I wish you all a good read of this part, and the ones that will be realeased shortly after.
Part 1: Thought
Have any of you ever felt like you didn't belong to the society you were supposed to exist in? Have you ever felt like a weirdo? A person from outer space?
Because I did.
It's not a surprise though, considering that most of my neighbours were, though it pains me to say so, brainless. The races walking on earths above the waters had been changing drastically for many years, forced to keep together and create true and working societies because of unstable weather conditions and natural catastrophes. Unity had not only given them the chance to survive, but it had also made them more civilized and wise with every generation. Their cultures have been blooming ever since.
The life underwater, on the contrary, hadn't changed for centuries, or so it appeared. The only possible relationship between two species was still the predator-prey one. Position in the so-called society was determined only by strength. What I was to find most painful, however, was the fact that the abilities of speech, reading and writing were generally ignored by the majority.
Even to this day, I sometimes wonder who had implemented such a thirst for knowledge into me, a thirst for something shunned away and almost forgotten. Had it been my parents, or someone else? This, I will never be certain of. The fact remains that I had been able to speak, read and write. I had known a lot about the world around and formulated my thoughts in a very sophisticated way.
I would never have guessed how much problems it would cause me. Being the most intelligent one around is not always as good as it may seem to be. It can make you mad, for more than one reason.
Still, the fact that they had all been, forgive me my words, dumb wasn't what had caused me to think I hadn't belonged. Far from that, actually. I could have surely lived happily ever after, if not for a small problem: everybody seemed to enjoy hating me with a passion. Why?
Because I was a freak. Because I was a Swordfish!
Surprised, aren't you? I expected that. How many of you have actually seen a living Swordfish with your own eyes? If you live where my words could have reached you, probably none. So, what is the mystery? Why am I where I am?
I cannot grant you valuable details, but rest assured that if I could, I surely would. The problem is, that the most important happenings took place too far in the past to be correctly recalled. I prefer not to talk about matters fragile enough to be warped by an accidental imaginary memory. This leaves me with little options, other than speaking only about facts.
There had been a large school of my kind, about fifty adults, allied with hundreds of other, similar schools. An effort to create a truly working Swordfish country, and also a response to the political changes in the Earthlands.
Respected and generally liked by all, the Unity of Swordfish Schools became a neutral mediator in the trades between the Spiderian Emirates and the Empire of Shassesht, also providing transport for some of the goods. Their service brought common good, because even though both the Spiders and the Snakes had a false opinion of thieves and backstabbers, most of their trade problems were caused by the fake similarity of their languages that led to countless misunderstanding.
As a species, we are pretty clever. A four-year Swordfish could already understand all the small nuisances of the languages and provide fast translations between the two, avoiding all the common mistakes.
There had been a four years long period of common storms, lasting for weeks on end. Among one of such storms a lone Swordfish, not even two years old, lost sight of its brethren and was taken captive by the merciless waters.
Defenceless, left at the mercy of endless masses of the liquid, and separated forever from anyone who would show kindness to him. That Swordfish, me obviously, was then left alone for years, with no knowledge and with scarce memories about beings similar to him.
The laws of the Grey Waters - the meaningless area of the sea that became my home, were few, but all brutal. Three rules: Kill. Eat. Survive. The emphasis on "Kill". The only violation of rights understood by all was the case of one fish eating another, when the victim was too high in the hierarchy to be legal prey for the offender. Seemingly insane, but widely accepted.
The system meant trouble for me, because it didn't predict new kinds appearing suddenly. I was outside the system
Too low to be given the rights to hunt for any food, even too low to be considered worthy prey for any self-respecting species. Swordfishes were seen as stowaway junk; smart fishes have always been outcasts. I was both.
It's the part where I am supposed to tell you the story of my sad childhood, but, yet again, my memories are far too selective to create a genuine image, one not bent by never-ending days of pain. Because there is one thing I have to admit, even though it's only my opinion: It's pretty surprising that I survived. My surroundings were a little less than friendly; not providing me with the rather discussable "honour" of being eaten didn't stop anybody from tormenting me day by day. I got beat up after every meal, the reason being, that I ate "those above me". But it doesn't even matter. I can tell you about the few flashes of images that are, somewhat, real. Or so I foolishly believe.
First thing I can remember? Fighting against a hungry group of Argyropelecus affinis, something about trespassing their territory. As if they even cared about it.
Second memory? Escaping from a horde of Diodon holocanthus I accidentally woke up, their slumber proved to be very important to them, leading to a beating.
