Untitled - BoG-Archive

Sea Food
by Annmarwalk
Author’s note: I don’t mean to imply that this put them off of seafood altogether;
just anything that would actually wiggle its antennae in their faces ahead of time. That’s
just too much intimacy with a breakfast food.
Imrahil had noticed his nephews gazing with fascination at the fishermen’s
children, dropping their lines off the edge of the quay to snare the crabs lurking
below. Was it their simple lives that the boys envied, he wondered, or their utter
fearlessness in handling those worrisome beasts?
With their Nanny’s collusion, he awoke them in the early morning dark.
“Dress quickly, and come with me,” he whispered, as they rubbed the sleep from
their eyes. They did not question, for had he not always plied them with
wondrous surprises?
Barefoot, they padded through the silent marble halls, out the garden gate,
and down to the beach below. Past the dunes, to the rocky outcrops the boys had
seldom visited, deemed too dangerous for the young and unsure of foot.
In the moonlight the tidal pools glimmered, full of mysterious, fey
creatures. Some, like living flowers, waved their petals as if in time to underwater
music; others, hauling their homes on their backs, crawled purposefully along the
sea-mossy rocks. Fiddler crabs scuttled and scurried away.
“Look,” Imrahil whispered, showing them how to snatch a crab from
behind, avoiding the snapping claws. He pulled a featherweight net sack from his
pocket and slipped the crab inside. “Let’s see how many we can gather, shall we?
Slipping and sliding in the squelchy mud, dancing and chasing each other
with the nippy creatures, they laughed until their bellies ached; but still managed
to fill their sack with lively, jostling crabs.
“That’s plenty, good! Now we just need to collect driftwood for the fire,
and some seaweed to bury them in.”
“Why are we burying them, Uncle? We just caught them.” Boromir was still
breathless with giggling.
“We’ll steam them in the seaweed, and then we’ll have them for our
breakfast.”
Instantly all merriment ceased. “Cook them?” They stared at him, aghast.
Imrahil had certainly not expected that reaction. “Yes, of course. Nice and
fresh, plucked straight from - ”
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