Unlikely Companions

Unlikely Companions

I glide and swoop through the murky water that is my home. Nosing the gravel bottom of the pond I upturn bottle caps, leaves and other debris in search of tasty morsels in hiding. Close at hand is the rocky wall with its numerous jagged openings. To search for food I know I must enter and run the gauntlet of attack by vicious predators within. If I keep my nose down and remain on the defensive I can expect a minimum of injury. If, however, I’m unwary or outnumbered an adversary may find access to an unprotected scaly flank - to which these many scars will attest. I may die here in darkness with no one to grieve, or even to notice, that one middle-aged pickerel is gone.

Safely through the rocky grotto I see sunlight glancing off the weeds and submerged rocks. Crabs scuttle about as usual on the stony bottom. Clams nestle in the mud, and a small school of minnows dart back and forth in unison like the patterned cape worn by some invisible marauder. High above, against the pale sky, I see an oval shaped object that moves with the waves and is tethered to the bottom near my resting place.

My battered muzzle noses the tender pliant shoot that anchors the ovoid shape. Cold and smooth it slides along my scaly skin as I spiral upwards. Slowly the transparent covering of water droops then breaks over my upturned snout as I take a searing gulp of air.

On the oval pad lies perched a flower of the most delicate beauty. She smiles, stretches her petals, then says in a voice as musical as a waterfall, “Isn’t it a glorious day? I so love the sunshine. It warms me all over.”

With only my dorsal fin, my back and my eyes above water I admire her snow-like bloom. With each gust of wind she careens on an arc determined by her permanent mooring. languoring coyly on the floating leaf she arches her evenly sculpted petals even more and, in the midst of that virginal crown, reveals a face the beauty of which I would never have dreamed possible.

In awe I float closer, feeling like an alien in my own element. My eyes bug out in expressionless wonder as I grope for inspiration.

“Do you like the sun as much as I do?” she questions."

“Yes, I like the sun,” I admit. “I’ve spent many afternoons floating above that large, white submerged rock near the fallen tree by the shore,” I gesture with my tail fin and remember the sensation of the warm sun reflecting off the rock onto my soft, white, sensitive underbelly.

“Aren’t you worried about becoming sunburnt?” I enquire with concern.

“Well,” she replies coyly, “if you’re worried about me getting too hot you might splash some cool water on my petals with your tail, and later, if you’re not busy, maybe you could tow me into the shadow of that tall birch tree near the shore. It’s more private there and we’d have a better chance to talk. Right now, though, I just want to close my eyes and soak up the rays of that gorgeous sun.”

Making a spectacular leap. I flip over in the air and crate a resounding splash that thoroughly drenches the tender lily. Feeling at a loss for anything more to say or do I nose down and, with a swish of my tail fin, angle off to deeper and darker water. Remaining out of her view, but still keeping her in my sight, I ponder the strange feelings that have recently become unleashed in my cold-blooded, yet tender heart.

Later in the evening, in the shade of the tall birch tree, we have a long and memorable conversation. She with her melodious voice prattles on about all she has seen throughout the day. I nestle partly under her leaf and grab the occasional insect, which attracted by her sweet fragrance, might otherwise have settled upon her. I listen, am comforted, and bask in my newfound happiness.

We meet often and each meeting is more memorable than the last. I have neither the breadth of vocabulary, nor the scope of experience, to express to her the emotion that heaves within my breast. I can only hope she fathoms the depth of my love.

The shadows of summer lengthen. My presence near the lily might appear as that of an entangled dead-head – a submerged, waterlogged piece of driftwood – and that is the way I feel; aimless, with no will of my own, and with no hope in sight. I languish between the heights of ecstasy and the depths of despair.

The nights become cooler. One morning there is a thin crust of ice on the surface of the pond. I cruise to the lily pad and only by jabbing furiously with my powerful snout am I able to free it from its frigid paralysis – but, too late. My lily is withered and her petals hold tight to the core of her being. No longer will they yield and open to the warm sun. I can do nothing but look on in awestruck horror.

I seethe with rage. I crash through the ice and leap high out of the water ferociously gulping air. I thrash and slither on the slippery ice until my energy is spent. Gradually the soothing rays of the sun melt the ice and I am returned to my natural element.

I am exhausted. It is more than the exhaustion of a bitter fight – I have lost the will to live. All around me preparations are being made for winter. I find a soft muddy clearing in the weeds and with my pectoral and pelvic fins I dig out a tub-shaped hollow in which to die. Too much has happened lately for my poor feeble mind to comprehend. Sleep and the season of winter pass over like a reassuring dream.

Epilogue

The next spring, near the tall birch tree, a beautiful lily blooms. It is the most spectacular lily that has ever been seen in the area. Invariably, each evening, after the hot afternoon rays of sunlight have ceased to pierce the cove, a huge pickerel can be seen near the lily. Sometimes he leaps high in the air swishing his tail to and fro before landing with a resounding smack on his flat side. This, needless to say, arouses considerable attention, but the big fish has never fallen prey to anglers and he never strays very far from the beautiful lily.