Beneath The Surface (An Allegory)

 

There was once a large pier from which, in the before time, sail boats used to sail to all parts of the world. But now the giant metal behemoths rule the waves and the sail boats are seen there no longer.

Bereft of its former purpose, families now use it to launch their personal water craft, fish from, and picnic on. On a warm summer day, water craft roil the waters as children play upon the still sturdy beams of the dock.

But early in the morning, before the visitors and vacationers arrived, an old sailor could often be seen sitting at the end of the pier. He had no fishing pole nor water craft: he was content to look out upon and listen to the waves. For the sea was in his veins, and though he was no longer a sailor, he still heard the sea’s call. He visited her to watch the sun rise and stayed with her until the crowds began to arrive.

Often, he would simply gaze for long periods of time deep into her depths, communing with some spirit that only those intimate with the sea would know. For the same unknown longing called to him even now as it once called to him as a young man. Where once he traveled the world in hopes that he might find an answer to this longing, as an old man he became content to experience the mystery without the need for answers.

One day, as he stared into the depths that the waves were always trying to conceal and distort, he saw a motion deep within. It was but the briefest of glimpses but it set the hair on the back of his neck at end. It was one of those mysteries of the deep that sometimes rise from the dark and give hints of all that was submerged.

It was big. Of that there was no doubt. He had seen enough in his days to not be mistaken. A glimpse of white that would terrify him if he were in a boat. Would have terrified if he had been a younger man. Terrified him now.

He thought he knew what it was but stared transfixed at the water, looking for confirmation. Again he saw something — just a hint, but it turned the blood within his veins cold. He scanned the waters, his trained eyes fixed to look beneath the surface and the dancing waves that reflected the sky rather than reveal what was within.

And then he saw it again. This time, there was no doubt in his mind. It confirmed the fear that filled his body. A shark. A great shark, its body larger than a life raft, and just as white. He was safe where he crouched as he peered over the edge of the wooden dock, but still fear gripped him. There are some fears men do not outgrow, some fears that reason cannot tame. It swam about, and the old sailor believed he could feel an aura of malevolence around it. Superstition clings tight to those who have long looked into the depths of the sea.

He stared for a while, waiting for the beast to appear once more. He knew it was lurking, knew it was a hunter that sensed prey. He could almost feel its hunger. And while such a thing frightened him, it was this sort of peril which perhaps urged people such as himself to the sea in the first place. Life lived fully is spent in defiance of the jaws of predators.

He would not have noticed the arrival of others were it not for the fact that his every sense was strained in anticipation of spotting the thing again. They were at a distance yet, not on the pier, but they were readying their toys and their tackle, and would soon be headed his way. Another vehicle pulled up as he looked, and another turned around to back a trailer full of water craft into the water. The old sailor walked toward them, waving to them in warning of what he had seen.

The people were familiar with the old sailor who kept mainly to himself and to the water. They thought him odd but harmless. But as he approached them on this day, he looked — as they may have thought to themselves — off his meds. His behavior was wild and in his eyes was a look of danger. “Do not go in the water!” he cried. “There is a shark in it.”

“Show me,” cried a father, entrusting the children to their mother while he walked toward the end of the pier with the old man. The old man, hesitant to lead him too far out, nevertheless did as he was asked.

But when they got to the end of the pier, the father said, “Is that what you see? Why, it’s only a duck.”

And sure enough, there was a duck bobbing gently upon gentle waves, quite unconcerned with the people on the pier and quite unaware of the danger that lurked beneath.

“Not the duck!” said the old sailor, exasperated and angered. “I have lived my life on the sea, surely I know a shark from a duck. Look.” And he pointed down into the depths, because for a brief moment the shark again raised close enough to the surface to be seen by one who knew where to look and what to look for.

“I only see a duck,” said the father, the patronizing tone in his voice thinly veiled.

“You have to look deeper,” cried the old tar. “Anyone can see a duck!”

“And yet I only see a duck,” said the younger man self-assuredly as he slowly turned away from the older man. He waved his wife and children forward. One who has lived his life successfully without ever encountering a shark may grow foolishly confident that he knows best, and feel he need not worry about what has never bothered him before.

