Through Deep Waters

Meticulous in her selection, she gathers rocks, like gifts, cradled gently in her arms. Lovingly she seals her selections into my plastic sepulchre. The pitch black of the night distorts her vision and I slip from her arms, only to be caught deftly, in mid stumble. I would prefer to be found, but she does not crave my discovery, though she loves me well enough to provide for my protection. My pages hang heavy with the burden of memory, each entry carefully crafted and tainted with tears of grief. Clinging to one another we march toward the end and I alone catapult over the edge into oblivion. I the reluctant guest, fouled by the weight of common stones, ground from the remnants of ancient volcanoes, am sinking. She, resplendent, emanates immense relief, on her peaceful countenance, while I, the burden am lost, wedged into the lake floor, between two immovable boulders in immutable silence.

Soft mourning sunshine breaks through in shafts of piercing spears, touching me one moment and disappearing just as swiftly. Unaware of my presence an old man drops his miniscule anchor in search of elusive trout. The fish, old and wise, chuckles gleefully beside me at his narrow escape. The shrill high voices of youth parade along the edge gazing into the aqua abyss and wondering if they should? A thunderous wave of whitecapped wonder penetrates into the deeper recesses as the youth leap bravely into the waves, but none so brave as to discover me. Birthed with each stroke of the pen, pages emblazoned with potent despair I intend to breathe life back into my author’s dreams.

From the lake bottom, I gaze up, the world in flux between myopic haze and astigmatic clarity. The surface fades into dull echoes of high pitched shrieks as he leaves the pier behind: my saviour. Minute explosions within his chest begin to burn with increasing ferocity, and yet I urge him onward. His diaphragm is sucked up into his chest cavity in resistance to the lack of oxygen, and he gropes for me, my edges curled into a smile of well-worn love. I rise upon the fires of his breath, bursting through the surface water, he gasps, sucking air into the vacuum of his lungs, holding me gently in his gaze. For me there is no greater joy than to be seen in this moment and he is intrigued at my discovery.

The pull of the deep water remains with him as he collapses into bed for an early night, having untucked each of my pages from between the harsh rocks, turning me slowly and lovingly. Falling into sleep, he is pulled, by my umbilical cord, until he encounters a halo of black curls and a pale china doll face coaxing him along the pier. I, his serene and paginated guide, tug him away from the apparition towards my home: remarkable, with accents of field stone surrounding a blood red door. His mind melts the door into monochromatic gray, the effect so mesmerizing that it takes him dreamy hours to recognize that I am gesturing to the house. A gentle breeze, like hands, pulls him toward the misty lake, while I juxtapose myself on waves sailing towards him. I the unassuming black book am engulfed in the furious wave, roiling around my body terrifyingly, sweeping me back down into my watery abyss. He kicks his legs furiously knowing the end is near. My world is engulfed in a tsunami of disappointment; did he recognize the signs floating toward him? I call after him: “find me there,” hoping he has not awoken, before he finishes my dream. Gasping, he wakes finding himself wrapped tightly into a bedsheet cocoon. It is laughable, he thinks that the whole terrifying dream was precipitated by dishevelled bed clothes.

Though it’s early, he throws his sheets off in a summer sweat, content to watch the sunrise with me as his literary companion. He meanders to the narrow beach, the humidity heavy in the air and gazes along the shoreline undulating in the early heat. Grogginess overcomes him as he settles into the Adirondack chair to watch the glow of the sun rising behind him, through the mirror of the lake. It could be that I dreamed the apparition for him, ethereal and glimmering. A woman with a halo of curls, walks across the lake toward him, bounding at her side a playful canine companion. He reaches reflexively forward, and the apparition melts into the ephemeral sunrise, like echoing columns of shimmering light reflecting off the lake surface. Rising to the surface of the dream-memory, he sits chilled and dumbfounded in the uncommon heat of the early morning as storm clouds gather thickly on the horizon. I cannot content myself with simply being seen, my worn pages crave literary drama once again.

With astonishing speed, the storm tackles my flimsy sheaves as we plough through the airborne sand and into the cottage. The screen door whines its displeasure at being forced open into the gale. Surrounded by shrieking winds and moaning roof trusses, we hunker down in the cottage: I mourning the loss of another day, he happy to delve into the depths of my pages. By evening the lake reforms to its playful self again, tickling the shoreline lovingly. The sky has metamorphosized into a soft creature whose fractalized wings span the horizon, painting the cerulean sky in whisps of candy floss. With calculated movements, he cradles me closely, having perused each page sensitively. On swift feet he carries me. Captivated by his curiosity, he traverses the small town streets, one by one, skeptically seeking material proof of his suspicions.

Disbelieving, he stands with his mouth agape at the scene before him. I sense his confusion as he is impelled forward by an overwhelming curiosity, towards the blood red door encased in stone. The image before him is in contrast to his atheistic belief system and yet there stands my home, just as I implanted it in his dream. He waits upon the door step, imagining that the dream will once again sweep him away in tumultuous waves, but nothing happens. I urge him gently to knock, as I spurred his descent to find me. It takes courage, but he responds. Instantly his ears are filled with the gleeful barking of a large dog, whose nose pokes through the blinds at the front door, followed by hurried footsteps. What will he say, I wonder?

The door opens, allowing a whisper of my favourite piano music to permeate the night air. Floating out of the door and onto the stoop, my author locks the boisterous dog into the house behind her. Her dark curls bounce happily accentuating the heart shape of her fair face. Breaking the silence he blurts, in bewilderment: “Do you believe in fate?” Having spent long hours with her, I know this will not appeal to her. Her face darkens: “I beg you not to come proselytizing at my door again, and most certainly not at this hour,” she finishes, nodding curtly to the final remnants of the setting sun. “I am sorry,” he replies gently, “I don’t know why I said that, it’s just that…. Owing to a strange confluence of events, involving a deep dive to the bottom of the lake, and some very strange dreams, I believe I have something that belongs to you.” He proffers me hesitantly.

Covetously, she reaches for my spine, fingering my dog eared pages dotingly as one would stroke a beloved toddler’s cheek. It is more than I could have hoped for: to have been missed. A tear trickles onto my black cover, immaculate in the moon-light. Catching his eye, and his hand, she thanks him, my saviour. “I owe you an explanation, I believe.” She states as she opens the door beckoning him inside. “I am Felicia.”

He responds haltingly with a “How do you do? Name’s Eric.”

Felicia had forsaken me to the lake bottom, she admits, to escape the horrendous memories that had precipitated my writing. Though it pains me to hear this, I recognize the agony of her words, held on my pages. As an author, Felicia had found my pages therapeutic, and had filled them appreciatively, but these words were designed to release her from demons, not to publish them and so she released me. But even as I sank on the back of those rocks, she felt deep regret, for abandoning the friend she had found in these pages. Now, two years later, her tale of loss and despair, no longer frightened her. Her words, sweeping across my pages, are all that is left, of her mother’s memories and tales, though agonizing, highlighted the brief moments of joy held in those final months. The words etched with ink and tears bore witness to what would be her most harrowing and illuminating fiction; born from truth and love. Now Eric, was her second confidant on that literary, journey, and I the first. His reward: $20, 000, a sum that he flatly refused, but inspired by her inward journey, he requested from Felicia a signed Moleskine journal of his own.