Chapter 11
Courage Is a Full-Time Job

I'd be lying if I said I remembered my dream, or even if I had any, but waking up the next morning confirmed what a good night's sleep could do for my mind. Imagine walking through fog, not so thick that you can't see your hand in front of your face, but just thick enough to blot out the landscape. That'd been me for so many sleepless days and nights. Now the fog had lifted and I could finally see where I was going.

Back to fishing, I thought, grabbing my shears. Back to trying to make a net.

"Hey Cloud," I said to the white sheep. "How'd you sleep? Do you sleep? Apparently I do, and it's really gotten the wheels turning. In fact"—I snipped off three fluffy cubes—"I was thinking that the only piece of the missing net puzzle is more wool."

Spying Flint a few paces away, I was relieved to see that his—or her?—beautiful black coat had grown back. "No problem if this doesn't work," I said, shearing off two more soft dark blocks and carrying them all to the forest-side crafting table, "because I just woke up with a backup plan."

Less than a minute and several wool-on-wool combinations later, I saw that the fishing net idea was out. "And that backup plan is," I told the sheep, "drumroll please…a fishing pole!"

"Baa," said Flint, who went back to eating grass.

"I know," I said. "Duh! The most obvious tool. What a difference a few Z's make."

Crafting a quartet of sticks, I placed them and the wool on the crafting table. While mixing and matching came up with nothing, my recharged brain was already on to a backup-backup plan.

"So wool doesn't work," I said, reaching for the length of spider silk in my pack. When that didn't work either, I moved on to the next logical step. And that's when my enthusiasm cooled.

"Maybe this world just won't let me make a fishing pole," I warily told the sheep, "and I'm kinda hoping that's true." An icy ball began growing in my stomach. " 'Cause if it's not, then the only other option is getting another length of spider silk."

"Moo." The sound made me jump.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," I told Moo angrily.

"Moo," she retorted, telling me not to change the subject.

"It won't be that dangerous," I said, holding up my bow. "We know they're docile in daylight, so if I can pick one off at a safe distance…"

She snorted.

"I gotta try," I protested, holding up a handful of zombie flesh. "I can't keep living on this stuff."

"Moo," argued the cow, reminding me about the garden.

"Well, that's still a long way off," I said, "and we still don't know if I can eat it."

"Moo," questioned Moo, seeing that I wasn't telling her the whole story.

"No, I guess it's not just about food," I admitted, as thoughts and feelings rose from deep down in my gut. "It's about…courage."

Looking down at my shoes, I suddenly felt a twinge of shame. "I've been…afraid…of those mobs…always running from them, always thinking about what they can do to me."

"Baa," said Flint with a healthy dose of common sense.

"Yes, I know I should be afraid of them," I conceded. "If I wasn't I wouldn't be alive. I get that fear's a survival instinct, and I don't want to ever ignore it."

I looked down at the bow again, then up to my friends. "But I can't be a prisoner of it either. I need to know that if I have to fight I can, that I can control my fear instead of it always controlling me." I motioned to Disappointment Hill. "If I don't, I'll be cowering in a hole forever and that might be surviving, but it's not living."

Moo let out a low, resigned "moo." She knew I was making sense, even if that sense put me right in harm's way.

"Yeah, you're right," I answered, looking at the late morning sun. "I wish I had come to this conclusion last night. At least then I could have found a spider first thing this morning, instead of having to wait for one tomorrow."

Nothing is worse than waiting, counting the seconds, drenched in anxiety. Do you know the difference between anxiety and fear? I didn't until that day.

Fear is a real, present, right-in-your-face threat. Anxiety comes from a potential—or in this case, future—threat. Fear can be conquered. Anxiety has to be endured. And that's what I did. Walking around the island, talking to Moo or the other animals, going over in my mind how I'd kill the spider, all the while enduring wave after wave of mouth-drying, jaw-clenching anxiety.

At the crest of those moments, like waves on a stormy sea, were thoughts I'm still a little reluctant to talk about. They were thoughts of backing out. The garden'll be ripe soon. Zombie flesh isn't so bad. There's no proof whatsoever that this world will let you make a fishing pole. These are only some of the excuses I came up with to try to justify staying safe. As the day wore on, I could feel my nerve cracking, my will starting to give way. If this world had regular, twenty-four-hour days, I probably would have surrendered to cowardice.

As night fell I retreated to the bunker, got into my bed, and prepared for another recharging sleep. I didn't get it.

BANG BANG BANG BANG!

The clamor of zombie fists jolted me out of bed. A ghoul had come calling. "Get outta here!" I shouted, wishing this world would let me craft earplugs. "I gotta get some sleep."

"Guhhh," the zombie groaned, teasing my terrified heart.

"Yeah, well…" I won't tell you the last part of what I yelled. It wasn't my finest moment.

What I really should have said to the zombie was "thank you," because after a day of trying to make up reasons not to fight, I'd just been reminded of why I should.

Each punch of the putrefied fists helped batter my anxiety into resolve. "If I didn't have to save my only arrow," I growled at the grumbling ghoul, "you'd be a midnight snack."

By dawn, I was more than ready for battle. I watched the sun burn my would-be home invader into a smoldering chunk, which I washed down with a bucket of Moo's finest.

"No more waiting. Now or never." Bow in hand, I marched out the western door, and stopped short at the sight of a spider sitting just within the shade of the woods.

"Now or never," I whispered again, creeping slowly across the exposed, open field. The arachnid didn't notice me, or, true to my theory about daylight, didn't seem to care. It even turned away as I inched to within a dozen or so blocks.

