The Fisher girl

The Fisher Girl The smell of dirt and decay wafted in the damp air, but the girl sitting alone on the shore seemed unperturbed by it. She had sat down on the rock, burying her face in her hands, her slim body shuddering with silent cries. Never in my life have I been so deeply insulted. . . I, well-educated, refined, the daughter of a fisherman–chieftain, suspected of theft by the kingsmen, she thought. They had ransacked and rummaged through the boat she ferried across the river every day. She had been searched like a common street-walker. She could not imagine a greater insult, her indignation unmitigated by an oppressive dread. All sorts of absurd ideas came into her mind. If they can suspect me of theft, then they can arrest me, strip me naked and search me, and then lead me through the streets with an escort of soldiers, cast me into a cold, dark cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the dungeons in which dethroned kings are imprisoned. Her heart quickened with such morbid thoughts, all the stories she had heard about atrocities coming back to her. Who will stand up for me? My poor, old father will probably not have enough money to come and rescue me. If taken to the city, I will be absolutely alone, like a solitary, lost person in a desert, without friends or kin. They can do what they like with me. . . ‘Kali!’ She instinctively turned in the direction of the voice. Everyone called her that—Kali—an unimaginative reference to her dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. Kali straightened herself, her eyes bleak. ‘Your father is looking for you. You have a guest!’ shouted her neighbour. She roped the boat to the shore, securing it with an additional loop of a knot after piling the net neatly in it. That was the only functional one they had. They would have to buy a new one once this season got over. But, as always, they were short of money. The steep taxes were eating into the paltry amount they fetched from trips across the river.