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The Fish that Loved a Bird
There was a sea bird once, more beautiful and free than anything you or I have ever seen. She was white as dawn's first waves and her song was like a cherished memory whose details you have lost except for the feeling of lightness they invoke. And she was loved by a fish. He was a quite ordinary fish. He had gills and fins and green scales and great, bulging eyes. He swam and played and ate sea grasses, and sometimes when he was feeling particularly foul, he would eat a smaller fish, but mostly, he longed to be able to sing back to the sea bird. He couldn't, of course, because no fish can speak out of the water. The Spirit of the Water knew that the Sea must hold Her secrets, and so every time a fish tries to speak into the air its voice is lost. The fish, however, was determined to try.
"Bird, o bird!" he would cry. "Most beautiful bird, whose wings call the tides and whose song is the rising moon and author of the stars, if you would but look at me, I could fly to meet you." But the moment the fish broke the ocean's surface, all that issued from his round-gaped moth was sea foam and bubbles. His words never reached the bird, and she saw nothing but the sky and the waves and the other sea birds, and heard nothing but the wind and the chattering otters. The fish was undaunted, though. He tried peaking just his head out of the water. He tried whispering into bubbles on the surface in hopes of his words scattering into the air when the bubbles broke. He leapt into the sky with his mouth full of water so that his words would fall as the rain. The sea bird glided effortlessly above him, deaf to all but the crashing tides and crying gulls.
The other fish in his school laughed at him. Why would a bird love a fish? they would ask. What would you do in the sky but drown? You cannot breathe the air any more than she can breathe the water!
The fish did not care. If the sea bird could not be with him in the sea, he would simply learn to breathe the air. So one night while the rest of the school slept, he swam up to a little rock island and leapt onto its shores.
The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. His gills first ached, then burned, then became the locus for screaming arcs of clawing suffering lancing down to the very tips of his tail, where he had ever felt anything before. Every instinct, every muscle every bit of primal knowledge in the fish cried out for him to twitch, to jerk, to try to swim through the air until he had somehow found his way back to the sea, but the fish didn't move. Soon, the deep and desperate gulps of air he had been taking became slow and shallow. The world grew darker as his unblinking eyes began to dry. "I will die here," thought the fish, "and the sea bird will find me, and she will not know me, and she will eat me. She will eat me and fly into the air and sing songs like echoes of the birth of the sea, and she will never know I loved her."
But gentle hands lifted the fish, and gentle hands set the fish once more into the ocean. The Spirit of the Air had been playing on the rocks, making them whistle and cry like mourning flutes, and now she lay across the surface of the ocean as a spray of bubbles, one ear dipped into its waters. "Strange little fish," she asked, "why do you lie on my rocks and wait for death?"
The fish was very still for some time longer before the gentle ebb of the water could restore his gills. "The sea bird," he said at long last.
"Why would one of my birds make you long to die?"
"Because she is beautiful," said the fish. "Because she is free. Because her feathers are the laughing rain and the morning's mist. Because her song is the turning of ages and the totality of emotion. Because I love her, and will risk everything I have to tell her so, and I have nothing but my life, for I am only a fish."
"But you are the sea's creature," replied the Spirit of the Air, "and creatures of the sea cannot speak to my creatures."
The fish looked very said. "Then I will die."
The Spirit of the Air said nothing, but broke into an infinite amount of bubbles and was soon no more visible than breath on a cold morning, and the fish began his long swim back to where his school slept. Fish have no tears, but still he wept, for he could do nothing now, he saw, to reach the sea bird, and he felt he would surely die without being able to tell her of his love.
From the clouds, whistling like a gale (for it was the Gale), a voice called down to him. "Strange little fish, tomorrow you should leap from the sea once more, just at daybreak, when the sea birds are singing." The fish had tried that once before, but to no avail. Still, he thought, it was bad luck to ignore one of the Spirits, for their anger was more terrible than love and more destructive than war.
As the sun rose and the sea birds sang, the fish again felt every part of him ache, but this time it was at the sound of his love's impossible song. Even if he had not been bidden by the Spirit of the Air, he still would have leapt from the sea to try to reach the sea bird once more. This time, however, instead of the undignified, flailing plummet back into the water, the fish felt his body stretch as though he would be pulled to pieces. He felt thin, he felt distorted, and then, he felt the wind. He flew. His fins, so short and perfunctory, had become wings. And then, the sea bird saw him, and he sang back to her the songs that had held his heart for so long as he glided back into the waiting waves.
Flying fish, which are strange creatures of two worlds, were born in the moment in which the Sea loved the Wind. When he was the sea's creature, the fish could never have sung upon the wind, and the Spirit of the Air could not take away one of the Water Spirit's servants or change what he was. He was still a fish, and still needed the ocean to live, but now he was a fish who flew, which made him a creature of the Air as well, and so his words finally found purchase in the sea bird's heart, and he leapt from the sea every dawn to sing them to her.