Third memory? Plunging through swarms of Dissostichus mawsoni that tried to steal some food I haunted, and would pay for dearly later anyway. Or something similar. Dozens against one were the only acceptable odds.
Notice a pattern in them? I do not doubt, for one wise enough to read, can't be as stupid as an average Carcharias taurus. If, by any means, a Carcharias taurus is the one reading this, not only do I ask for forgiveness, but I also bow in respect, a respect well deserved by one who dared disobey the blind tradition and seek the knowledge, which has been denied many.
The pattern… Attacking, defending, retreating… It seems the fighting went on and on. I… got used to it. Funny indeed.
It is funny indeed how one can get used to about anything, pain and depression included. Granted, it's more of a bizarre sort of acceptance than getting used to it, but still, what's the difference? One way or another, after a little while you end up doing nothing against the situation you are in. It's a sign of weakness, a sign of submission and above all else, a sign of failure.
You remain passive, even if you know, that you can't keep ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of your head for much longer. Even aware of that, you try your best to ignore it all, hoping it will all just disappear and leave your life without a trace. A sign of foolish naivety, if I may call it that.
You do not want to face the "something", which you feel is so dangerous to you, so you push it away. Simple, isn't it? So where's the catch, you ask? The catch is, that you do push it away, then it bounces back at you. With more force. Try playing with a ball, but only by yourself. Bounce it off a wall again and again. It's a fun game, a good way to pass your time. It does have a flaw though. There is only one way for it to end, and that's you losing. The ball will never feel fatigue, nor will it ever offer you a draw. The game will end when you either give up, or collapse. It's pretty depressing now that we look at it.
It gets even more depressing when it's not just a meaningless game anymore. When you have something tanked up inside you and need it to remain tanked up as long as possible. It may seem I am talking to you in the manner of an old and wise man sharing his wisdom, but do not allow yourself to be fooled. While the adjective "old" fits me, though I admit it unwillingly, I wouldn't be writing this if I had been wise. Sometimes only mistakes make us learn. I was such a case. I fear some of you may be forced to go through the same things I did. That and only that motivates me to fill these pages with my words.
Looking back into the past I notice that the moment you collapse under your own pressure is not scary. It is painful and depressing, but not scary. I thought for days about it, but it took me two years to finally face the truth. The scary part is not the one when you give up, but the one that presents you with the problem. It's truly terrifying how sweet tasting a brutal trap of life can be. Let this words mark the true beginning of my story.
That special day, the waters were silent and calm. A rare moment of peacefulness was granted me as I swam slowly in the deeper parts of the sea. Four hundred meters underwater the pressure is so high that most of the "fearless" predators evade coming so deep as good as they can. The better for me. I could probably survive four hundred and fifty meters below the surface, but I doubt it would be enjoyable.
So deep within the great blue, there are secrets unknown to all but the few chosen ones that dare both wonder and wander to reveal them. Many believe that the ocean's nature is balance, that the water escapes into the air only to come back later in the form of raindrops, that for every ebb there is also a flow tide. Surprisingly, they are all wrong. The endless cycle leading to perfect balance is water's nature, but not the ocean's itself. Its true nature is collecting and amassing. Somewhere in the darkness, hidden from unwanted eyes and, that day, shown to me were the ocean's treasuries. They contained valuables of all types, taken by the ocean's greed. Everything that disappears on the surface and anywhere in the waters is sooner or later taken to such a place. Literally everything. The list should begin with thousands of corpses of unidentifiable species, stinking and half rotten, a feast for bacteria. The list would begin with corpses, and end with corpses, but far more majestic ones. Enormous galleries, medium-sized merchant ships, small vessels, they were all there. A natural museum full of rare exhibits, coming from everywhere around the world. So much history confined in so little space, an astonishing miracle preserved by tons of mud. I floated around absently, enthralled by the beauty of the sight. My mind wandered, showing me images of great travels and battles that the ships were a part of.
Somehow, I recognised most of them, reciting their special traits smoother than I did the alphabet. The monarchies of Hamsters And Hedgehogs produced ships with long spikes protruding from the sides, which detached themselves upon contact with an enemy. Once they got through a ship's armour, they rarely fell out due to a special wood carving technique, which made them stuck. Covered and filled with easily flammable substances, the spikes disabled practically all the victim's cannons and were an easy target for flaming arrows, which caused them to be one of the most feared weapons of all time.
