The Fisherman and His Wife

The fisherman’s hut stood so close to the water that at high tide the waves knocked on the door like neighbours. He mended his nets by the window, and his wife spun wool by the fire, and the wind was the only visitor they ever had.

One evening the line went tight in his hands. He pulled, and the sea fought back. What came up was a flounder, broad as a dinner plate, with one eye that looked straight at him.

“Let me go,” said the fish. “I am not a fish at all. I am a prince under a spell, and I have a wife and children down there in the green.”

The fisherman stared. A talking fish was a wonder, and wonders were rare. He lifted the flounder over the side and let it slide into the water.

“Go home,” he said. “Swim deep.”

The flounder flicked its tail and was gone. The fisherman stood a while, listening to the water slap the stones. Then he coiled his line and walked up the beach, and his boots left wet prints that dried before he reached the door.

His wife had the table set. “Any luck?” she asked.

“I caught a prince,” he said. “And I let him go.”

She put down the ladle. “You caught a prince and you let him go? Did he grant you a wish?”

“He asked me to let him live,” said the fisherman. “So I did.”

She sat down slowly, looking at the fire. “We could have had a proper roof,” she said. “Thatch that doesn’t leak. A garden. A goat, maybe.”

The fisherman said nothing. Outside, the tide was turning.

***

In the morning she was up before him, and she had his boots by the door.

“Go back,” she said. “Find the fish. Ask for a cottage. Just a cottage, with a little garden and a fence. That’s not much to ask.”

He walked to the shore and stood where the water curled over his feet. “Flounder,” he called. “Prince? Are you there?”

The sea had a chop to it he hadn’t noticed the day before. The flounder rose beside a rock, its one eye bright.

“What do you want?” asked the fish.

“My wife wants a cottage,” said the fisherman. “With a garden. She says we’ve earned it.”

“Go home,” said the flounder. “She has it.”

When he turned, the hut was gone. In its place stood a small cottage with a red door and a fence of split hazel, and a garden with beans climbing poles. His wife was already inside, opening cupboards and laughing.

“Look at this,” she said. “A stove that doesn’t smoke. A bed with a frame.”

She was happy all evening. She hummed while she swept, and the broom was a new one. But the fisherman stood at the gate after dark and watched the water.

It was rougher than it should be. The waves came in sideways, and the foam stayed after they left. Somewhere out there, a prince was swimming in a dark that had grown one shade deeper.

The fisherman went to bed. He slept badly, and dreamed of a fish that said his name.

For a week she was content. She baked bread in the new stove and hung curtains at the windows. Then one evening she sat by the fire with her mending and did not pick up the needle.

“This cottage is small,” she said.

“It’s warm,” said the fisherman. “It’s ours.”

“A house would be warmer.” She set the mending down. “Go and ask him. A proper house, with a cellar and a room for guests.”

The fisherman looked at the window. Outside, the wind was pushing at the shutters.

“He gave us the cottage,” he said. “Maybe that’s enough.”

She said nothing. She only looked at him until he stood up and took his coat from the peg.

The sea was darker than before. No stars on it, no path of light. The fisherman’s boots sank in wet sand, and the foam came up to his knees and stayed there, cold as metal. He called into the wind.

The flounder rose beside the black rock, slower this time. Its one eye caught what little light there was.

“What does she want now?” asked the fish.

“A house,” said the fisherman. “With a cellar. She says the cottage is too small.”

The flounder was quiet for a moment. Then it said, “Go home. She has it.”

He walked back along the shore. The wind dropped behind him like a hand lifting. Where the cottage had been stood a house of two floors, with glass in every window and a chimney sending up smoke that smelled of apple wood. His wife was on the step, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Come in,” she said. “Come and see the cellar. You could keep a boat down there.”

He went in. The floors were smooth under his feet. But later, when she was asleep, he stood at the upstairs window and watched the sea. It had gone the colour of wet slate, and it moved like something breathing. He pulled the curtain and lay down. Sleep came late, and when it came it was thin.

***

Two weeks. That was how long the house pleased her. She filled the cellar with jars, and the guest room with cushions, and then one morning she came to the table with her hair already pinned and her shoes already on.

“A palace,” she said.

“We have a house,” said the fisherman. “What would we do with a palace?”

“Live in it.” She poured his tea and set it down hard. “Go and ask. Ask for a palace of stone, with a tower, and servants to open the doors.”

He stirred his tea and did not drink it. “He gave us the cottage and the house. He might not give more.”

“He might,” she said. “Ask.”

