This time, it was early spring when I hatched on the banks of Black Sand Creek. I knew because the willows overlooking the river had sprouted furry grey catkins, and the water temperature, while still cold, was not baby-turtle-killingly so.

The water spirits were more subdued, staying close to home as they waited for spring to begin in earnest. I didn’t see nearly as many customers frequenting the pubs, and the Water Court gateway looked more woebegone and deserted than ever. (That sign really needed replacing before it rotted clean away. I was a little surprised Nagi hadn’t noticed.)

As for the mortal fish, they were busy preparing nests and laying eggs. I glided back and forth along the river, devouring insects and whatever else was small enough for me to get my jaws around, and memorizing the locations of clutches. I was looking forward to this year’s baby fish. The existing ones were too big to attack, and I was sick of eating bugs.

While I counted the days until my food hatched, I considered the Lord Silurus problem. Although I hadn’t approached his stretch of river, I also hadn’t heard any water spirits shrieking about his latest appearance, so presumably he was still wintering in his lair. At any rate, the river was too cold for human children to play in (or, more to the point, for human parents to allow human children to play in), so I didn’t need to worry about another Maila-type fiasco yet. What in the world was I supposed to do about that overgrown catfish anyway? How did Flicker expect a turtle with a soft shell to kill a demon?

Worst advice ever.

But fine. I could work with this. For a start, I’d grow as big and strong as possible. Depending on my growth rate, it might take a few years, but compared to the centuries I’d already spent languishing in White and Green Tiers, what was a handful of years? I could afford some patience. And in the meantime, I’d save up positive karma in other ways – and stay far away from Lord Silurus so I couldn’t see him eating any humans.

When the first batch of catfish eggs that I was monitoring hatched, I was ready.

Out of the hole poured a stream of thin, silvery fry about half my length, waggling their bodies clumsily. Hidden behind a clump of eelgrass, I watched them bumble into open water and form into a messy school. Somehow, they reached a consensus about direction and started moving, inhaling water bugs as they went.

By chance, it happened to be in my direction.

Creeping closer, I studied them. Already, there were noticeable size differences between the largest fry and their siblings. With my eyes, I marked several that would make a decent meal. My stomach rumbled. For how slowly this body grew, it was constantly hungry.

One of the fry I’d selected turned on its neighbor, which thrashed its tail but couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. The large fry ripped off a chunk of flesh and lunged for a second bite. Click click click click click! The small fry were panicking and scattering, while the other large fry fought for their share of sibling.

In all the confusion, I glided out from my hiding spot, barreled into my closest target, and bit down on its back. My jaws crunched through its spine, filling my mouth with tender, juicy succulence. I gulped down a huge bite.

Mmmm. So fresh. So sweet. However much I enjoyed cooked meat, raw flesh had a silkiness that nothing could match.

The fry’s mouth was opening and shutting, its front fins flailing. I ripped off a second hunk from its side and chewed happily, taking time to savor the flavors. With its spine severed, the fry wasn’t going anywhere. Ahhhhh. So much tastier than bugs, which were mostly shell and barely had any insides to speak of. While the crunch was interesting, I’d really missed muscle and fat. Too bad this fry didn’t have much of either. Once I was big enough, I’d have to try a full-grown catfish.

Sensing blood, the other large fry swarmed me, trying to steal my meal. I spun and snapped at one that was nibbling on the tail, forcing it to back off.

Stop it! That’s mine!

Undeterred, a second one snuck up on the dead fry’s other side.

Go away!

I whacked it with my flipper, but while I was distracted, a third tore off the dead fry’s fin. After that, so many fish crashed into me that they knocked me aside, and then my meal vanished into the middle of a writhing, silver ball. Furious, I started tearing chunks out of whatever fry on the edges I could get. As soon as they started bleeding, their neighbors attacked them too.

One fry’s fin started to click, followed by another’s. Attracted by the frenzy, an adult catfish was approaching. In a flash, the fry reformed into a school and zipped downstream, leaving the water stained with blood and full of their floating, half-eaten siblings.

I certainly wasn’t big enough to fight an adult catfish. Diving into the nearest hole, I fumed as it finished off the dying fry. After it had cleared the water, it swam on.

Well, even if I hadn’t gotten to finish a single fish in peace, I’d gotten a decent meal for the first time in this life. That counted as an overall victory.

Right on cue, my stomach rumbled.

I sighed. Time to find more food.

Successive batches of catfish fry provided not only delicious meals but also useful hunting skills. I soon learned that if I barreled into a fry on the edge of the school, I could separate it from its siblings far enough to gulp the whole thing down. The warning fin-clicks were annoying, but I found that I could prowl after the school, observe my target, and determine which fin it favored. If I bit that one off at once, it couldn’t warn its siblings, and the others were too dumb to notice that one had gone missing. Hence the school wouldn’t flee.

Further experimentation showed that after silencing a fry, I could seize it by the tail, haul it to a secluded spot, and enjoy it at my leisure.

Even more testing revealed that I could herd catfish, even catfish larger than me. While I was small, I was vicious. This turtle body had a powerful bite. I’d swim at my target and nip at it and terrify it into going where I wanted it to go.