Heart pounding, skin tingling, mouth dry as sand, I drew a short breath, and drew back my bow. The arrow rocketed skyward, thunking down into the spider's bulbous body.

And it did not die!

"Rsss!" rasped the eight-legged killer, eyes whipping around to lock squarely on mine.

"Oh…" I gulped.

I sprinted back for the safety of the hill. Hisses rang in my ears. Cold, jagged fangs ripped down my back. I fell forward, stumbling, gasping, running for my life as more bites tore at my exposed flesh.

No amount of adrenaline could push me past the slicing fangs. No amount of hyper-healing could counter their continuous blows. A third strike knocked me against the side of the hill. I kissed dirt, felt my front teeth crack, and saw that I'd never make it to the open door.

"Sssp!" hissed the exultant arachnid, crouching for its final leap.

"Enough!" I shouted, grabbing the stone axe from my belt. I spun, swung, and caught my attacker in midair. Crude stone slammed into crimson eyes, throwing the spider back and buying me enough time to run. Only I didn't run. I charged!

Snarling like a zombie, I struck the spider again. It hissed. I hit. It leaped. I chopped. A final rasp, a puff of smoke, and my first standup battle was over. And to the battered, tattered victor went a length of thin, white silk.

"Moo!" called my congratulatory friend, along with a few celebratory "baas."

"Thanks, but…" I huffed, grabbing the sticky twine. "I just hope it works." Slouching painfully over to a crafting table, I placed my sticks and string. I coughed as my hyper-healing tried, and failed, to rejuvenate me on an empty stomach. "Gotta work…"

And it did!

Three diagonal sticks and two vertical lengths of silk later, I was showing off my new invention to Moo.

"Look!" I cried, then collapsed into a hacking fit. "No…no more zombie flesh."

My creation looked pretty much as you'd expect: a long wooden rod with a short line at the end. The crafting table had even given me a hook and a little red and white mini-square bobber. At least I thought it was a bobber. It suddenly occurred to me that I had no memories of fishing. I must have seen the bobber in pictures or heard about it from someone else. That's probably why I hadn't considered another important fishing aid until now.

"Don't hooks need some kind of bait?" I asked Moo nervously. "Or a lure?"

"Moo," responded the even-tempered cow, reminding me that I didn't need to attract the squid to catch it.

"Right, sorry," I said as the flash of panic subsided. "I just need to cast out and snag it, which means I better practice snagging." Hobbling to the north shore, I whipped the hook out to sea.

"I'll say this for spider silk," I told Moo, "it sure does stretch." I was about to pull in my line for another practice cast when I noticed the water bubbling. To be more specific, I saw little mini-squares of water popping up on the surface all around my bobber. "Was it always this way?" I asked Moo. "Did I just not notice it before?"

Moo's response sounded like "What do you think?"

"Couldn't be," I answered. "It's gotta be because of the hook. But why?"

I couldn't see any squids around. I couldn't see anything except the water and that new—

"Trail!" I yipped as a V of bubbles appeared off to my far right.

"What is it?" I asked nervously, "What should I do?"

All the fear I'd faced with the giant spider suddenly came rushing back. Was that a squid far below the surface, or a bigger momma squid, or some giant sea monster I hadn't even seen before? Was it about to grab my hook, pull me in, drag me into its open, tooth-filled…

"Be brave!" called Moo, forcing me to stand my ground. "Think of all the fear you've conquered, all the anxiety you've endured, to get to this point! Don't throw it all away now!"

"You're right!" I hollered, amazed at how much wisdom she could cram into one simple moo. "Courage is a full-time job."

The water splashed, the bobber sank, and I felt a strong tug on my line. I yanked back hard, expecting to see some subsea behemoth exploding up at me. Instead, a little bluish gray creature, about the size of my hand, flew out of the water and into my belt.

"A fish!" I exclaimed. "There's fish in the sea!" I didn't worry about why I couldn't see them, or how this one had been attracted to my hook. Immediately I chomped into the soft, smooth skin, and was immensely relieved that my mouth and hand cooperated.

"Moo," called Moo, halting my chewing and reminding me of the dangers of raw food.

"Right," I told her. "Sushi's great, but we don't know if this is sushi-grade fish."

Limping back to my bunker, I was relieved to see that the furnace also complied, filling my room with an enticing, familiar smell. The flames turned the bluish fish to gray, and the flesh from a slippery slime to flaky white perfection.

"Delicious fish," I mumbled, savoring each mouthful as my hyper-healing roared back to life.

"More," I moaned, and stepped outside onto the eastern beach. Just like before, I cast out my line and waited for the seas to boil. It took a little longer this time—who knew fishing required patience?—but after a minute or so, I saw another bubbling V. I waited for the bite, felt the tug, and yanked back hard. This time, a small pink-and-red fish with a pronounced lower jaw flopped into my hand.

"You look like a tasty salmon," I told my dinner. "Now let's see if you taste like one."

Turning back for the bunker, my eyes happened to fall on the wheat garden. There were three squares of ripe grain.

From famine to feast, I thought, plucking up the golden stalks and carrying them over to the beachside crafting table. Three seconds and three vertical stalks later, I was holding a soft, warm loaf of bread. And it tasted great! Light and tangy like a baguette straight from the oven.

That's all it took, I marveled, just three stalks to "bake bread."

"Moo," came a call from the hilltop above.

"Yes, that's true." I smiled up at Moo. "The irrigation ditch must have made the wheat grow a lot faster."

"Moo," she continued, this time with a chastising edge to her voice.

"If I'd checked on the garden earlier," I conceded, "I wouldn't have had to take such a great risk for a fishing pole. But then I never would have found my courage."