Tremolo
has heard, oh gardener, from one who was probably lying (said Tremolo to the
gardener) that a few years ago there lived a fisherman. Every day he would take
his little boat out across the face of the Deep, and cast his lines out across
the waters. With every sunrise, from dawn to sunset he would cast his nets and
hooks, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, even one hundred times without ceasing. Most
days he would return home empty-handed, for truly he was a lousy fisherman, and
one whose skill at catching was not very great. Verily, the very worms on his
hooks ate better than he!
On the
longest day of the year, the fisherman wandered out to his dock, his belly
rumbling mightily, but with a smile across his mouth and a song on his voice;
for a vision had come to him the night before, in the form of a dream.
The
fisherman dreamed that he stood, naked and shivering, in the midst of a desert
as vast as it was empty. The wind sighed mournfully about him, and his every
hair stood straight, narrow, and frigid as the path to Heaven. Oh, gardener, if
I could tell but the tenth part of the terror and agony the fisherman felt
then, you would surely rip your eyes out, gnash your teeth, and your heart
burst for very pity! But how seldom are we moved by the pain of others…
Yet
this dark nightmare was not without its own comfort. Directly above, glowing
bright in a starless sky, a cloud passed from the face of the full moon; he
found solace in that quiet presence, that pale sublime light from beyond the
earth. Though freezing, though racked by pain, he found a stillness in silent
contemplation.
After a
few placid minutes, or a thousand tranquil aeons, a moonbeam traced its arc,
reaching the ground near his feet. And then (wonderful to behold!) he saw a
figure walking down it, as if descending a grand ethereal staircase so light,
so pure, so very beautiful that tears welled to his eyes and awe filled his
soul.
Who was
this apparition, this lunar visitor so distant, so silent, yet so very present?
Though terror filled him from his trembling feet to the crown of his quivering
head, a sense as ancient and mysterious as Life itself assured the fisherman
that the visitor meant him no harm. Though he felt its profound kindness, its
benevolent air was of so strange a nature that despite himself he feared it as
he would fear an immeasurable weight hanging above him.
But
look! It came nearer, and the fisherman saw that it was the woman who lives in
the moon—for only fools, charlatans, and astronauts believe that there is a man in the moon—who came to visit him.
She wore a silken dress of black beyond black, a bloody rose perched in her
dark hair. A thin snowy veil clouded her face oh so slightly, yet even as she
walked on the earth her face glowed with moonlight.
He
thought she would speak, for she opened her mouth. But instead she lifted up a
hand, and behold! she held a great fish, with which she swung and walloped him
a good one right across the back of his head, hard enough that he cried out and
fell to the ground. The fisherman stood and reached out to her, thinking that
perhaps he was having one of those sorts
of dreams, but one look into the deep darkness of her eyes assured him that it
was not. He stood in silence for a while, rubbing at the sore spot on the top
of his head as she watched him; the fisherman thought he could see the ghost of
the ghost of a smile work its way across her lips. This warmed his heart, and
he was glad.
“Fisherman,”
she said, “Long have I watched you, rowing out daily on your little boat—“
“But if
you live in the moon, how can you see me when I’m fishing during the day?” the
fisherman interrupted, understandably curious.
“Quiet,
you!” she rebuked, “It is not for a mortal to understand my Seeing. And
anyways...” she added, drawing up a chart of lunar orbits and cycles and
delivering a short lecture on gravitation, tides, and the phases of the moon, concluding,
“So, you see, at some times during the month the moon will be in your sky
during daylight hours for several hours at a time. Plenty of time for me to
keep an eye on you. Understand?”
“Why
would you bother watching me?” asked the fisherman, “I mean, when there’s a
whole world of other things you could be watching, it seems kind of silly.”
The
Lady in the Moon smiled warmly in spite of herself, “It’s just that you’re
really such an awful fisherman, even though you try so very hard. I often think
you must try to scare the fish off your hook, else you’d surely have caught
something by now.”
“Sometimes
I’m not sure what my mouth’s for,” the fisherman admitted, “And I hate to eat a
fish sometimes, one that didn’t do no harm to nobody.”
The
Lady shook her head, a laugh on her lips. “Fisherman,” she began, returning to
her original posture of majestic celestial dignity, “I have come to tell you
that, for every reason and none, I’ve decided to alter your fortunes in this
life. Tomorrow you shall make the greatest catch of your life, and never again
will you need to row out upon the waters each morning.”
“No
kidding?” asked the fisherman.
“No
kidding.”
“What’s
the catch?”
“The catch
is that you have to stop asking so many useless questions.”
“I can
do that,” the fisherman said, but he said it like a question.