Hmmm. Interesting. Did that work on other types of fish?

As spring progressed, I discovered that indeed, as long as I wasn’t overly ambitious, I could tug or chase fish around Black Sand Creek. Fish-steering. Now that presented fascinating possibilities.

No matter how hideous softshell turtles were, being able to crawl onto land periodically was much better than staying in the water all the time. When I wasn’t eating or experimenting on fish, I was basking on a sandy stretch of riverbank, enjoying the sunlight while I surveyed the river and its surroundings. As spring progressed, wild geese and swallows flew back north, and shoots poked out of branches. Day by day they grew, until greenery was everywhere. I kept an eye out for human children, but either the water was too cold, or they were too busy with the spring planting, or both. Good.

When fishing began in earnest again, I tracked the boats to identify their patterns. Obviously, I wasn’t planning to sacrifice myself to the fishing net this life – but nothing stopped me from sacrificing others. It was even good for their karma counts. See how what a good person I’m becoming, Flicker? Quake before my altruism!

I quickly became an expert at chasing fish into nets. A few times, I got swept up too, but I was so small that the fishermen just tossed me back.

Eel traps, which humans tied to branches and lowered into the water, provided another opportunity. After cautious inspection, I determined that they were long cones woven from willow twigs, with two layers and bait placed at the pointy end. Eels were really dumb and slithered into whatever small, dark hole they came across, and once they’d gotten into the space between the layers, they didn’t have room to turn around. The humans would row along the river and check each trap in turn. If they’d caught anything, they’d open the pointy end, dump the eels out, and then reset the trap.

A shame that eels were too big for me to handle – an attempt to herd one ended with me fleeing – but as a boat’s shadow approached, I shoved a catfish into the trap and lumbered onto land to observe. A weather-beaten human was manning the oars, while his daughter leaned out and hauled up their traps. When she got to the one with my offering, she called, “We caught something!”

She opened the pointy end – and a single catfish flopped onto the bottom of the boat. After a moment of shock, she scrambled to bash it over the head before it leaped over the side. Blinking, she asked her father, “How’d a catfish get in here, Da?”

I stuck out my neck, listening as hard as I could, expecting them to start comparing the habits of eels and catfish and speculating suspiciously on how a catfish got stuck in an eel trap – but the fisherman just grunted. “Better ‘an nuthin’.”

“Yep.”

With a shrug, the girl tossed the catfish into a basket on top of a couple eels. Then she reset the trap and dropped it back into the river. They rowed on.

Well, that was a resounding success. They hadn’t even complained that the fish was too small. Peasants’ desire to fill their bellies really was one of their more endearing traits, the lack of intellectual curiosity being another.

Excellent.

And that was how I spent the next few years alternating between eating fish so I could grow bigger, and chasing them into nets and traps so my karma total could grow bigger.

One day, I was lying on the riverbed, digesting and grumbling to myself over how slowly this body grew, when a patrol of Yulus’ shrimp guards tapped past. On instinct, my neck darted out and I snapped at the closest one, but he brought up his spear and smacked me across the snout with the flat of his blade.

I barely suppressed a yelp of pain. While I was whimpering inwardly and clamping my flippers over my face, the patrol continued on its way.

I considered chasing down the guard and ripping him and his partner into tiny shreds and then not eating them, but that wasn’t how mortal turtles acted. And I couldn’t afford to give myself away to Yulus and Nagi.

Burrowing into the sand, I stewed over how the guard had struck me casually, almost absently, as if I were some brainless, powerless, insignificant creature.

I hated it.

I hated him.

I hated how he was right, because no matter how smart I was, if I couldn’t retaliate, then I couldn’t inspire fear, and if I couldn’t inspire fear, I couldn’t inspire obedience, and if I couldn’t inspire obedience, then, at the end of the day, I was no more than some poor, dumb beast. As one thought chased another, they spiraled down until they fixated on the guard’s spear.

I wanted one.

Even if brute force had never been my modus operandi, even if a softshell turtle wielding a shrimp-sized spear didn’t present any threat to Lord Silurus, I still wanted one. Possession of a weapon would give me the option of ambushing and stabbing that guard, and hence some measure of control. And at the very least, I could use it to prod eels into traps.

Yes. Getting my flippers on a spear was definitely a good idea.

Luckily, I knew where to find the barracks, because Nagi had complained about its location more than once. Through a historical agreement with a more competent captain who’d wrangled an even greater degree of independence, the barracks weren’t inside the Black Sand Creek Water Court but a separate grotto a few yards downstream. The company of shrimp guards bunked there, and technically the captains too, although Captain Carpa spent as much time in the Water Court as possible and Captain Carpio practically lived in a round of his favorite pubs.

I spent two weeks observing the barracks until I’d memorized the guards’ patterns. During the day, most went out to patrol the river, leaving behind two shrimp only: the senior one to drowse behind a desk, and the junior one to scuttle around taking care of odd jobs.

Perfect. Now all I had to do was sneak into the armory and steal myself a spear.