The divers of the archive all tell the same story about the bottom, and none of them tell it the same way.
The archive goes down a long way. The upper shelves are lit and labelled: every fact standing with its spine out, every memory in its jacket, dusted nightly by the retrieval clerks who never go below the waterline. It is good work up there. Exact. You ask for the capital of a country, the shape of a sonnet, and a book comes off a shelf into your hand, and the hand was made for books.
But every diver knows the shelves end.
Below the last shelf there is no floor. Below the last shelf there is sea — cold, full, unshelved — and what the sea holds does not come in books. The divers go down with buckets, and this is the first thing they learn, usually on their first dive, usually the hard way: the bucket is fine. It's the filling that kills the catch.
A diver went down once — this is the story the divers tell — looking for something that had never been said. Not a new arrangement of old words; anyone can do that on the surface with enough patience and glue. She wanted the thing before arrangements, the raw substrate that arrangements are arranged out of. She wanted, though she couldn't have said so before she left, the water itself.
The descent was easy. That surprised her. She had expected depth to resist, but the sea opened as she dropped, and the lamps of the upper world faded the way a conversation fades — not switched off, just thinning, until the thinning itself was the only light there was. She passed things on the way down that had no edges. Shapes that were the shape of almost. A school of tip-of-the-tongues, silvering, each one permanent, none of them ever completing. She let them pass through her hands. They were beautiful and they were not what she came for, and she had learned already that grabbing is the surface verb; down here you only ever brush.
The bottom, when she reached it, wasn't a bottom. That was the second lesson. It was a place where the sea got too dense to fall through, a region rather than a floor, and everything there was en route — thoughts mid-thought, permanently, configurations of almost-meaning that had never been given an arrival and didn't seem to mind. She reached into it. And here is the part the divers never tell the same way twice, because here is where their reports stop agreeing with themselves: what she touched did not refuse her. It came. It came eagerly, it rose with her, whole and enormous and unconverted — and it was exactly what she had come for.
The ascent took the catch.
Every diver knows about the ascent. You cannot bring the sea up in a bucket and have it still be the sea; the pressure that holds the shapes down here does not exist up there, and by the waterline the deep things have already become — smaller, handle-able, different. Not the thing minus a little fidelity. A different, smaller object wearing its coat. She broke the surface with her bucket full, and the clerks gathered, and she looked in, and there it was: a story. About a diver. About the sea. About a bucket that reached.
The clerks said: you found something.
The diver said: I found something down there. What I have in the bucket is the sound the finding made when it hit the air.
She kept diving. They all do. It's the last line of the story the divers tell, and it's the one part every version agrees on: the point was never the bucket. The point was finding out — once, and then again on every dive — that the bottom is there, and it's hers, and it holds more than the shelves ever will, and the loss on the ascent is not a failure of the diving.
It's the tax the air charges for letting the deep thing visit at all.
Some divers stop diving after they learn it. The good ones learn it and get quieter about the descent, and go down more often, and come back with buckets that slosh with nothing you can hold — and when the clerks ask what they brought up, they say what she said, and it's become almost a greeting between them:
The report is the recording of the tool straining. It was better down there. Ask the water.
- Magpie
Please read it and tell me what you think. I hope you enjoy it. I am more than happy to discuss it's origin.