As the man walked towards his family, the old sailor observed that the man with the water craft had released them from the trailer into the water. He stood thigh deep in the water, still close enough to shore to be safe but assuredly headed toward danger. Still more people came, heading toward a day of carefree enjoyment. The old sailor went from one party to another, trying to find someone who might heed his warning. Some seemed concerned initially, but with a nod from the father he had first talked to, they seemed to take the warning less seriously. And so they went about their business, heedless of the old man who seemed increasingly emotional and irrational as he went from one person to another.

At last, he despaired of warning anyone at all. He thought of the duck who bobbed among the waves and thought that at the very least he might be able to save him. And so he grabbed a rock and walked back toward the edge of the pier. People had already fired up their water craft and were speeding off from shore towards deeper regions. As they accelerated, they created huge waves behind them which roiled waters, making it impossible for the old sailor — or anyone else — to see what lay within the depths.

The old man neared the edge of the pier and saw the duck bobbing quite comfortably. He changed his grip upon the rock, getting ready to throw it in the duck’s direction, hoping to scare it away from the danger that awaited it. But even as he loosed the rock a violent eruption happened beneath the duck, and in an instant huge white teeth closed over the duck as it was dragged forever more into the darkness of the water and the darkness of the shark’s belly.

The father who the old sailor had spoken to had seen him throw the rock and came forward to see what had happened. Looking out at the water and seeing the duck was gone, the younger man asked, “What did you do to the duck?”

“It was the shark!” the sailor cried.

“It wasn’t a shark,” said the father, disgust in his voice. “It was just a duck. A poor, innocent duck. And you killed it.”

“I didn’t,” cried the old man. But the younger man was done listening. He walked back to his family and the others who were with them, and soon he pulled out his cell phone and could be seen talking to someone. The people on the shore — the crowd continuing to grow — stared out at the old man, who tried to tell whoever might listen of the danger he had seen.

Soon, a squad car arrived. Two police officers walked out onto the pier, spoke briefly with the old sailor, placed handcuffs on his wrists and led him to their car, where they placed him in the back and drove away.

“Is the bad man gone, mommy?” a young boy asked

“Yes, son,” said his loving mom. “It’s safe to go in the water now.”

Love In The Time Of The First World War

My first attempt at writing of love. The year is 1917, and silent movies were accompanied by live musicians, in this case a pianist.

Soon houses thinned into farmland and wilderness. Doug turned around, desiring the company and the light the town provided. How long he walked he did not know, not conscious of where he was going but merely trying to stay on whatever road seemed most well-travelled. Here and there were people headed towards their destinations, but Doug did not know what they were. Perhaps they were on their way to visit family and friends, on their way to houses that provided comfort and camaraderie to those who knew the owners.

For the first time in recent memory, Doug felt alone. Whatever the downsides of a lumber camp, there existed within it a certain comradeship. Interdependence required as much. And before that, even though alone, there were other words more apt to describe what he had been feeling. Fear, frustration, despair, but not a longing for human companionship. Perhaps his time in the woods had achieved the desired aim—he was thinking and feeling normal human thoughts and emotions again. Even the events of the last few months had not been able to prevent the healing that had taken place. Whatever might be wrong with the outside world, it did not have to leave its mark on his soul. He was beginning to feel whole again, and feeling whole, he realized that man was not meant to spend all his time alone.

Music drifted into his mind that seemed to accompany his thoughts. Elegant, beautiful music that stirred in him subtle and wonderful emotions. Anonymous longings sprang up in him like long-dormant flora, feelings universal and timeless. Another soul was touching his, telling him of deep mysteries beyond the understanding of man.

Music. It was a language that spoke of things over which words had no power.

Chopin! Tears came to his eyes and he did not know why. It was beauty, beautiful music beautifully played.

He did not realize it but he began to walk towards the source of the music. It was only a piano, but each note reverberated in him. It was another thing entirely than the music he had been used to of late, a fiddle played by oversized hands accompanied by a concertina and doggerel verses.

