One of the wonderful things about writing is that we can
connect concepts however we like, simply because we think it would be cool, or
beautiful, or fitting. There are a
variety of reasons that our Friday nights writing together is such a high point
in my life. This is a story of one of
them.
Lauren and I were at the Nelson Atkins back when we were
working on Book II: Carcosa. We were
wandering about, being enraptured and intrigued as one generally is at a
museum, and discussing spirit guides and animal spirits. We had been batting different ideas back and
forth like two cats playing with a landed goldfish, since one of the characters has to go on a spirit journey
stoked to the gills on hallucinatory fungi.
Horse? Powerful,
graceful . . . but not quite right. Frog? Traditional, but probably not. Anteater?
Snake? Mmmm . . . no. And so on.
We had been working on the problem for a while, in fact. Something fitting for Kate, though, probably something
with water.
We were meandering conversationally from topic to topic, as
we will, when in the Asian Exhibit we saw this beautiful Chinese scroll.
It was long, spread out under glass, obviously a river with
banks and trees and occasional calligraphy. In the artist's elegant simplicity of line and form, waves and sages with their walking sticks were beautifully
rendered. But what stood out most of all
were the huge, huge fish that guided them through the foam.
In any visual medium where the eye travels from event to
event, space equals time. So we had no way
of knowing if there was one fish, or many.
Or maybe both. It didn't matter. We spent a few minutes, looking at this
magnificent fish, with its huge eyes and shining scales, swimming the Immortals
across the churning river. Then we looked at each other across the glass . . .
And so, Kate’s spirit animal became a catfish. It was a moral imperative. Frogs could continue singing out for their
beloved mud and ooze, and anteaters could go back to dragging away automotive
accident survivors. We had our
guide.
In the story, the catfish swims up to Kate as she stands on the
banks of her unconscious, where dream, memory, and magic meet. She has to cross the river, of course. And she must face what awaits her alone, because
that is how such things are done. So,
being a spirit guide, it helps her get across.
But nothing in magic is free.
She walked until mud suddenly
squelched under her feet.
Before
her was the edge of a broad river. The
current seemed deceptively slow, almost sluggish across that broad expanse, the
surface silvered in the failing light of an autumn afternoon. The opposite shore was distant and hazy. The water was dark brown and green. Nearer to the banks, she could see the murky
bottom, lined with flat, heavy stones.
As
she watched, the surface of the water bubbled and rose and finally broke a few
yards away from her, revealing a speckled back.
Expressive eyes regarded her from behind long, twitching barbels as the
wind blew cold across them both.
“Welcome
back,” the catfish said. It was not
enough that the catfish was speaking.
Its voice was somehow both smooth and rough, dissonant and
sonorous. It was a voice meant for
crooning, for grooving, for singing songs about good men going through bad, sad
times.
“Back?”
Kate echoed.
“Don’t
you know, girl? This is The River.”
The catfish moved its tail luxuriously, like a whip in slow motion, as
the sound of the water and the wind gave way to a slow guitar, with just a hint
of drums to back up the catfish’s talking-blues style.
“This is
where you started
So why
don’t you
Hooold onto my back
Put your laigs round my sides
Don’t you worry
I’ll bring you to the other side.”
It
swam closer, and Kate waded into the water to meet it. The current was strong, but she was able to
take hold of its fin and pull herself on.
Its body was broad and slippery and almost soft, but she could feel the
ripple of muscles beneath its flesh. She
squeezed her legs tight and held on as the channel cat started to swim
across. Cold water crested up to her
thighs and goosebumps broke out on her skin.
The
music rose, and the catfish spoke again, almost as if it were giving her the
only warning she’d be receiving:
“I’m not a holy man
I’m not a boat-man
I’m not a reptile
I’m not an
amm-phibian
‘Cause I’m
mad
I’m baaaaad
Like Jesse
James.”
As
they neared the farther shore, she saw objects floating in the water. Books.
Dozens of them. Some were spread
open, floating face-down like drowned birds.
Some were tossed gently on the current, their black-and-white pages
waving feebly beneath the surface.
Others simply floated along like tiny, leather-bound rafts.
When
they came to the shallow place near the banks, Kate climbed off. “Thanks,” she said.
“Whoa,”
the catfish said. “We gotta settle up
now.”
“Excuse
me?”
“There’s
a price, girl. There’s always a price. You know that.”
Kate
looked at the fish, dumbfounded. “But .
. . I haven’t got anything.”
The
round, black eyes regarded her for a moment.
Then, without warning, one of the barbels shot out and stung her across
the thigh, just beneath the hem of her shorts.
Kate
leaped back with a cry. “Ow!”
The
catfish chuckled. “Now we’re square,” it
drawled, and sank back down into the muddy waters.
Kate
stared at the flurry of bubbles that marked where the fish had disappeared,
rubbing the wound on her left leg.
A
book bobbed up against her right leg, then another. More bumped against her backside—insistent
little reminders that there was something waiting for her on the banks.
She
turned and limped up onto the rocky embankment, littered with more books.
The
mist had not diminished, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of
her, but she did not have to go far before the ground rose sharply. Rocks gave way to limp, saturated river
grass. Then a wide set of stone stairs
appeared that looked very familiar to her.
Rising
out of the mist, in the side of a green hill, was the public library where she
worked, a four-story stone building with pillars in front.
And, being a catfish talking to a Midwest girl with a love
of music, it of course sounds exactly like John Hooker. Because John Hooker has one of the coolest
voices in the universe. Ever.
And because, well, it’s a catfish.
Dig it.
Book III is continuing to progress, do not despair. For those of you who have read books I and
II, and have waited so patiently (or even impatiently) for Book III’s release,
we do say thank you.
And for those of you who have not yet read the first two,
well, it’s never too late to start.
Christmas is coming up, and books always make great presents. And, if you have kids or just like faery
tales, Lauren has written a couple of beautiful ones: The Winter Prince and The Ice Dragon even take place on Christmas.
To order a paperback copy of The Order of the Four Sons or Carcosa
(O4S Book II) from Createspace.com, click on the link below:
Downloadable versions of all these, including Lauren’s
Christmas tales, can also be reached via the links in the upper right margin. We have copies in my house, and I highly
recommend them.
--Coyote.
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