The latch is old. It falls open at a slight push.

Agnet is not here. The cottage is small enough to see everything in one sweep, save for the bed behind the screen. The hearth is cold. The only sound in the room is the buzzing of the flies swarming against the window. There is none of the agonized moaning or mewling I heard on my previous visits. Has Gunther been moved elsewhere, or has he died? Perhaps his legs grew back, and he left, dancing a jig?

With Agnet gone, I am robbed of the gratitude that I was anticipating. A gesture of thanks, an embrace even. I hang my head at my own pettiness. My sister is right; I am a selfish cabbage. I clear a spot on the table, pushing aside the hemp and the awls used for repairing nets. I set the bottle of brandy on the cleared table so that Agnet will notice it when she returns. There is no point leaving a note. Agnet will know where the mysterious brandy has come from. Her grateful embrace will simply be postponed.

A stirring comes from behind the curtain. A low groan like the grinding of oyster shells. I draw back the curtain and look down on the catastrophe that was once our heroic fisherman.

Gunther the Brave is a giant of a man, with massive arms and a broad chest. His injuries have rendered him half that now, more ghost than man. His skin is sallow and beaded with a greasy sweat. Where his legs had been, there are now only stumps wrapped in coarse bandages. The blood has stained the linen to a blackish color and foul maggots writhe within its folds. Another dressing is applied to the left arm where the limb has been cleaved off. The bandages here ooze a dark, jelly-like substance. His cock, which Gunther constantly boasted of, is a worm shriveled into its nest of hair.

Worst of all, however, is Gunther’s face. Gone is the anger and the pride that had always animated his features. His mouth is open, the eyes shrunken and terrified as if he is witnessing some terrible vision on the ceiling above. A gurgling hiss rattles from his throat.

My mouth is dry. “Gunther? Can you hear me?”

His eyes wheel about until they find me. Even this small action seems painful.

I fetch the bottle from the table and hold it up for him to see. “I brought some brandy. For the pain.”

I think he understands. His eyes focus, become clear.

With a small flourish, I pull the cork and raise the bottle in a salute to his health. Then I guzzle down a hearty swallow of the stuff and stick the cork back.