“Woah there,” the fisherman says, lifting you up out of the water, “thought I lost you. Kind of went off on that one,” he winks, “but it wasn’t half bad, eh? No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have let you wander so long.” You’re splayed out on the boat – you have a body, again, a body that can feel the sopping wet clothes sticking to its skin. “That fish capsized the boat a little. I mean, a lot. You fell over.” He points up at the sky; monoliths and islands and pastels and all, stretching up for what seems to be infinity. You look back down, and see the waters covered in mist again, reflecting the dancing rays.
“You don’t want to know,” he grunts, “how far you fell. Trust me.” He’s still in pajama pants and a hoodie, the boat is still gently propelled along, making ripples in the waves. The waves that weren’t there last time. Last time, you remember, it was an infinite span of islands and monoliths down below. “World seemed much bigger, hm? Small, simple, then infinite in size, then narrowed down again.” You look at your hands – they’re your hands; same with your legs and torso and everything else. The hair is yours, the nose, the eyes too.
“I suppose that about wraps us up, doesn’t it?” the man asks. “A shame, a shame. This has certainly been an experiment,” he winks, “for the both of us.” He pulls out a paddle, rather than a rod, and lays it across his lap. “Let me show you one last thing.” Dipping the paddle to the side, he begins to row, slowly but surely. The boat turns, gliding across the water, to face an island – the only island down on the ocean’s level. The rest are floating high above. It sports ruins, of sorts; towering, old, marble ruins. It looks like a keep, with some spires circling around.
“You know,” the man begins, “I couldn’t tell you half of what I’m supposed to be doing. Nowhere near as learned as I should be. I’ve got no idea how to fish, really, I’m just… doing it. For the fun of it. And if you aren’t fishing for the fun of it, why are you fishing? Barely makes you money, if that’s what you’re going for. Fame is a sham, at least it seems. Attention is fleeting, and you’re dust on the wind, if legacy is your hope.” He pulls the paddle to the other side, straightening out the boat. “And, in all honesty, fishing is going out of style.”
The boat runs up against the island, and you notice something odd about the beach – about the whole thing. It’s moving. The island, despite being rooted in place, seems to be spinning. The sand runs up against the grass as the grass rolls over itself into the entrance of the decrepit castle. Its stones are shifting and rotating back towards the end of the island. “It pulls you along,” the fisherman says. “Whole thing rotates. Keeps it simple for me.”
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He takes your hand and pulls you up onto the shore. Sure enough, you are pulled along, like on a conveyor belt, towards the palace. “We’re nearing the end, you know. The end of this whole… thing. Whatever it is,” he pauses a moment, “This fishing trip! Yes, that’s a great analogy,” he winks at you. You are both still being pulled into the walls of the palace. It’s broken down and crumbling, with grass growing inside and vines creeping up the walls. One room is themed like an old-timey train car, with booths and jazz music playing in the background; another is cold, clinical, with reinforced walls and weapons laying around. The final is longer, a hallway, of sparkling stones and armor stands.
“I’m not a subtle decorator,” the man chuckles. “You know, there’s not a lot of people like you left, so really I must thank you for your time.” You both enter a large atrium, with a glowing, pulsing cyan, swirling doorway into God knows what at the other end. The ceiling is domed, with no painted scenes at the top; instead, what must be hundreds of thousands of words are scribbled on neatly, as if to describe scenes of beauty and pain. “A picture says a thousand words, they say, but a thousand words barely makes for a story.”
You both keep moving slowly towards the pulsing light. “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to you. That’s just the end.” The man turns to face you. “This is an artform rivaled by no others, in my opinion. Paintings are beautiful, yes, and music divine; but…” he hesitates, “fishing… is, really, my favorite. And for all the incredible fishermen out there, for all the talent and passion within this little land in between, where the fishers of the world come to tell their own stories, it’s really people like you who keep it alive, and healthy.
“So, my friend – who I’ve come to know so little, yet who’s come to know me so well – keep on. Keep this art alive, will you? Pass it down to your children, and your friends, for me. I need a job, after all, and I’d rather not be an engineer just for the money.” You are inching closer and closer to that portal. So close that you can hear the sounds beyond. Maybe it’s the class around you, or the off-kilter clattering of the subway, or the pitter patter of rain against your window. Maybe it’s the car under you, or the plane around you, or the covers of your bed; you can feel what’s beyond that portal.
“Oh,” the man says, and you turn to realize he’s stopped moving, as you are drawn further and further away, into that gateway. “You can call me Muse.”
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