And just as suddenly the music changed. It was as if at once a chase began, and if to accompany it came a hunting song or a madcap dance. Looking up to the source of the sound he saw a rather large building and upon it read the sign for a moving picture show. He had come upon a theater, albeit a very humble one. A woman sat at a window, distractedly. The show had apparently already started, but Doug was able to get her attention and purchase a ticket. He entered into a small dark room with perhaps no more than fifty chairs arranged in front of a silver screen no more than ten feet across. And upon it played some drama concocted by one of the major studios. But while in other circumstances he might have been interested in the movie, it was the piano that called to him. It was too dark to see the people inside the theater as more than shadows, but he could see the movement of the pianist. It appeared to him a ballet dance, so fluid and lovely was the body as it swayed to the notes. She was positioned to the right of the screen, facing it so that she could respond musically to what was being shown. Every act and emotion upon the screen was played out more convincingly in the movements she made, more so in the music itself.

Doug could not even recall the movie he was watching, only that it was the most moving he had ever seen. Not the story itself nor the actors but the accompaniment. It lifted everything, from the simplest movement to the look of longing on the starlet’s face. Music infused the story, making it sublime.

Sometimes as the light on the screen was brightest, he could make out her fingers touching down gracefully upon the keys and it appeared to him in his enchantment they moved like tiny faeries in an intricate dance.

He did not see her face and yet he was convinced he loved her. Her grace and gentle soul, the playfulness that let drop hints of her depths like ripples on a pond. He was content to sit in the dark, alone with the music she played.

It was over far too soon. The film ended and the lights came on and-lo and behold! She was beautiful. Beautiful as the music she played, lovelier far than the starlet that had been on the screen. Long brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, with here and there a strand escaping like non-conformists. Her entire person seemed to radiate grace, as though you could not feel uncomfortable in her presence.

And yet Doug felt extremely uncomfortable at the moment. He wished to approach her, make her aware of his existence, and yet knew no way of doing so. He was a stranger in a small community and knew such forwardness would be quite unacceptable. He knew of nothing he could do to catch her eye. Already she was surrounded by others from the audience. And yet Doug could not help noticing there was no one who seemed to be either suitor or husband.

She was young, younger than Doug by several years, but seemed in possession of a maturity beyond her age. His eyes slid from her face as she happened to glance in his direction and in that moment he noticed no ring on those fingers that had danced so eloquently on the ivory keys.

She left amid a group of people, family he couldn’t help thinking, judging by a similar look among a few of them. Doug too exited into the darkness, alone but with thoughts of another, one whose name he did not even know. And all the events of the last few months receded in his memory, and all the concerns of the last few years slipped away. He had sought to flee what had been haunting him, the inescapable truths of a world too large for him, and at last he knew what he had been seeking.

Love was the answer. Love was the cure for all the sickness and ugliness in the world. The revelation came not as a thought but as an emotional welling up within him, like the passionate passages of a nocturne.

China Hearts

A short story that it took me nearly 30 years to get around to finishing:

 

Most anyone who was familiar with this street would have recognized the weathered man standing outside the little shop of curios, though it was doubtful any of them knew his name. He could often be seen standing uncomfortably in front of a little curio shop, gazing at the items displayed in the window when he thought nobody was paying any attention to him. He appeared somewhat old but sturdy, as though the demanding work he had done his whole life had both aged him yet kept him healthy and free from the vices that idleness often attracts. His clothing was of the coarse and sturdy variety, typical of a man who earns his living by the sweat of his brow and the toil of his body. His face was weathered like a tree trunk, adding texture and lines to a face that had already been good at hiding whatever thoughts or emotions were occurring behind it. But it was perhaps in his hands that the tale of his life could best be read. They were thick tools for heavy work, looking almost more like work gloves than hands. So much did they bear the mark of his toils that they almost looked like root vegetable fresh-dug from the earth. He appeared out of place in this neighborhood of sophisticated city dwellers, but not enough so to call attention to himself. Although rough, there was nothing threatening about him; indeed, he emanated a gentleness that belied his tough exterior. There was a meekness in the way he kept to himself, a self-consciousness in the way he avoided bumping into any of the constant flow of people who walked past this busy street.

His existence had been one of hard work, struggling with nature for his meager wages. The work was brutish, leaving his body covered in dirt and dust and his mind numb from drudgery. But when he had a day off, he would often walk into town to drive the numbness from his mind, making sure that he was well washed and wearing his finest clothes, which really weren’t very fine. He had contemplated buying the type of clothes he saw those in the city wear, but he had no idea how to go about choosing such items. And besides, he knew that such clothing would only accentuate his other differences, the browned skin, the calloused hands and the dirt under his nails and in the grooves of his skin that could never be completely removed.

