played. Their motion was a song of joy, a hymn of
gratitude for this gift of shared Self...
At long last, the Light had come upon the Darkness, and
the Darkness had found it good.
The voice of the stranger boomed through the teeming
ocean of Life, filling it, echoing through and beyond the
newborn Bertram:
"Witness, my friend, the mystery of Creation..."
Then Bertram heard his own tiny voice singing in reply,
but who is the Fish?
His song rippled out through the ocean of Life, but
returned to him unanswered.
Bertram bolted upright in the bed, suddenly wide awake.
He reached for the screaming alarm clock, but pulled back
as cool morning air hit the sweat that soaked his too-thin
body. He shivered and pulled the blankets up to his neck.
He let the clock scream.
Who is the Fish? The words echoed in his mind. He
closed his eyes and tried to memorize the details of the
dream before they faded away; a chill snaked up his spine,
a mild current like slow lightning... It reached his head and
seemed to push him gently forward. He was about to
remember something important, something vast...
Who is the Fish?
He sat, huddled forward, eyes tight, waiting for the
lightning to strike. But after a moment, the feeling passed.
Whatever it was, he had lost it.
The spoon fell from Bertram's hand, splashing milk and
cornflakes onto his newly arrived copy of Lit-World
Weekly. He wiped the page frantically with his sleeve.