She
picked up the fish once again and the fisherman wavered between offering his
cheek and turning away to protect himself. Instead of smacking him another good
one with the fish the Lady dropped it at his feet and made her way back up the
moonbeam.
“Any
last words of Divine wisdom?” the fisherman shouted when she was almost out of
earshot.
“Just
don’t do anything pathetically stupid!” she yelled down at him, stumbling ever
so slightly over her dress’ hem.
So
anyways the next morning—did I mention it was the longest day of the year?—the fisherman
went out upon the Deep to cast his nets. And verily he did cast his nets and
his hooks ninety-eight, ninety-nine, and even one hundred times. But still he
caught nothing.
“Alas!”
cried the poor fisherman, “That my dream should have led me so deeply astray!”
Yet, because at heart he was a faithful soul who desired very much to believe
that the Lady in the Moon had decided to show him her favor, he cast his nets
once more.
Deeper
and deeper they settled, to the very bottom of the quietest depths. He waited
long, until darkness crept over the face of the Deep, and a smiling crescent
moon shone among the fullness of the stars. At last he pulled the nets in, and
as he did so he found (to his delight) that a great weight pulled them down.
With mounting excitement he tugged at the ropes, imagining that he’d ensnared a
great fish, or perhaps a treasure chest laden with many jewels and all manner
of things that shine.
But
when he pulled in his catch, he found simply a pair of soggy boots and a
bowling ball. His heart sank, and he returned to shore with a heavy heart.
“Fate
has cursed me,” he groaned as he trudged his way home, nets and poles slung
over his shoulder. Weighted as he was by the boots and the bowling ball, he was
long on the way.
“Why
would you speak to me so kindly,” he railed, shouting to the skies in a voice
that would make thunder tremble, “Only to cast me down lower than I was, even
lower? I am no saint, I am no sage, I am no virtuous man, but is there truly
nothing in me that is good, nothing that shines, nothing to tease out the
smiles of fate? Was I made only to suffer? Why, oh tell me please, why did I not come cold and dead out of
my mother’s body?”
Long he
shouted, and loud, and many times he cursed his birth, his childhood, and the
terrible stubbornness inside him that clung to Life, that in spite of
everything screamed from the core of him that Life was good, that Life could be
good.
When he
reached the threshold of his humble dwelling, the fisherman was assailed by a
thought that stopped him cold: “What if it’s my own fault? What if I’ve already done something pathetically
stupid, just like the Lady told me not to do? What if it’s too late for me,
what if there’s nothing left to do but to keep going through the motions of the
nightmare until finally I fall apart? What if there’s no chance of becoming
better, what if the game was already decided before I was born, what if I’m
nothing more than a camera tied up to some dumb animal machine?”
The
fisherman sighed, for truly his thoughts grew ever darker, very soon becoming
far too terrible for words to share. With a heavy heart, he opened his door and
walked into his home. After setting his fishing gear on the shelf and eating a
brief meal of creamed corn, he retired to bed for the night.
He
slept fitfully, beset by strange forebodings and inscrutable imaginings. Once
he awoke to hear the sound of crashing waves upon the threshold of his bedroom
door. Another time he was startled into wakefulness by a quiet voice
whispering, “The fisherman has made his catch.” Yet again he heard an insistent
slapping, as of the flopping of a great fish on his door.
At
last, roused by the portentous sounds that interrupted his sleep, the fisherman
stole away from the bedroom to inspect his home. The floor, he found, was
soaked through, and the whole space of his home smelled strongly of salt.
Fishes and sea creatures of all manner lie on his floor and furniture,
breathless and flopping with an unspeakable marine terror written across their
faces. The fisherman wondered to see this.
“What
is the meaning of this?” the fisherman wondered, searching the house for some
sign, some token of explanation. He searched the walls and floors, the fishy
scales and the boots, the bowling ball and the fishing lines. At last, he found
there, snagged on one of the tiniest fishhooks, a tiny corner of the great
Ocean.
“Behold!”
announced the fisherman to himself, “For though it seemed I had caught nothing,
I have caught the very Depth of the Ocean itself.”
He
waited a few moments, enjoying this thought in his little reverie, then added, with
some satisfaction, “Truly there has never been a fisherman half as skilled as
me.” A frown crept over the fisherman’s face, “But what shall I do with this
vast ocean I’ve discovered?”
“And so,” said Tremolo the Tale-Teller,
concluding The Tale of the Fisherman’s Catch with an obscene cackle, “The
fisherman decided to stuff the Ocean into little red water balloons so he could
drop them on stuffy young musician men whenever he deemed necessary.”
Tremolo the Tale-Teller stuck
his tongue out at the gardener, who remained silent for a time.
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