Many nations tried to counter such a strategy by modifying the ships in various ways. That's why there were so many differences in their structures. Let's take the Duck Federations for an example. While they had been more famous for the pumps and hatches system that allowed the ships to be entered from underwater, not to mention the perfect streamline Swans always insisted on, their ingenious scientists thought up many other novelties as well. The walls of their largest galleons were cowered with a second wood layer that broke pretty easily. Useful for softening cannonball blows, but also with an additional option of filling the space between the two walls with water, preventing both from catching on fire. The only ships with no extra features were the ones belonging to the Rabbitian Empire, their plainness actually made them stand out in the crowd.
The insides proved to be even more marvellous. Old frames hung in the long corridors, their paintings foggy and unclear, washed out by the water. Splinters of once beautiful dishes lay on the floors of all chambers, but there had also been many stored in safer places, those remained in one piece. The kitchens were filled with rotten fruits and vegetables, the type of food preferred over meat since the political revolutions. The armouries were filled with almost random weaponry, the choice of weapon belonged to the soldier, causing maces to lie alongside longbows. The walls and roof of an armoury were always reinforced, so they were all in good shape. Only the gunpowder was too wet to be considered any sort of a weapon, its usefulness was probably that of mud.
What interested me most though, were the giant libraries filled with row after row of books. I was surprised that someone would read a paper book surrounded by water. At the time, I possessed little knowledge of large campaigns, so I didn't know that they were there to raise the morale of the crew. The idea did prove to be a little unreasonable though. All what was left from the books were the unsalvageable remains of sticky and clustered paper. They floated all around the rooms creating a depressing atmosphere. Them sticking to my gills didn't help any, either.
After awhile, I checked out most of the ships, and found a pleasant surprise.
The art of book making originated in Shassesht, the empire had been the only place where one could buy books for a very long time. Quite recently the idea became popular, and hundreds of libraries started appearing everywhere around the world. Original materials and information about the craft were scarce though, forcing most nations to experiment and use new and innovative designs.
This led to many differences between the books, most caused by the variety of species. The Swans had implemented a bizarre, but interesting idea. They wanted to read while swimming around, their equivalent of the pure Earthlander's pacing around in circles, but the paper's reaction to water made that very risky. Their solution was covering every page of the book with a mass produced wax like substance. From the thousands of books, only those survived.
The language used wasn't too hard. The scriveners, most of them Anatidae, implemented both land and aquatic traditions into it, so almost everyone could get the general hang of it. I didn't find it too hard at least, even with my rather limited education.
The topics varied greatly, covering distant subjects like cooking and deck constructing. I admit that ever since then I've been admiring the way Ducks turn everything into art. Their philosophy left me astounded, but also explained the prosperity of their country. If I had to summarize it, I would say that their hearts are a part of their lives, their lives are the little things they do every day, so they put their hearts into everything they do. A very productive life view and, when flavoured with a specific sense of honour, a pretty unorthodox one.
It might have been extreme boredom, or my hidden love for philosophy, but something dragged me from book to book and engrossed me in their secrets. No matter the cause though, the final effect was unquestionably enjoyable. I read tome after tome, hour after hour. You would have to feel it yourself to know what I felt. A joy, a rush of emotions, a freedom from my troubled existence, most of all, a worthwhile existence.
Like all of us, I had once been afraid of myself, disgusted by some of my thoughts and shocked by some of my actions. Also like many, I thought I had to block parts of myself, parts that were not suitable for my understanding of life. I placed dams, metaphysical structures confining all that wasn't supposed to see the light of day. I know now, that we hide and lock away only that what we are afraid of, but it does not help us with our fears. Admit that it is laughable! We stand and stare at the dam, afraid that it may fall, beaten by the enormous pressure put on it. Is there at least one reason for the fear! The dam stood for years, why can't it stand years more? You stand and stare at the dam, then suddenly it starts raining, but you don't care. The droplets can't hurt you, so you fear only the masses of water behind the dam. You are stupid. The dam stood for years and it can only be broken by an additional force, the droplets will be what'll teach you true terror.
I could never have guessed that reading books could be the beginning of my downfall, my very own rain. It was surely my own fault. I tried escaping from the fighting that filled almost every hour of my days. Immersing myself in reading was a good short-term solution, small escapades for enough food to survive couldn't be compared to what I usually went through, but proved not to be everlasting. As always, when your opponent can't beat you outright, he will come to you as your friend.
From philosophy to existence, from existence to people, from people to denizens, from denizens to nations, from nations to countries, from countries to politics and finally from politics to warfare. The long way from carelessness to doom.
Swords making, war tactics and fencing immediately became my main interests. Practicing new moves, devising new strategies or learning about conflicts worldwide. I could do any of these for hours without a break, you could say they were my life for those few blissful months. I doubt I've ever really noticed what I was studying, what took day after day of my lifetime. Who knows how would things turn out if I did though, if I didn't invest so much time into self-perfection on the field I once despised.
