A Liquid Universe

The young boy squatted on a rock by the lake. The sky, sterling blue, as if it were light refracted from a pristine sapphire, stretched infinitely around the bounds of the horizon, only adorned by the occasional lazily wafting cloud. The lake, as limpid as distilled water, reflected the great azure sky so perfectly as to deceive the mind between down and up, sky and liquid, heaven and hell. The peace of the lake was only interrupted by the ripples of the soft fall breeze and the ducks that floated and dove underneath for food.

The waters were so clear and still that one could see the pebbles that lay and the fish that swam about underwater. It was the fish that caught the boy's eyes, and he peered at them curiously. Their scales sparkled so vibrantly in the sunshine, and the way they wriggled and wiggled so fluidly in the liquid fascinated him. He had great, big, curious eyes, as any innocent child does; his spirit was as pure as the lake and sky before him. He squatted there on the bank, riveted at the squirming bodies underwater.

"Hello, child. What are you doing?"
The child turned around.

A man, in his middle ages, appeared behind the child. He had on a suit, tie, and top hat; he carried nothing but one large, black suitcase. His coat and pants were sullied by dust, his tie was somewhat upset. He had scraggly scrubble growing off of his face; he seemed to have not shaved in days.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm looking at the fish."
"Oh?"

The man came over next to the boy and peered over the rock. He, too, saw the fish. He smiled.

“Do you like fish?” the man asked.
“Huh?”
“I said, do you like fish.”
“I don’t know,” said the boy.
“What do you mean?” the man replied.
“Well,” thought the boy, “I only sort of know what a fish is. I ate it before and it was delicious, but I’ve never touched it and I’ve never met one. I don’t really know what a fish is other than seeing it swim in the water.”

A short silence punctuated the conversation. A cool breeze tumbled by, ruffling the man’s clothes and briefly disturbing the surface of the water. One could hear the grass crinkling in the rolling meadows, the trees rustling their multicolored autumn foliage, the bark crunching under the feet of a mockingbird that warbled melodiously in the distance.

“They’re not that interesting,” said the man.
“Yes, they are,” the child retorted.
“What’s so interesting about some stupid fish?” the man scoffed.

The boy’s gaze never left the water for an instant, even as he spoke. His voice was gentle, his words simple yet clear: “Fish are interesting animals because they’re so different from us. We have arms and legs and a head and neck and face, but they only have a face and one long body and some fins and flippers. They live only in water and they die in the air, which is opposite to us. Their world is one in water, they live in a thing that we can only die in. They have no cars, no legs, no horses, only fins and they swim very quickly with them. But they never complain! All they know how to do is swim and swim and swim. We would think that’s boring, but they’re happy with just swimming.”

A pause.

The man was not one to think much of the words of children and felt a sense of superior arrogance in that he knew much more than the boy. He dismissed the child’s words as stupid garbage and thought not much of his intelligence.

“These fish are not so interesting! They’re just slippery, slimy things that are good to eat. I think that’s boring!” He tilted his head back and laughed. The child was unfazed.

“You know,” the man continued, “I went to a very good school and I read many books. I’m a traveling scholar, and I know many things. I’ve experienced much more than you, so I know that these fish are boring and have nothing to them. Why you are so transfixed by them, I don’t know. Do you even know what transfixed means? Probably not – it means to be fascinated by – but do you even know what fascinate means? Probably not, you don’t seem to bright if you’re so fascinated by fish. Anyways, if you like fish so much, do you want to see one above the water?”
The boy shook his head. “No. It will die. I’m happy with just looking at them.”
The man frowned. “That’s so boring, though. Let’s go touch the fish.” He walked closer to the edge of the rock. “The water doesn’t even look that deep, child. I think I can touch one of them…”

As the man knelt down to submerge his hand under the water, his foot slipped. He slid feet first right into the water with a sloppy splash. The water around him sprayed and splattered violently as he thrashed about. Upon his noisy entrance, the alarmed fish scattered into a million directions.

“Hell!” he yelled. “It’s fucking deep!”
The boy’s eyes enlarged. “Mister? Do you need help?”

“No,” the man said between gasps of water. “I read lots of books and I – splash – recently read a book on swimming and – splash – ack – can manage myself well – blah – splash – and I’ll be ash… - splash – ptooey – ashore in – splash, gurgle, bubble – ashore in a second…”

Surely I can make it ashore! thought the man. That book I read on swimming – How to Swim Like a Marlin by J. L. Smith – surely it will help me out here!

Unfortunately for him, neither marlins nor this body of water had heard of that book before and, curiously enough, the author himself, J. L. Smith, had slipped and knocked his head unconscious in his bathtub and drowned to death a month after said book’s publication. The man sank to the bottom of the lake and never resurfaced. He didn't belong in the liquid universe.

The boy stood up. “I guess that mister was right,” he said. “Fishes are pretty boring.” He turned around and walked away from the lake.