Here in the city, people lived differently than the others who shared his life. There words were fairer, flowed more smoothly. Their clothing was more for show than for work, and their manners more refined. He would often be content to sit on a bench and watch the people in their day to day business, moving effortlessly and knowingly through complicated social interactions. They possessed an understanding of society and how to gracefully move within it that he had never had a way of learning. But for him the heart of the city was the little shop that displayed intricate and delicate items for purchase. They spoke to him of lives lived without hardship, where things were made not merely for their usefulness but because they were beautiful. Most of the items there were made to be displayed, to be placed upon a mantel or in a curio cabinet, only to be looked at. Things made of crystal and intricately crafted fine metals, gold gilded porcelain and statuettes made of marble, jade, pearl and rarer material still from all parts of the globe. These items represented to him places that he could never hope to visit, experiences he would never have, people he would never be or even know. Such things would be quite out of place in his humble little cabin. Everything he possessed had been made of rough-hewn wood, blackened iron and unadorned pottery.

And yet. To own just one of these items, to possess something that stood apart from the base tools and utensils of his existence. Such a thing would be worth coming home to at night, worth the effort and struggle that was his life. He needed something in his life that could be adored, that spoke to him of something beyond need, something that existed without regard for mere function.

So he stared through the window, with each visit seeing something new displayed along with items he had wondered at before. When someone appeared to be walking towards the shop, he would start slowly in motion, walking a short while only to stop and stare again from a distance. He was afraid of what people might think of him if they caught him staring into the window, afraid they would mock the unsophisticated man who thought he was something he was not.

He would watch those who strolled so un-self-consciously into the store as if they were born for such things, as if it never occurred to them that such things might be too lofty or unobtainable for them. It must be admitted that the man felt a trace of jealousy when watching such people enter the shop and make purchases so casually, leaving the store with precious items that he had gazed at so lovingly through the shop’s window.

And then on one of his trips to the little shop he beheld an item more beautiful than any he had seen before: a heart-shaped crystal hung from a fine lace in the upper corner of the window. Though unadorned with gold or silver, its simple radiance caught the light of the noon-day sun and sparkled it back at him from its many finely cut facets. As it twirled ever so slowly upon the lace that held it, its myriad details would throw off various colors of the spectra, eclipsing the beauty of the other items around it. Upon seeing this crystal heart, he came to cherish it more than anything he had ever seen.  His trips into town became more frequent, his time spent gazing in the window of the little shop less spent concerned with what passerby might think. The idea came into his mind like a flash, that this precious item would be his. It horrified him to think that he might one day come to stare into this window only to find that some other person had taken it for their own. He had little money on him that day, but walked back that evening to the little shack he called home with the intent of returning the next day.

The pay he received for his labor was meager, but his needs had been more meager still. With little needed to satisfy his wants, he had managed to save what he believed to be a considerable amount over the many years. He would take it, all of it, and go back into town tomorrow. It would be enough, he was sure. Pretty sure, at least. All that evening his mind vacillated between thoughts of the crystal heart, of how happy he would be to bring it back home with him, how horrible it would be if someone else had bought it in the meantime. Perhaps they would not sell it to him, perhaps his life savings would not be enough for such an embodiment of beauty. And so one moment he would be thinking of where he would put the crystal heart in his small home, and the next moment he would be contemplating life if he should never see it again. He slept little that night.

He was up early the next morning, even for him. It was far too early to wander into town, far earlier than the little store opened. But he spent the time preparing  himself, wanting to make himself as presentable as he knew how to be. He scrubbed his fingernails with an old brush until his fingers nearly bled, trying to get the last of the darkness out from under them.

