Chapter 20
Riley could not answer immediately; he did not even remember his own name until he saw a name tattooed on his arm. He read the name again.
“Adam!”
“Alright. I’m Luis, and this is Ada.”
“Nice meeting you, Ma’am, Sir!”
“Nice meeting you too!”
Luis was an old man with skin darkened and weathered by strong sea winds and bright sun, his hands rough and knotted from decades of casting nets and mending ropes. Ada was a few years younger, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes clear and watchful, always scanning the horizon or the sky as if reading changes in the weather. Their home was a small stone cottage with a steep, slate roof and thick whitewashed walls, set low against the wind. It smelled of dried herbs, wood smoke, and salt. Inside, it was warm but cramped, with heavy wooden furniture and shelves lined with earthenware jars.
Riley walked with them through the village. He still wore his fine white shirt, stiff and faintly salt-stained, its cut and fabric unmistakably costly even after all he had been through, along with jewelry that had somehow stayed with him through the waves. The place unfolded around him. Cobblestone lanes curved between tightly clustered cottages, their doorways framed by climbing vines and window boxes holding hardy blooms. Stone walls crisscrossed the fields and edged the paths, and stone piers jutted into the water where fishing boats bobbed at anchor. The air carried a sharp, clean scent of salt and seaweed, mixed with the faint smell of peat smoke and drying nets. Voices carried easily between the cottages, and every neighbor seemed to notice who passed along the lane. It was a place where everyone knew one another’s business, and disagreements flared quickly, echoing between the stone walls. He learned the old man and woman were husband and wife.
He noticed the village was unpeaceful, filled with rough, hard-drinking men who quarreled over small things like disputed fishing grounds, a borrowed boat, or a careless word, and their shouts carried through the evening air. Fights broke out often, and few stepped in to stop them until someone was bleeding. Riley knew he needed to leave as soon as possible, but he had nowhere to go and no clear memories of who he was. The village felt old and isolated, with no electric lights along the lanes, no modern roads, and only rough tracks leading inland toward the hills.
Weeks passed, and he was still stranded in the fishing village. He needed work to survive. Fortunately, he still wore jewelry, so he sold pieces to a traveling merchant who visited the village once each month. He began selling fish and vegetables at the market to get by. With the money from his jewelry, he rented a small cottage at the edge of the village, where the lanes gave way to open fields and the noise of the harbor faded. He preferred to live alone, since Luis and Ada’s sons and their families shared the main cottage and often argued over money, their voices rising sharp and angry late into the night.
One afternoon, Riley was walking back from the market carrying a wicker basket of salted fish. A group of three men stood blocking the path, rough and loud, the kind who took what they wanted and asked no one’s permission. One of them, a broad-shouldered man named Ralph, stepped directly in Riley’s way.
“Where’d you get that fine shirt, stranger?” Ralph asked, his voice mocking. “You think you’re too good for this village?”
Riley stepped aside. “I’m just passing through. Let me go.”
“Let you go?” Ralph laughed, and his friends laughed with him. “You don’t make the rules here. We don’t know you. You don’t belong.”
Riley tried to walk past, but one of the others shoved his shoulder hard. The basket slipped; fish spilled onto the cobblestones.
“Pick it up,” the second man said. “Pick it up and beg us.”
Riley felt heat rise in his chest. “I won’t.”
Ralph shoved him again, harder. “I said pick it up. Or maybe we can teach you how things work here.”
When Ralph reached for his collar, Riley grabbed his wrist and twisted. Ralph roared and swung a wild punch that Riley ducked, shoving him backward into the other two. They stumbled, then all three lunged together. Riley dodged the first blow and landed one solid punch to Ralph’s ribs, but the second man caught him in the jaw. His head snapped back. They surrounded him, three against one, kicking and shoving, shouting that he was an outsider who needed to be put in his place. Riley fought back hard, landing blows where he could, but he was outnumbered and pushed back until his shoulder struck the rough stone wall of a cottage. Only when a few villagers stepped forward and shouted did the three men back away, Ralph spitting blood and promising that it would not end there.
Riley stood breathing hard, his lip split and his jaw throbbing, and looked around at the village, the curving lanes, the watching faces in doorways, the men still glaring at him from the path. He knew then more clearly than ever that he could not stay. This place would eat him alive if he let it.
He bought an old pickup truck a few days later from a man leaving the village, its paint faded and its engine loud, but it ran. He used it to buy fish in bulk and resell them in other villages, staying away as much as he could.
He recalled those early days…
He reached the fishing port and parked outside the fish market. He needed to buy fish to resell in the next village, a community of farmers rather than fishermen. He could not remember ever entering such a place before, but survival left him no choice.
From outside, he saw the wet stone floor slick with seaweed and mud, marked by footprints and cart tracks. The sharp, heavy scent of fish hung thick in the air. Vendors and fishermen shouted and haggled, the whole place loud and chaotic.
He walked inside as if he belonged, talking to fishermen and dealers, bargaining for stock. But he hated touching the fish and kept covering his nose, though he kept working.
Half an hour later, he struck a good deal. Now he had to transfer the fish into an ice box and carry it out himself. He hesitated, then removed his expensive hooded windbreaker and tied it around his waist. His fine white shirt, still crisp despite the salt, showed off his build; many women glanced his way. Some greeted him, but he did not respond.
He frowned the whole time he moved the fish, working quickly as if desperate to leave. The smell and the work felt like hell. He could not remember ever doing anything like this.
When he finished, he lifted the ice box onto his shoulder, paid, and loaded it into the truck. He sat behind the wheel, sniffing his hands and shirt, the fish scent mixing with his cologne. He noticed people staring, started the engine, and drove away from the port.
An hour later, he reached the market in the farmers’ village. He unloaded the fish, carried them inside, and set up his stall. He wanted to sell out fast and leave, but he knew it would not be easy. Then he realized his good looks helped; a smile and a kind word, and customers, especially women, bought quickly. He was sold out in just an hour.
He walked to a small restaurant across the road and ordered food. As he ate, he thought about his situation. He still did not know who he was. He wondered if he had been in a shipwreck, or how he had ended up there. He was trapped, and he hated the lingering smell of fish, but he had no other choice. He needed a better life, but he did not know where to begin. The fight with Ralph and the others kept replaying in his mind. It was only a matter of time before they came for him again. He could not stay.
Then he spotted job postings in a shop window across the street. He finished his food quickly, eager to go over and apply.