Sun Kissed Innsmouth
Part 107
Bartholomew only dared to look away from the awful fish for a second when he noticed Felecia reaching up to touch the tip of a whale harpoon resting next to the percussion gun used to fire it.
Felecia stopped reaching up for the faint gleaming piece of hooked metal but kept herself from looking back at the big fish with the kitchen knife teeth. Bartholomew came over and pointed at the big gun and the collection of barbed harpoons that sat next to it. “Father showed me the shotguns in the armory before he left. This thing is old timey like those, it used caps and measures of black powder to fire those barbs into whales.”
Felecia knew about whales, or of them at least, she had read about sea beasts the size of whole houses and boats. Even animals the size of Rotary house. She looked at the big gun and the three sharp harpoons that were nearly as tall as she was and whispered. “A fish the size of this place.”
Bartholomew only laughed and put his hand on Felecia’s shoulder, mimicking their father and the way he chose to close in and speak to his daughter in moments of confidence. “Not quite that big, and not a fish at all, but they sure are large, as big as the biggest boats.”
Felecia shrugged away from Bartholomew back then, angry at her brothers parental mimicry for a moment but also curious as always about the world beyond Rotary house. “Like you would know!”
Bartholomew only shrugged and turned back to the scary looking stuffed fish leaving Felecia to keep her eyes stuck on the oversized rifle and its long sharp projectiles. “I would though, Granmpa didn’t know much but father did. He told me how Grampa never did fish for a living, but Father did, or used to. He said he had to kill a whale when he was young, only a few years older than me, he said. He told me it felt awful, like killing some part of the world bigger than himself.”
“Father killed a whale?”
Felecia had nearly shouted the question, all thoughts of the hideous stuffed fish with its kitchen knife teeth and nearly all thought of the oversized gun and its ammunition erased from her memory while she fought to consider her father being a small man, a small man in a small boat, shooting at a monster the size of Rotary house.
“He said that he killed a few, he hated it though, that’s why this is all down here. He didn’t like fishing, not like Grampa did.”
Bartholomew shifted his voice and walked back over to put his hand on Felecia’s shoulder in a patronizing fashion and found his version of father’s voice. “The old man was a drunkard and a blackheart as you know, sport. He loved himself nearly as much as the drink and he kept these awful trophies to prove his love for his own craven image.”
Felecia batted away at Bartholomew, then in real life and once again as she stood half remembering and half hallucinating the moment from before. She didn’t remember Grampa Samial at all but she wanted to. She wanted to know and remember a male figure that wasn’t worrisome like Clarence, she wanted to remember and know a man who wasn’t intimidating like father was, or a damned impertinent know it all like Bartholomew.
Felecia wanted to know a man in her life who wanted to be there, who wanted to raise her or love her, or both, without expecting or wanting something in return. Felecia considered what she already knew about mother and Nana. “Maybe Grampa just preferred the sea instead of being here.”
Bartholomew stopped jesting and loosened his grip on Felecia’s shoulder back then, he stopped trying to pretend to be father, or anyone else as he also looked at the outsized gun and its yard long ammunition.
“Anyone with any sense at all prefers the lands of anywhere at all to here, sister.”