “Stay together,” she tells the lot of us when we’ve gathered at the door. “Seph, Mephi’s with you.” My eldest brother nods. “Rav, stick with Emm. You two have Jinn. If she gets to be too much, find me and I’ll take her for awhile. Let her walk a little if you can. It’ll be crowded. Sundays always are, so you’ll probably have to carry her most of the day.”

“We’ll be fine,” Emm affirms, nuzzling noses with our baby sister.

“Stay out of the way of the Cheeters,” Ma says. “It’s best just to keep your distance and not look at them!”

“Don’t give ‘em a reason to cut your head off,” Seph adds. He’s the oldest of us kids and the only one who’s been out among the zealots that rule over our world.

“Listen for the bells,” Pa says. “We’ll meet in front of Primm’s dress shop at 6. Got it?”

“Got it,” we all confirm.

“Do we have to go to the Indulgence?” It’s obvious Seph would rather not. He’s asked the same question three times already this morning.

“It’s fifteen minutes. We’ll go and show our support for Mrs. Crabtree, then you can have the rest of the day to girl watch in the square,” Pa tells him.

“It’s almost 9. We need to go,” Ma informs us. “Rav, it’s probably best if you leave Mycah here.”

“I never leave him.”

“Adults don’t play with dolls,” Pa says. His argument is strangely convincing. My childhood friend looks different in the light of his words. He’s right. I’m an adult, or at least I will be in two days.

“OK,” I agree, propping the doll on the kitchen table. “He can watch the house!”

***

Seph has a time piece. He got it two years ago for his thirteenth birthday, when things were not so bad, and we were not so bad off. It’s not a fancy or expensive model, but you couldn’t tell by the way he cares for it. He cleans it meticulously, winds it often, and sets it twice a day by the church bells. The moment he spots the girls, I see him check it before warning us, “Can’s comin’.” We all follow his eyes, then look away. Except Emm.

“Emm, avert your eyes!” Ma commands.

“That’s the loveliest shade of lilac I’ve ever seen,” Emm says, filling her mind with the color before lowering her gaze to contemplate her own drab gear. Bright colors are for Cheeters. Heathens like us have to wear more subdued shades. It bothers Emm to no end; I couldn’t care less.

“It’s stunning,” Ma agrees. “I think I like the yellow better. Don’t look, Emm. You’ll see it when they pass.”

We have only just come out our door, primed for our journey, but we have to wait for them. It’s the law. They are not in any hurry. There are four of them, all around my age, all prim and proper, and meticulously immaculate.

“It’s a church day. You’re going to see so many pretty things your head is going to spin,” Ma informs us. “The Cheeters go all out on Sundays.”

“The yellow’s nice, but I’m still partial to the lilac.”

“I told you not to look!”

“Shush, now,” Pa warns.

“She has embossed roses on her breastplate.”

“Emm, this isn’t a game!”

“Keep it up and you’ll both get a close-up view of their swords,” Pa cautions.

We all go silent as stone, waiting. Even Pa, who could ring one of their necks in each meaty hand or beat the three to death with the one, counts the grass at his feet while they go by.

“I saw you check your watch. How long did it take them to pass us,” I ask Seph, when the quartet is safely in front of us, out of earshot.

“Four minutes, and four stops to chat or admire flowers before they got to us.”

“Did you notice the one in the back?” I ask. “She was a little itchy. Her hand never left her hilt.”

“I saw that.” He nods. “Her left hand was trembling, too.”

My experiences with the Cheeters are limited, so I can’t imagine, “Why would she be scared of us?”

“I don’t know. It made me nervous, though,” Seph confirms.

“We didn’t do anything,” Emm complains. “She’s got no reason to be afraid of us.”

“She could take our heads anytime she wants, and her family would throw her a party,” Pa warns us.

“They’re encouraged to purge the world of scum like us,” Seph says. “You’re home with the kids all day, Emm. When you have a real job you’ll see. They care more for their swords than they do for us.”

“I start at Bircham’s Wednesday. It’s Rav’s turn to be the babysitter. I can’t wait to make my own money.” The thought makes Emm smile.

That soon? She didn’t tell me she got a job. It’ll be fine. At least it’s only for a year. Then Mephi will get to babysit while I find something to do on the evening shift. I wonder if anyone needs a mattress tester?

“The way to a hun’s heart is through his stomach,” Ma tells Emm. “Eligible bachelors need bread just like everyone else. You’ll make a fine baker.”

“They think spilling our blood makes the world cleaner,” Pa says, not realizing the subject of our conversation has changed.

