fish

by James W. Morris

Several years ago—in 1936, I think it was—I stupidly overreached whilst attempting to trim a dangerous tree limb impending over my front porch and fell rather ungraciously off the ladder, breaking my right leg quite badly. During the frustrating period that followed, when I was confined to bed, there was delivered to me a parcel originating from the far side of the little rural North Atlantic island where we lived. The parcel turned out to have been posted by my cousin Mathilde, whom I calculated I hadn’t laid eyes upon in thirty-six years—since my father’s memorial service. I recalled her best as a skinny-malinky ginger girl who cried without end when her brand new dolly got dropped into a filthy horse trough. (All right, all right, I’ll admit I was the one who dropped it in. What is the time limit for prosecution of such a crime?)

But Mathilde was not writing to chastise me about the long-ago dolly-dunking escapade. In a barely decipherable scrawled hand, she stated that her much older half-brother Anton (whom I never met) had recently popped his clogs, and left behind in his modest seaside room a sort of journal he’d been keeping for years, which she included with the parcel. No one who had read through the thing could find much sense in it. Could I—as the most educated and judicious person in the family—take a gander? Anton had lived an odd itinerant existence, and it was hoped information contained in the journal might explain a few things.

Well, of course my first instinct was to say no. I was quite cognizant of Mathilde’s brazenly transparent attempt at flattery, and when people endeavour to manipulate my emotions, I tend to get my back up. On the other hand, it was clear I was going to be quite immured where I was for many weeks yet to come, and I’d already perused all the books held in my library.

After I read through the journal—if it can be referred to as such, which is questionable—I felt every bit like someone new at sea who has just lost sight of land for the first time, and was perplexed about how to express what I thought about it. In the end, I decided to take Anton’s rather disjointed, inconsistently sensical, often ungrammatical ramblings and pick out some pertinent parts in order to recast them, as best I could, into a rough narrative—after all, isn’t narrative the manner by which we humans are most able to apprehend meaning in the world? All of our sacred books are just story collections.

*

Fish appeared to me first when I was of the age twelve. But Fish is not fish.

Yes, Fish is the size of a sprat & it undulates fishily & glimmers with silvered sides in the sun. But a fish that is not Fish wouldn’t be able to hover in cold clear morning air ahead of me just out of reach as I take my daily walk in the dark part of the forest.

*

I was not very surprised at having a vision. Momma always talked about them. Loads of visions of all kinds are spelled out just about every place in the bible which is the only book Momma liked best & read from on most days. Nothing about Fish hovering in it though to my knowledge.

Yes I followed Fish. It seemed to want me to. I lunged at Fish & tried to catch it but Fish slipped away. I suddenly ran hard at Fish & tried to catch it but Fish slipped away. When I tripped over a treeroot Fish waited for me.

*

Fish led me all the way near a mile to the top of the seaside cliffs. Fish hovered there & didn’t seem at all bothered by the wind which whipped. I was wary but dropped low to crawl forward & peep over the edge down at the strand. A man was upside-down in the hollow where the cliff meets the beach.

It’s Mister Odish I thought.

It is a funny thing to know someone well enough to recognise them upside-down far away.

I jumped up & ran quick quick quick for the head of the trail. It was a twisting narrow steep descending path between sharp pointed outcroppings. Very slippery. Momma told me never to try to go along there. But Fish stayed by my side & made me feel safe.

I ran past Mister Odish’s gear spread far & wide in the foamy surf almost like he threw it. When I got to him his face was pushed deep in the grey wet sand & I pulled hard as I could at the top of his shoulder & finally he turned over & spit out a mouthful & then sort of grimaced or grinned I couldn’t tell which.

He looked up. But was it at me or Fish?

When he died Fish went away with him.

*

Next time I saw Fish it was near a year later on a cool morning. Momma & I lived in New Town then & I was playing Poohsticks with some children. It was said I was too old to play games with children so young but I always did it anyhow. We liked hide & seek & conkers but our favourite was Poohsticks.