There was a sea bird once, more beautiful and free than anything you or I have ever seen. She was white as dawn's first waves and her song was like a cherished memory whose details you have lost except for the feeling of lightness they invoke. And she was loved by a fish. He was a quite ordinary fish. He had gills and fins and green scales and great, bulging eyes. He swam and played and ate sea grasses, and sometimes when he was feeling particularly foul, he would eat a smaller fish, but mostly, he longed to be able to sing back to the sea bird. He couldn't, of course, because no fish can speak out of the water. The Spirit of the Water knew that the Sea must hold Her secrets, and so every time a fish tries to speak into the air its voice is lost. The fish, however, was determined to try.
"Bird, o bird!" he would cry. "Most beautiful bird, whose wings call the tides and whose song is the rising moon and author of the stars, if you would but look at me, I could fly to meet you." But the moment the fish broke the ocean's surface, all that issued from his round-gaped moth was sea foam and bubbles. His words never reached the bird, and she saw nothing but the sky and the waves and the other sea birds, and heard nothing but the wind and the chattering otters. The fish was undaunted, though. He tried peaking just his head out of the water. He tried whispering into bubbles on the surface in hopes of his words scattering into the air when the bubbles broke. He leapt into the sky with his mouth full of water so that his words would fall as the rain. The sea bird glided effortlessly above him, deaf to all but the crashing tides and crying gulls.
The other fish in his school laughed at him. Why would a bird love a fish? they would ask. What would you do in the sky but drown? You cannot breathe the air any more than she can breathe the water!
The fish did not care. If the sea bird could not be with him in the sea, he would simply learn to breathe the air. So one night while the rest of the school slept, he swam up to a little rock island and leapt onto its shores.
The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. His gills first ached, then burned, then became the locus for screaming arcs of clawing suffering lancing down to the very tips of his tail, where he had ever felt anything before. Every instinct, every muscle every bit of primal knowledge in the fish cried out for him to twitch, to jerk, to try to swim through the air until he had somehow found his way back to the sea, but the fish didn't move. Soon, the deep and desperate gulps of air he had been taking became slow and shallow. The world grew darker as his unblinking eyes began to dry. "I will die here," thought the fish, "and the sea bird will find me, and she will not know me, and she will eat me. She will eat me and fly into the air and sing songs like echoes of the birth of the sea, and she will never know I loved her."
But gentle hands lifted the fish, and gentle hands set the fish once more into the ocean. The Spirit of the Air had been playing on the rocks, making them whistle and cry like mourning flutes, and now she lay across the surface of the ocean as a spray of bubbles, one ear dipped into its waters. "Strange little fish," she asked, "why do you lie on my rocks and wait for death?"
The fish was very still for some time longer before the gentle ebb of the water could restore his gills. "The sea bird," he said at long last.
"Why would one of my birds make you long to die?"
"Because she is beautiful," said the fish. "Because she is free. Because her feathers are the laughing rain and the morning's mist. Because her song is the turning of ages and the totality of emotion. Because I love her, and will risk everything I have to tell her so, and I have nothing but my life, for I am only a fish."
"But you are the sea's creature," replied the Spirit of the Air, "and creatures of the sea cannot speak to my creatures."
The fish looked very said. "Then I will die."
The Spirit of the Air said nothing, but broke into an infinite amount of bubbles and was soon no more visible than breath on a cold morning, and the fish began his long swim back to where his school slept. Fish have no tears, but still he wept, for he could do nothing now, he saw, to reach the sea bird, and he felt he would surely die without being able to tell her of his love.
From the clouds, whistling like a gale (for it was the Gale), a voice called down to him. "Strange little fish, tomorrow you should leap from the sea once more, just at daybreak, when the sea birds are singing." The fish had tried that once before, but to no avail. Still, he thought, it was bad luck to ignore one of the Spirits, for their anger was more terrible than love and more destructive than war.
As the sun rose and the sea birds sang, the fish again felt every part of him ache, but this time it was at the sound of his love's impossible song. Even if he had not been bidden by the Spirit of the Air, he still would have leapt from the sea to try to reach the sea bird once more. This time, however, instead of the undignified, flailing plummet back into the water, the fish felt his body stretch as though he would be pulled to pieces. He felt thin, he felt distorted, and then, he felt the wind. He flew. His fins, so short and perfunctory, had become wings. And then, the sea bird saw him, and he sang back to her the songs that had held his heart for so long as he glided back into the waiting waves.
Flying fish, which are strange creatures of two worlds, were born in the moment in which the Sea loved the Wind. When he was the sea's creature, the fish could never have sung upon the wind, and the Spirit of the Air could not take away one of the Water Spirit's servants or change what he was. He was still a fish, and still needed the ocean to live, but now he was a fish who flew, which made him a creature of the Air as well, and so his words finally found purchase in the sea bird's heart, and he leapt from the sea every dawn to sing them to her.
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You, my dear, have done an astounding job with the story. You capture the spirit of the Tales of Old within this, and you do it amazingly well.
Also? I love your writing. Just saying ^_~