“I never understood that. How does something that stains everything red, wash the world white?” Ma wonders.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Emm agrees. “They must not have periods. If they did, they’d know what a pain it is to get blood stains out of anything.”

“They don’t have periods?” Mephi asks. He is even more ignorant of the world we live in than I am.

“Physically they’re just like us,” Ma assures him.

“Except they’re felines,” Seph adds.

“In Beulah the Paladins are canines,” Pa tells us. “I’ve heard the Pallies in Goshen are ursine.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a bear up close.” I remind him.

Pa nods. “I’ve never been there, but Amon has. He told me.”

“Why don’t they just kill us all, if killing us makes the world cleaner?” Emm asks.

“They don’t like to get their hands dirty,” Pa surmises. “Our labor gives them the freedom to pursue the love of their Prophet, or something.”

“We serve them so they can serve him,” Seph explains.

“They don’t have jobs?” Mephi asks.

“Their studies are their job,” Ma answers. “Did you notice that each girl only had one pauldron?”

“What’s a pauldron?”

“The piece of armor on their shoulder. They only had one on the right side. They’re fledgling Paladins. They get a breastplate first, then a sword, then pauldrons. I don’t know what the rest of the pieces are called. You’ll see when we get to the market. The adults are fully armored.”

“That’s why we call ‘em cans,” Seph says. “They look like walking cans.”

“Just don’t let the figgers hear you call ‘em that,” Pa warns.

“Don’t let them hear you call them figgers, either,” Ma adds.

“Why don’t you ever take us to the market,” I ask. “If it’s such a spectacle.”

“The less time you spend around Cheeters, the better chance you have of living to a ripe old age,” Pa answers. “They’re easily offended, and quick with their swords.”

“Oh. Then why take us at all?”

“You’ll be fine if you stay out of their way,” Ma informs me. “You need to learn how to behave around them. Now is as good a time as any.”

“We’re supporting a friend,” Pa adds. “Mr. Crabtree died without having his head taken. Mrs. Crabtree purchased an Indulgence for him.”

“They’re gonna dig him up and cut off his head, after the fact,” Seph says, short-circuiting the tale.

“Why?” Mephi’s question echoes my own thought.

“So he can go to their Feast,” Seph tells him.

“The Cheeters believe in a life after this one,” Pa explains. “They all go there when they die.”

“But not us?” I ask. Being left out bothers me for some reason.

“We have to be invited,” Pa says.

“They have to cut off our head,” Seph explains.

“Even then, we’re just dogs under the table serving them for eternity,” Ma says. “We bring them their ambrosia and lap up whatever they spill.” Her eyes bore into the backs of the four girls ahead of us. She hates them, that’s obvious. “I’d rather sleep for eternity,” she decides.

“Sleep?” Now I’m intrigued.

“The only afterlife for us is in the Land of the Dead,” she explains. “We go to sleep and never wake up again. No dreams, no nightmares, nothin’.”

“I like that idea.”

“They go to Heel if they’re bad,” Emm says. “That’s why heel’s a curse word. Nija told me. Her mom works in the big house in the center of town.”

“She works for the Kings?” Pa asks.

“Yeah. She’s a maid. She told Nija that not all the Cheeters get into the Feast. The ones that neglect their studies go to Heel, where they’re tortured for eternity.”

“Serves ‘em right,” Seph says.

“Watch that kind of talk, son. You don’t want them to hear it,” Pa warns.

“They’ve stopped.” Ma holds out an arm stopping Pa in his tracks. Ahead of us the four girls are gathered in front of a house, admiring some flowers. We all stop with them. Years of frustration tinges Ma’s voice. “We’re going to be late.”

***

“Could you help with the body, Sabaz?” Mrs. Crabtree asks. “The undertaker is short staffed today. I’ll pay you, of course. Say 30 copper?”

“Sure, sure,” Pa says, stepping from the crowd and following the widow Crabtree to the side of the broad stage.

“This must have cost her a small fortune,” Ma tells us, when they are out of earshot.

Emm’s eyes work overtime taking in all the colors of the square. “I could make an entire dress out of one of those banners,” she assures us.

“You’d look better in that lilac, but red’s not a bad color for you,” Ma tells her.

 A flutter of black to our left catches my attention. “Ravens! Ma, look at all the ravens!” I point and her eyes follow my finger. There is a park just off the market, with a large tree in the center, and around that tree are more ravens than I have ever seen in my whole life.

“They’re lovely, Rav. Ooh! Look at that goldenrod dress, Emm. Coming across the bridge. See her?”

Emm nods emphatically, her eyes widening to make room for the new color. My own eyes darken as I take in all the ravens I can. Ma and Emma have their eye candy, I have mine.

We are not the same.