Upward and Beyond by Seth Johnson

The following is one of many stories from the book Secret Pool by Seth Johnson.

Time is a fabric, and stories are needles that dip, bob, and weave through its layers.

More often than not these days, we see newer stories and needles; however, there are some that are from the time before what we consider time. A period where the spirit of a mountain was new, fresh, and would show his or her face to passersby. Their mouths opening and the passing winds forming words, blown from beyond all of the places we had explored. It was a time where sprites and fairies would just as soon leave presents as dangers for those treading through their groves, depending on moods that shifted like morning breezes. Humanity lived in very few places – one of which was a mountain glade into which cascaded a river with swirling aquamarine eddies and pools from which the people would gather fish with songs they learned from river nymphs, calling them up onto the shore, but only taking what they needed. Beneath trees with trunks wider than the biggest boulders, they would cook their meals, play music, and dance as the heavens passed them above and listened to the songs of the forest spirits in hidden glades. The dale in which they lived had all that they needed; however it was also encompassed by a waterfall and cliffs that cascaded down to the north, and another far downward to the south – both of which were respectively insurmountable.

In the village there lived a young man – perhaps a boy still in mind, but grown in body and he was soon filled with the desire to seek out the hidden caves and explore by torchlight. He would hold meetings with the faeries and bring them stones he would pluck from the river, and in return, they would leave him elegantly carved acorns and treasures from the woods. He would often stand at the south and look out at the valley far below him, which seemed to spread into a widening river. More often than not he would follow northward to the cliffs. The waterfall there had a name in a tongue that is long gone, but it sounded like the glug of water plunging a great depth, which could be spoken constantly for hours, days and weeks and still be correct. The name was known to the people as it was spoken once by a fox that was washing its paws and overheard by one of the villagers. The boy would stand before these falls, feeling the wind it created and be doused by the cold waters, but never did he complain or shiver for the waterfall to see. The boy would call out to it and ask it to diminish so that he may see if there was a way for him to climb; however the waterfall would watch him with eyes of moss and stone from behind his veil of water, never uttering one word aside from its constant song of rumble-humble stone and tumble. Each day and each night the dale seemed to grow smaller as he became more and more familiar with it. Each night he would grow less and less interested in the songs and stories by the fire. He would ask the older people if they grew tired of this place, though most were content.

They would say, “Why leave when there is everything you need right here?”

He would frown usually, grow frustrated, and ask, “Don’t you want to see what is above us and beyond?” Often he would be met with a shrug or perhaps a gesture to the majesty of the area immediately around them.

As it happened, months went by – the land cooled and warmed, just as it did every year. The villagers gathered on the south side of the dale that oversaw the valley below and would watch schools of fish that with great force and strength, would swim up the waters of the waterfall. The fish would linger near the village, resting for some time, but would continue to swim up the waterfall and leave the village, never to return. One day the young man stood on a boulder overlooking one of the deep pools, watching the sun catch on gold and silver scales as some of the fish darted about and others seemed to float, slowly swinging their tails to keep themselves suspended. The young man knelt and leaned out past the rock and soon saw his own reflection. As the waters sluiced about, he watched his reflection until suddenly it faded. He saw the face of a middle-aged woman form out of the currents below. He watched as the movement of water seemed to tumble into a smile and as the clouds obscured the sun, her face faded to nothing but water again. Moments later she once again emerged out of the light and shadow, until finally she rose and seemed to protrude as if a powerful current pressed her shape out of the water’s surface like a soft geyser. He watched mesmerized as fish swam up her body, through her head, and down her back as if she were a small inhibition to their chores of feeding and foraging.

“Most of those who admire me do so with sadness or reflection,” she said. “Your eyes hold desire, and it has been long since a person looked at me with such turmoil upon their face after they learned the fish song of the nymphs. Why are you here staring down below?”

Mayflies buzzed around the river queen’s foaming hair, catching the light of the sun like a moving crown. The young man pointed at the fish below. “I have spent two years now trying to find a way to go above this dale, but there is no route, save that of the fish. Can they go where they like as it appears?”

The woman of the river extended a translucent hand downward and the surface came alive with jumping fish.

