Saturday's Storyteller: "They say there's a magic fish in this river. They also say that he gives out relationship advice on Tuesdays."

by Belinda Roddie

"They say there's a magic fish in this river. They also say that he gives out relationship advice on Tuesdays."

"That so." Sylvain grinned before lighting a cigarette, letting the violet smoke swirl around her head. "I may have to swing by here again next week, then."

The two young women sat by the bank and watched the murky greenish current swish by their feet, occasional spurts of water licking at the toes of their boots. Helena leaned back against the grass and smiled. Of course there was "no magic fish" who gave out relationship advice - it was just a fun twist on an old myth from the town. About two hundred years back, some unfortunate farmer who had eaten the wrong type of mushroom had sworn that a fish had leapt at him and told him it could see the future. That future, allegedly, was the taking over of the United States by the zombified version of Napoleon Bonaparte.

"Why do they say the fish gives out relationship advice these days, anyway?" asked Sylvain after Helena brought up the original tale. "I thought the Napoleon factor was a bit more interesting, personally."

"Let's combine it, then. The fish gives out relationship advice on Tuesday, but only to people named Napoleon."

"Does it work if it's a last name?"

"Sure. And double the love tips if it's both."

Sylvain grinned with the stub of her cigarette wedged between her frontmost molars. "Perfect," she declared. "Once I have a son, I'll name him Napoleon Napoleon, and he'll know all the right ways to woo a girl with a penchant for trout."

"Or maybe a mermaid," Helena countered. "It's not quite this river, but water's water."

They sat for another hour or so before the sun began to set, and Sylvain put the cigarette out in a patch of already dead grass and straightened up. Her red hair was tousled beneath her cap, and the smell of both algae and tobacco clung to her jacket and the loose collar of her shirt. She helped Helena to her feet, the latter brushing dry crusty dirt from her jeans.

"C'mon," Sylvain offered. "Come to the Drum Circle with me tonight and I'll buy you a beer."

Helena smiled. "Thanks, but no thanks," she trilled, tossing her blonde curls back. "Dad wants me home for Mother's Day dinner, and if God's happy with me, we'll be having cherry pie for dessert."

"Happy with your mother, I'd say." Sylvain laughed and adjusted her hat. "Can't blame you, though. I'd pick pie over beer any day."

"Well, do you want to tag along?"

"I shouldn't. Your mom would throw a fit to have dirty me in her pretty house."

"Well." Helena shrugged. "Enjoy the Drum Circle, then. And Ulrich's company."

"I'll try," sneered Sylvain. "It's not as easy as you think."

"Convince him that the fish in the river will give him love advice if he gives you a drink on the house. Maybe that'll make it better."

The two women parted ways there. Helena's father's house was on the other side of town, just a block away from her apartment. Sylvain's trailer was by the Drum Circle. She liked her life to be simplistic that way.

The river was quiet after their departure, and then a bubbling voice could be heard warbling below the surface of the water.

"Seriously, that's my OTP."

***

The Drum Circle's special was, funnily enough, baked salmon with a large lemon wedge and a side of cooked spinach. Sylvain found that amusing given the discussion she had had with Helena at the river. She sat at the closest available stool at the bar, ignoring the baseball game as Ulrich sidled across from her.

"Usual, Sylvvy?"

"Call me that and you lose your balls," Sylvain warned, pulling off her hat and resting it on the bar. In the corner, Holly Wright laughed.

"Careful, Ulrich," she crowed. "I'm sure Sylvain's castrated a few smartasses in her lifetime."

"I wouldn't put it past her," sighed Ulrich, and Sylvain loved how he still openly winced and creased his silver shrubs of eyebrows at the prospect at losing a considerable chunk of physical manhood. He slipped over to the tap and immediately began pouring a local draft. "So, what were you up to?"

"Idling by the bank. You could come some time."

"Why's that?"

"It's the fucking fish!" screeched Holly, ruining Sylvain's chances of screwing with the poor middle-aged bartender. "He'll hook you up on a date if you swing by in a few days!"

"God." Ulrich shook his hand. "That damned story. Did you know, Sylvain, that one patron said he saw someone who looked undead and about Napoleon's stature? Then he announced he'd take over the country and fulfill the fish's ancient prophecy. He says the man who started the stupid anecdote was his great uncle."

"I bet the guy who scared him was Mister Lancaster down the road," Sylvain remarked, referring to the decrepit old man who ran the grocery nearby as she grabbed her glass of beer. "He looks like he could start the next apocalypse."

Ulrich chuckled as Sylvain gulped down half of the booze, now reeking of smoke and moss and wheat. He scooched around the bar and sat beside Sylvain on the stool. Closer up, with his graying temples, puckered jowl, and bulging blue eyes, he kind of looked like he belonged in a pond and could grow gills if he wanted to. Even the skin on his bare arms was scaly. Though he couldn't help it. Something called psoriasis or what not.

"After your drink, we should dance to this old jukebox nonsense," he said, gesturing at the old speakers wheezing out unfamiliar tunes. The actual drummers, which gave the Drum Circle its name, only played on Mondays and Fridays. "It'll make you forget all about Helena for the night."

He was right. It would. Somewhere else, Helena was eating cherry pie and praising her mother for so-called good parenting. They'd probably be having fish for dinner, too. Deep-fried catfish, to be exact. Sylvain stared right at Ulrich and pointed straight at the kitchen toward the back, past Holly's table as she drank a stemmed glass of wine.

"I'll eat your salmon special first," she announced. "Then we'll have a stupid dance."

Ulrich grinned. Miles away, a fish popped up from the river and shook its head in disapproval at the pairing.

"I don't ship it."

This week's prompt was provided by José García.