FICTION
The Jellyfish Kingdom by Gregory Bell
To my best recollection I was but fourteen at the time; a lifetime from the dim room I presently occupied.
I was raised on the north of the island, not far from the beaches of Oracabessa. The district we lived in was filled with many children of my own age, forever gallivanting in typical mischief. I was lucky in that respect as I was born an only child, the solitary treasure of my simple parents. My mother had been a teacher, a slim, dark woman of stern demeanour. She was the rock in our small family and the foundation of my own integrity.
It was during the time when Jamaica, idyllic to me then, was still under the social disadvantages of colonial rule. Independence from the British empire was still a decade away. My father had been a quite skilled cabinet maker with a great love for fishing and spending time on the nearby sea. He had been a congenial man, who like me, had learned very quickly that it was often best to simply conform to the iron will of mother. I, too, had grown up with tremendous affection for the ocean, a natural romance I supposed because I worshipped time spent with my father.
It was a time when Jamaica, idyllic to me then, was still under the considerable disadvantages of colonial rule. Of course I knew nothing of such implications. Children are blind to such things. I, like my childhood companions, remained impervious to any serious thoughts past that euphoric time.
Most of those sun kissed summer days were spent out on the reef. Snagging fish in any way we could was the pastime of choice for young boys blessed with such an opportunity. We stood atop the rocky divide for hours, the cauldron of the open ocean before us. It contrasted sharply with the serene surface of the waters that led back to the beach. We were mindless of the rocky coral beneath our feet. The many shoeless journeys of the young pickaninnies—a term the elders of rural communities seemed to reserve for rambunctious young boys—had served to harden our soles into near leathery shields.
The marine life just beneath the surface of the gentle waves of the reef had been nothing short of magnificent. Its still beauty interrupted ever so often by passing schools of dazzling fish. It was wondrous grandeur that swelled our young hearts. I was to soon learn that it was the majestic simplicity of the ocean that would shortly provide me with the greatest revelation of my young life. Though I have indulged my memories, the story I impart is hardly about reefs or childhood friendships. Rather, it is an introduction to the startling miracle I presumed to name Lir. It is a tale that I trust will stir intrigue and wonderfully alter your views of the possibilities beneath the sea.
The night I met him had only been made possible by the silly events of the preceding weeks. It was purely by reckless chance that I had found myself on the sea that night. I remember the fish Carol had caught quite clearly. Carol, lest his name mislead you, was a quite boastful young boy of my own age. He reveled in the inflated opinion of his own self and generally made himself quite disagreeable. When the boys of the district engaged in the informal sporting activities of the season, his sneering superiority was often much more than the most tolerant amongst us could bear. The fact that he was quite a good cricketer naturally did nothing to mellow his ego.
Of course, the current exploit of that unbelievable fish would naturally be the focus of his current conversations. Anyone who knew him at all would hardly have sheltered any doubt of this. Truth is, it had been quite a huge fish, a magnificent red snapper bordering on nearly three pounds. It must have required great skill to bring it in. Of course I could not have conceded this. “More luck than skill,” had been my grudging comment, though that did very little to blunt Carol’s boastful reminders.
Long after the fish had been devoured and consigned to past exploits, Carol’s trumpeting filled the air. I reflected now in the still night how little forbearance I had had in my youth. It would be many more years before I would learn of the peaceful freedom that tolerance brings. As it was, his taunts had begun to wear me thin. And so it was that I became obsessed with a foolhardy purpose that I kept to myself. It was precisely these events that would put me on the sea that night, alone and filled with fierce determination. A fish of course, would prove my messiah, a giant prize that would rescue the summer.