“They may, though within their limitations just as you do.”

The young man pressed his thumb and forefinger to his chin thoughtfully considering her words.

“I wish to become a fish then,” he said.

“Most fish wish to be men,” she said. “What would you do were you a fish?”

The young man pointed far above at the waterfall. “I would go up,” he said. “I want to know what is beyond here.”

“I could simply tell you and save you the time,” she said. A globe of water emerged and he began to see pictures and scenes within it. Forests of whitebark and of yellowing leaves. “I know where all rivers go.”

“I need to see it for myself,” the young man said. “I get enough stories in the village every evening. You can only learn so much from stories and I have to know it to understand it.”

The river queen paused for what felt like minutes, bubbling and babbling as fish made their way through her and he watched the river bank he could see through her body move and waver. “Very well then. I will make you a fish,” she said. “Though you must be on guard – with the freedom of the water comes peril,” and with a small splash upon his face, the young man fell into the water, which to him felt good and cold and right. He drew in a deep breath and was surprised to feel it coarse through his mouth and through his throat, which flared widely. He saw others like him, looking at him with eyes ringed with silver and gold and they spoke through how they moved, which he knew instantly. The young fish wasted no time and swam to the base of the waterfall, eager to climb. At its base, he was met with the roar of the waterfall. He pressed and pushed, and with great industry followed the school as they flapped and flipped their way through the torrent of water, over boulders and logs. At times he thought he would not make it, choking on air and delving to the bottom of a whirling pool to breathe and rest.

Finally, as night passed and the water began to lighten, the young fish made it to the top. He glubbled with glee in the water, drawing up enough energy to jump out to see the lands he only had dreamed of, with new glades, glens, new bluffs, and hills to see. He dove to the river bottom and called for the lady of the river, and he felt her presence in the wavering currents as if he could touch her with his hands.

“I wish to become a man again,” he signaled with his body and thoughts.

The water hummed and burbled a response, “I can only turn men to fish, not fish to men. Do not cry though, for perhaps farther up the river you could find one who knows the secret.” Panic swept through the body of the young fish and he flapped frantically. “What am I supposed to do? How am I to return home?” he gestured. The lady of the river calmed him with an invisible hand. “You are home now,” she said to him.

As the days passed, the young fish swam and swam, over time his fear washing away. Eventually, he grew accustomed to sleeping near rock openings and feeding. He swam up more waterfalls and each time jumped out to see what lay around him, trying to remember it so he could return to his village one day and describe it to them. Every evening as he listened to the water sounds, he thought of the fire in his village and wished to hear the songs, laughter and watch the dancing. With every week, he grew more and more sad until finally he had no wish to be a fish. For a time he considered going back the way he came, and perhaps a villager could assist him, but he noticed no fish swam down, for the descent would surely hurt their body and they might be trapped against some stone or tree. He began to search for ways back down the river, though there were none, and when called, the lady of the river told him as much. You will need to find one who knows how to turn a fish to a man, she said time and time again. After months of this, the young fish began to jump out of the water and watch the eagles dive downward, stealing off his companions. He would watch them ascend into the skies, able to fly where they wished. With every dive, he saw the fish carried off to a large nest, and within it sat an eagle larger than he had ever seen.

His loneliness had grown so great he could not take it. One day, the young fish waited for the eagle to dip into the water with onyx talons and fly off with a particularly large fish. He waited for some time, jumping out of the water to watch her progress, and when she finished eating it, he swam and lept from the water, landing in her nest, surprising the eagle. It lifted a leg and flexed its talon and seemed to eye him suspiciously. it snapped its beak and then turned its head, studying him as he gasped on air. The bird screeched, and as its prey, knew its tongue as a fish does to avoid being eaten by it. “You are lucky I have just eaten,” it said. The fish flapped in the nest and the bird knew its language, as it must for it to know it to catch them efficiently. “I am not a fish, but a man, “the young fish said. “I come here to ask if you know one who knows the secret of how to turn a fish back to a man. If you do, I will feed you generously every day and even build a shelter for you in your honor.” The eagle weaved side to side and shook its head. “There is only one I know of who could do this, and that is the sun, though he does not listen often. I hear your offer though, and I grow old. It is harder for me to eat every day and my bones ache in the cold winds and rain. I will take you on your word.”