So he put on his coat and went down to the shore. The sea was grey and choppy, and the waves slapped the sand as if annoyed. Gulls flew low and said nothing. He waded in until the water reached his waist, and he called.

The flounder came slowly, and its eye was clouded this time, like a window with breath on it.

“What now?” asked the fish.

“A palace,” said the fisherman. “She wants stone, and a tower, and servants.”

The flounder did not answer at once. The water moved around the fisherman’s legs.

“Go home,” said the fish at last. “She has it.”

He turned back. The house was gone, and in its place stood a palace. Its walls were grey stone, its tower held a flag, and its doors were open. Servants stood in a line along the path. His wife was at the top of the steps in a dress the colour of wine.

“Come in,” she said. “Everything is marble. You can hear your own feet.”

He went in. The floors were cold. The ceilings were so high that his voice came back to him off the walls. At dinner, she sat at one end of a long table and he sat at the other, and they had to shout to be heard. She laughed at that. He laughed too, but he did not mean it.

That night he could not sleep. He walked the halls and found a window facing the sea. It was grey and choppy, and the waves were running in every direction at once, as if they had forgotten where to go. He stood there a long time.

Then he went back to bed and lay still, listening to the wind press against the glass.

In the morning his wife was already dressed when he woke. She wore a crown on her head, and two men in red coats stood behind her chair.

“I have been thinking,” she said. “A palace is fine, but I am still only a fisherman’s wife. Go back to your fish. Tell him I want to be king.”

“King?” said the fisherman. “I can’t ask that.”

“You can,” she said. “You caught him once. He owes you.”

So he walked down to the sea. The water was a deep grey, almost green, and it rolled in slow, heavy folds, like something breathing in its sleep. He stood at the edge and called:

“Flounder, flounder, in the sea, come and listen once to me.”

The fish rose. Its eye was calm. “What does she want now?” it asked.

“She wants to be king,” said the fisherman.

“Go home,” said the fish. “She is king.”

He walked back. The palace was gone. In its place stood a castle with a moat and a drawbridge, and guards on the walls. His wife sat on a throne of gold, and a page held a sceptre beside her. She looked at him and nodded, the way a king nods to a servant.

“Good,” she said. “But a king is not enough. Go back. Tell him I want to be emperor.”

The fisherman’s stomach turned over. “He will not like it,” he said.

“He will do it,” she said. “Go.”

He went. The sea was darker now, and the wind pushed against him. Waves slapped the rocks and sent spray into his face. He called the fish, and the fish came, but its eye was not calm anymore.

“She wants to be emperor,” said the fisherman.

“Go home,” said the fish. “She is emperor.”

He turned and walked back. Behind him the sea roared, and the sound followed him all the way up the beach.

***

At home the castle had grown again. It was a vast palace now, with domes and spires, and soldiers marching in the courtyard. His wife sat on a throne of ivory, and two rows of courtiers bowed to her. She did not smile when she saw him.

“You are late,” she said. “I am emperor now. But I have been thinking. An emperor still has to bow to something. There is one thing above me.”

The fisherman felt cold. “Don’t say it,” he said.

“Go back to your fish,” she said. “Tell him I want to be God.”

He did not move. “He will not do that,” he said. “No one can do that.”

“You caught him,” she said. “He owes you. Tell him.”

So he went. The sea was black. The wind screamed, and the waves stood up like walls of dark glass. Rain fell in ropes. He could barely stand. He called out, and his voice was torn away by the wind, but the fish rose anyway, far out, and its eye was old and deep and sad.

“She wants to be God,” shouted the fisherman.

“Go home,” said the fish. “She is God.”

And it sank, and the sea closed over it, and the fisherman was alone in the storm.

He turned and ran. He ran with the rain in his eyes and the wind at his back, and he did not stop until he reached the place where the palace should have been. There was nothing there. No domes, no soldiers, no throne.

Just the old hovel, leaning in the wind. Its door hung open. The roof was still thatch. The window was still small. He stood in the doorway, soaked and shaking, and looked inside. The fire was out. The table was bare. His wife sat on the floor by the cold hearth, in her old grey dress, her hair loose, her hands empty. She looked up at him.

“I have nothing,” she said.

He came in and closed the door behind him. The wind dropped to a murmur. He found a flint and lit the fire. Then he sat down beside her, and they watched the flames until the room grew warm.

“I am glad,” he said.

She said nothing. But after a while she leaned against his shoulder, and the two of them stayed there, in the small room, while the night went quiet outside.