It was eerie being out on the shimmery sea. A brilliant moon bounced off the surface in heart stopping splendour. It provided sharp contrast to the black night overhead. Back in those days, especially in the rural areas, the skies remained free of contamination, hence the stars overhead were left to ensure a dazzling canopy. Despite the surrounding grandeur, my father’s voice floated into my consciousness. It came to me as clearly as if he had sat next to me. “Respect the ocean”, had been his constant counsel. “Fools avoid the struggles of old age there”. I had never rowed out alone before. That I would attempt such an endeavour at night is a wonder I have often reflected on. But strangely, there was nothing about the glassy, moon-kissed bay that had intimidated me. If anything the serene calm of the still bay had served to retreat my sudden misgivings. The quiet splash of my awkward paddles was the only sound to disturb the silence. I rowed on for what had seemed an interminable period until finally I reached the breaking waves above the reef.
I remember still the two things that had struck me. The rocky reef was slightly submerged, unlike my daytime visits. Also swimming out to the reef was far less arduous than taking the boat. My efforts had left me absolutely exhausted and caused me to fearfully ponder my ability to return. I was suddenly becoming besieged with doubts. I pushed such misgivings from my mind though I was less sure in my convictions. I remembered the words of Mr. Cephas, the taciturn principal of the small district school. He seemed to hardly speak, but on occasion would indulge in a cryptic quote, that for our young minds, seemed devoid of any present relevance. “Conviction is the mother of all follies”, once annoyingly vague, had been quickly gaining new clarity in my present situation.
Once started, the fishing was woefully disappointing. No doubt the predictable retribution encountered when one engages in stupid impulses. After about an hour I finally did manage to reel in one. I had had very few bites, so it was with some relief that I was thankfully able to pull one aboard. It was hardly what I’d hoped for, a miniature wriggling grunt, unworthy of anyone’s mention. Still, I persisted. Time was becoming an adversary, so I made the sudden decision to go past the reef into the open sea. I had no intentions of going far, but was forced to consider the possibility of more lucrative opportunities on the open sea. I had frequently seen the proof of this during the daytime; schools of parrot and jackfish often came to feed on the outside of the coral embankment. It hadn’t taken but a few seconds to recognize the mistake of my impulsive decision.
Gone was the flat calm of the harbour. The wild sea’s temperament was far less friendly. My small boat was being tossed around mercilessly and the unpleasant taste of bile began to rise in my throat. It occurred to me, with the cynical humour that would dog my life forever, that conviction and impulse likely bore the same offspring. This wry thought did not deter me even then. The hazy line between bravery and recklessness was temporarily obscured and I became trapped in my own folly.
At some point, focused determination had devolved into pure obstinacy, and I was intent on a worthy fish. Nevertheless, after a couple of minutes more, good sense began its timely intrusion. The proud moon had suddenly retreated behind an escaping cloud and the sea had become black and even more menacing. I became flooded with indisputable recognition. If I did not relent the dark sea would surely swallow me.
I have often tried to recall exactly what had happened next, but no precise memory has ever returned. One moment I was fighting the mischief of the growing waves, and in the next there was the suddenness of the ocean. I was submerged in its lively bowels, trying to claw my way through the murky gloom in search of the surface.
Even as the horror overwhelmed me, I begun to realize I had been thrown overboard. I know that it sounds strange to say, but amidst my panic I initially had no recognition of how I came to be in the water. I recalled dimly the fury of the waves slamming my small vessel, a slight drizzle and that the twinkle of the stars left with the retreated moon. It had become a quite different world than the one I had set out in.
I fought my way to the top of the thunderous waves. The boat was but a few yards away, though it might as well have been miles. I paddled clumsily in its direction, but found I was making no headway. Somewhere in that struggle, I began to accept the futility of my efforts and a strange inexplicable calm overtook me.
What I could not have known in those chaotic seconds however, was that momentous events were on the horizon; events that would forever alter my views in every conceivable way. Instead, my only consciousness was of the blackness that comes with peace. It mercifully came to claim my weary body and I succumbed resignedly to its bidding.
Read Gregory Bell’s full story here:
Thank you Gregory for sharing your wonderful piece!