The eagle quickly picked the young fish up and soared into the sky. In the air, clutched in its bony talons, the young fish could feel himself growing weak. Before the eagle could go higher, it squawked a call into the wind and a cloud billowed out before them. The young fish watched as the cloud formed into a vaporous portly man with a rolling belly, swelled with dark rainwater and it spoke with thunderous impatience with eyes like balls of lightning. “It is not often an eagle brings the sky a fish,” it said. The eagle glided in circles as it called out, while the young fish felt his skin growing ever more dry, but transfixed by the sky spirit. “This one was a man but was granted a favor to become a fish. He now wishes to be a man again.” The man of the clouds bellowed and breezed his words while he gnashed his teeth in thunderclaps. “A foolish man would you not say? What man wishes to become a fish? Eh?” The thunderous cloud darkened further and its head splayed rays of the sun to form a diadem of light. “I will make him an eagle as you and we shall ask him before he dies a fish.” In a white-hot flash and gale of wind, the young fish suddenly found himself falling. As he held his arms out and turned his head he saw that now instead of fins, he had feathered arms buffeted by the winds. The young eagle cried with exhilaration as it soared. “Why did you trade being a man for a fish?” the sky asked him.

“I wanted to see what is beyond my village,” the young eagle said. “I grew tired of it and I wanted to see more of the world.” The spirit of the sky seemed to billow apart and back into formation. “A foolish trade if you ask me. And now you find yourself tethered to the sky. If you truly wish to become a man again, you will need to speak to the sun. He is the only one I know of who can do such a thing. Fly upward and ask him.”

Hours passed as the pair of eagles soared. The young eagle spoke to the elder of the world of fish and the world of man. The elder eagle had many questions and they talked until the air grew colder and the sun brighter. Knowing they could go no further, they looked above and saw the resplendent sun burning fiercely.

The young eagle cried out and spoke of how it came to be in the realm of the sun. A figure appeared made of light that was so bright the eagle could only see its outline when a stray cloud passed between them. It did not speak but simply listened. The young eagle spoke for hours and the sun said not a thing.

Finally, after concluding his story the eagle grew silent and there was no sound but the rushing of the winds. Moments passed and suddenly the young eagle watched as fire and light engulfed him. He shrieked, but he was lost in the roar. He watched as his body grew hotter and became light itself, moving faster than he ever thought capable. He watched as he was divided into parts, each of which burned tremendously bright. Far below him, he saw his land and it took his breath away at how expansive it was. Right near him, he saw the sun. Now that they were alike, they spoke and could understand one another.

“I wish to become a man,” the young constellation said to the Sun. “You are a man of sorts,” the Sun said back. It looked at him with an intense, but patient face. Under its gaze, the young constellation calmed himself and sat for moments in silence. Around them, the young constellation saw the stars that he gazed upon in his youth from the campfire below during what felt like lifetimes ago. Around him, there were more stars than he could have ever imagined. There were more than the trees in the village, more than the stones in the river, and more than the sands on its shores.

“You have been a man, you have been a fish and you have been an eagle,” the Sun said. “You have traveled through new lands, waters, and skies. Yet I am surprised you have not learned that once you leave, you can never go back home,” the Sun said. “You can be there, but you never are there, just as my light falls to the ground it is no longer the sun, just as the rain falls from the cloud it is no longer the sky and just as the seed falls from the tree, it is no longer the tree.”

“What do I do now that I sit above my village and watch over it?” the young constellation said.

“Why, point the way, of course,” the Sun said.

Far below the young constellation, in his village in a dale, his people looked above their campfire to see a new collection of stars in the sky. A constellation of a young man who seemed to point to the North over the horizon. From time to time, a streak of light would fall away from it to the ground as he thought of those who he missed. The villagers agreed they saw his face in the stars and they would sing songs to him, knowing he missed them and they missed him in return. They would dance their dance and cook their meals, and he grew to be their pride as generation after generation spoke of the young man who became a fish to live in the heavens.

Every so often as years would pass, he would inspire another to leave what he knew and follow his hand – upward and beyond.