We each dropped our little dry sticks off the side of the bridge into the brook on the upstream side at the count of one two three. Mine was far left. We ran quick quick quick to the other side of the bridge to see whose stick came out from underneath it first & it was Andrea. She always won I don’t know how. Her stick was always the floatiest.

When I looked up over at the shadows on the brook bank I saw Fish. Glittering & hovering like before.

The other children did not notice.

I felt a bit scared seeing Fish again. Finding Mister Odish upside-down was not a pleasant experience though Missus Odish kissed me on the cheek afterward & thanked me thanked me thanked me for being with him during his dying time which was nice.

So I followed Fish like the first time. It led me this way & that until we went down a muddy lane near the edge of the village where the worst old shanties are lined up. It stopped & hovered before a door. I was reluctant to go inside but saw the door was ajar & when no one answered to a knock I went in anyhow. There was a sort of half kitchen at the rear of the place & it was very hot in there. A woman was spread out lying on her back in the middle of the floor. She was very old I think with knots of frizzed white hair & a pot with stew or something was spilled nearby.

I knelt down next to her & took her hand which was quite warm. She rolled her head slowly my way & opened her eyes just a little bit & saw me & Fish & smiled.

*

Well I decided to hate Fish after that. I did not want to be known to be the one strange person on the island who always seems to be rushing to be with people when they’re dying.

And I never told Momma about Fish. Not for Mister Odish or the old lady either. Just said I heard cries for help. I hated very much to fib to her but I knew Momma would think it was a vision like those in her bible & so I must be touched by God or haunted or maybe even cursed in some way & no child wants that.

*

Fish sensed my hate because it stayed away from me for many years. But maybe the circumstances just were not right.

*

When Fish finally appeared again I was grown & working on the farm. General labour. To myself as a sort of joke I pretended that I was in the military & that was my name. General Anton Labour.

I was mucking out the cow barn when Fish came by floating & glimmering. I did not want to go with it. I swung a fist at Fish but Fish slipped away. I used the graip to throw cowshit at Fish but missed. I tried to ignore Fish then for an hour or more but Fish was insistent always moving & glimmering right in front of my face. Then I thought all right all right all right. One more time. Fish led me off the farm to the village. I started to get a real bad feeling when I saw the way Fish was going which was all too familiar. By then I was running.

Momma was sitting on the floor in the front room of our house cross-legged like a child playing. I’d never seen that before. In truth I’d hardly ever even seen her sitting in a chair. She was not one to rest.

Momma’s head was drooped & I lifted her chin. When she saw me she grinned like she knew something. I saw her eyes drift to Fish behind me. She nodded a little I think. Then she made a small gesture toward the table by the window & I saw she had her bible open there just out of reach. I quick brought it to her & she was clutching it to herself when she died.

*

After that I gave in. I did not know why Momma’s God would pick someone like me to receive a calling. It was a strange idea being called to comfort people who were dying on their own. I did not want it. It was a hard sort of life.

I moved from job to job & place to place all over the island for many years always thinking Fish might appear any moment & Fish did continue to call on me. Really more often than you might think. I guess as people spread out on the island away from towns more of them are left on their own & die without someone near. I got old & sick myself eventually & I did not always feel like rushing to some dreary lonesome place containing a poor dying person but I always went along there to be with them anyway. I thought if I can help then I guess I should.

*

This morning I spent longer than normal in bed & when I finally managed to get up I saw Fish floating near the teapot.

When I approached Fish glimmered but did not move. It did not attempt to lead me to anyone.

No. Fish just hovered nearby to me & wouldn’t leave.

It was scary just like you would think. But there was also comfort there.

After I finish writing this last bit down I will try & find out if I am able to make it to the sea.

Photo of James W. Morris

BIO: James W. Morris is a graduate of LaSalle University in Philadelphia, where he was awarded a scholarship for creative writing. He is the author of dozens of short stories, humor pieces, essays, and poems which have appeared in various literary magazines. More info at www.jameswmorris.com.