I admit that it was one of the most enjoyable times in my life – no worries, just all around fun. It didn't even make me question my own sanity, didn't last long either.
I trained and practised for a very long time, so long in fact, that I could hardly remember my previous "home". Then, I left the place where I picked up so much knowledge. I knew that I've learned all there was to learn, it was time for me to pass on the light, to create something of my own and find a purpose that could be fulfilled, one that would make my journey complete.
So much had changed where I once lived, yet so much remained the same. I tried to calculate how much time had passed, but my efforts were in vain. I couldn't even say how old I was. Late seven? Probably early eight, that would at least explain why I've already turned so cranky now. Regardless, time passed and changed things, I soon learned that some of them would never be the same again.
Above all else, I changed the most. I found I could not return to my old life. I could not hide when someone passed, I could not swim around others when there was no reason to other than my old fear. I could not ignore my pride, once hidden, but now pulsating strongly and ready to fight for its rights. I felt and was confident, and those that once would have bullied me now swam hastily away, afraid. I was unimaginably superior to each and every one of them, I knew it and they knew it. Who did they fear, the piece of junk too low to be affected by their rights? The piece of junk they had tormented for so many years? The very same one?
A Shark swam up to me, his movement full of anger and his jaws opened menacingly. He was probably mad his lunch had hidden somewhere, not even because of him. Too bad really, if his anger was a fireplace, my was a blazing inferno, stacked up day after day and blow after blow until then, until I reached the breaking point. I didn't socialise enough to ask him how he wanted to die.
With the way he was attacking, I could have wounded him until he bled to death, looking at his horror struck expression all the time. He wasn't worth the time nor the effort to do so, though. I punctured his head before he had the chance to realise what he got himself into and what killed him. The currents were nervous, they took the blood oozing from the hole in his head and spread it everywhere, telling everyone the news faster than any voice could. I waited, there was no need to rush, the inevitable was awaiting and I had no problems with facing it. Alea iacta est.
All the other Sharks soon appeared on the spot. I always wished to know what they felt that very moment. Anger, shock, defiance, hatred and the glimmer of surprise, of panic, so evident, so hard to hide. Born by the possibility that the hunter may become the prey. They came trying to protect far more than just food or territory, they came to protect their dignity, their only means of survival. I really couldn't have cared less.
The three behind me attacked first. I knew they would. I knew which of them would strike if I turned, I knew who was stronger and who more agile. I knew everything I could need just by seeing them, how they acted, how they looked, how they reeked of fear. My long studies paid off to a degree I never could have imagined.
I made a full flip and the trio missed me completely. A single slashing gesture was enough to cut open the last one's fin. A mako shark moved quickly somewhere from my side. He thought I was distracted. I dodged to the left and his jaws didn't even come close to hitting their target. I swished my tail crushing both of his eyes with the power of the impact. More of them charged and I ducked down. A cautious one was keeping away from the fight. Cautiousness must be used well to be of any use, though. He never really got the chance to dodge my charge and I almost went right through him. Some idiot nearly bit my tail from behind. In battle, there is "yes", or "no". Nearly doesn't count. Another slash and the guy's blood turned the water around even more crimson than it was before. Another attack came, it was supposed to be coordinated. I changed the course quickly and the fools crashed right into each other. A silent crack could be heard as one of them was proven not to have a skull strong enough to survive such an impact. Three more had to die before they understood that their surprise attacks wouldn't do much.
Did they really believe in surprise? I could hear the water whispering to me, telling me everything that happened all around whenever it was just barely moved. Couldn't they hear that voice, the one which made all blows lethal, which gave the power to annihilate any opposition, the herald of death. And if they couldn't, then why?
As dead bodies floated to the bottom of the sea I smiled grimly. Maybe they were fighting for what they considered important, but I was playing a game. An evil, vile game. That moment, when the one with the cut fin lost consciousness and followed his dead friends because of blood loss, I knew I had already won. At first only one, than another, and in the end all of them fled, no longer thinking clearly enough to be able to fear.
The stench of death was persistent and overwhelming. Telling the story of what happened better than any words or images could. I looked around with a sick kind of satisfaction, the one you feel after sharing a dirty joke with your friends. If you have any alive, that is.
I smiled, but even as I did so I knew that the true weight of the event was waiting to come down and crush me. To wipe any pathetic smile from my bloodied face. If I have ever had true dams of self-control, yes, those dams I wasted your time talking about before, I could see them crumble and fall.
One by one.