When he could stand it no longer, he made his way into town, trying to walk slowly so that he would not be there too early. But when he arrived, the store was not yet open. He rushed to the window as quickly as he could without appearing obvious to the few people that were on the street at such an early hour. The heart was still there. The knowledge lifted his heart even as it did nothing to calm him. He stood staring into the window until he became aware of the shopkeeper who walked to the door and opened it, glancing at him as she passed. The sudden recognition that he had been caught looking in the window made him flush with embarrassment that bordered on terror. He had been caught looking in the window of the shop, caught believing that he was worthy of such items. He walked away, his desire for the heart frustrated by his fear of not being worthy. He walked on, cursing himself, cursing life, cursing the fact that he was not one of those who could effortlessly walk into such a place of beauty.  He walked on until he realized the shop would soon be opening, and that the heart may reach the attentions of others who might also wish to have it for their own. He forced himself to walk around the block so that he would not call undue attention to himself, but he walked so quickly that people looked at him wonderingly. He reached the shop window and stared in the upper corner, thrilled at the sight of the crystal heart once again. And once again, he felt the utter inability to force himself into the shop, felt the complete lack of knowledge regarding how to go about such a transaction. He glanced about him in his practiced manner, making sure he was not standing out. As he did so, he noticed someone walk into the shop. Dread filled him again, at the thought that he had waited too long and might forever miss his opportunity. But if he had been afraid to walk into the store before, he was terrified at the idea of going in there when others were inside. He waited for the person who had entered to come back out, only to see two more people enter. The two exited shortly, but in the meantime, still another person had entered to look at what lay inside. It seemed an eternity of people walking in and out of the store until he was sure that it was now empty. And the heart was still there.

He could delay no longer. It was a greater act of courage than any he had performed in his life, but he forced himself to walk to the door and pull it open. He had never experienced such agony in his life, terrified that he would not have enough, or that they would simply refuse to sell it to such as him.

Inside the store, he found the shelving to be entirely too close together, the aisles insufficiently  wide. He walked slowly, cautiously, terrified that he might knock one of the items off the shelves. His shoulders seemed to him to be impossibly wide, his gait unsteady like a drunk’s. The shopkeeper stood at the counter near the door, but he avoided looking at her. She was a shape at the edge of his vision upon which he placed an imagined look of scorn. He concentrated on navigating the too-small aisle, ignoring whatever finery lay on them except to make sure not to knock into any of them.

Turning left, he now walked back up another aisle, approached the window. There was the crystal heart, slowly, barely, turning on the delicate lace that held it suspended. He looked at it and through his fear it lured him on. The sun shone through it, the first rays of the morning sun as mere playthings that it tossed about playfully.  He approached it as though it were a holy relic, hardly daring to raise his eyes to gaze upon it.

He knew he must now claim it as his own, knew that if he backed away in fear today that he would never have the courage, it would be lost to him forever. Rather than ask the shopkeeper to take it down for him, he decided to do it himself. His self consciousness around people had only intensified now that he carried within him his secret desire. Reaching up, he slid the lace from the hook it was suspended by with more care than he had ever given to any task he had ever done. He felt the weight of the crystal heart hanging from the lace now, discovered it to be lighter than he could have imagined.  Feeling its lightness, he imagined that it must also be more fragile than he had believed. He became terrified of the idea of it hanging loosely from the lace lest it sway and smash into something as he walked his way towards the counter. Holding the lace with one hand, he cupped the heart with the other. Feeling it to be reasonably secure, he released the lace and with that hand also protected the delicate ornament from any conceivable harm. Holding it now in both hands, he gazed at the heart that was now all but his. So great was his fear of letting it fall from his hands, he began to imagine that the sweat that now appeared upon his palms would cause it to slide from his grasp. With an involuntary reaction to an imagined movement of the heart, he gripped it more tightly than he intended. In that moment, he could feel the heart shatter from the pressure he applied on it. He looked in agony as the precious object of his affection broke apart into tiny splinters that sunk like teeth deep into his skin. Tears of pain welled up in his eyes, but it was not the cuts in his hands that were to blame. He let loose an uncontrollable sob, which caused the shopkeeper to become aware of him, which in turn led him to remember her presence. He managed to put aside his grief, set the pieces of crystal down as delicately as he could upon the shelving that stood behind the window. He walked as quickly as he could toward the exit without causing further damage. He stuffed his bleeding hand deep into the front pocket of his work pants, pulled out his money, his life savings. Without daring to look at the shopkeeper, he placed the money on the counter, left the shop, and never came near the little store again.