Spirals

the ocean's only desire

The world went silent then. The sky's silence became exponentially pronounced, and then it became a night sky with the moon a bright disk in the middle. I felt the ocean lift my hand, my arm, my body, wrapping around me gently, slipping quietly over my nose and pulling me into its vast waters. In a moment, I was completely underwater. I could breathe, albeit shallowly, and although I still could not move, I felt my pain easing slightly as the dark waters stirred my body's soreness and pulled it away a piece at a time.

I tried to move my body as I sank. Far down in the ocean, I could twitch my fingers without such great pain, and, farther still, my hands. The ocean drew me further within itself, pulling at the blanket of soreness, until, by the time I could move my legs and arms back and forth, my back hit the ocean floor, sending up a ploom of sand that I could feel but not see. The flow of the water shifted downwards, pushing against my body, and I heard a loud sucking sound from somewhere far below me, followed by an echoey click and a burst of cool light revealing not the ocean floor around me, but the metal interior of some sort of old submarine.

I did not know how to pilot a submarine.

It was difficult to fully take in everything around me, and impossible to understand. A labyrinth of colorful pipes and twisted cables completely lined the walls and the ceiling, with its chaotic complexity streamlined by the occasional metal box, ambiguous gauge, or bulky valve wheel. Out of curiosity, I traced the pipes visually, following their winding paths and their sudden stops until I found myself lost in the machinery.

The submarine shuddered and tilted slightly, rolling my tired body against its walls. I held onto a low-hanging handle and, with great care, pulled myself up, gritting my teeth through the pain that shot itself through my body until, finally, I stood slouched under the low ceiling.

A thunk sounded on the floor behind me, and I whipped around, regretting it instantly and doubling over from the pain. On the floor was a half-opened cardboard box with a note and two familiar items within them.

The first item: the handkerchief of cookies, still neatly wrapped, gifted to me by the little girl from the windy hills.

The second: my mother's handgun.

I bent down to read the note tucked at the bottom of the box:

~choose~

The little square note was wrinkled and its writing smeared, as if it had been washed or soaked, and I had an inkling that the note was, somehow, given to me from the ocean itself, even if it were written by some other being. I examined the two items: one, perceivably useful, and understandable in function; another, allegedly comforting, and foreign at that. Then I closed the box and tilted my head towards the ceiling.

"Tell me, ocean."

The submarine lights flickered.

"Why must I choose?"

I stood for a moment, listening, hearing nothing.

"Is this what you've wanted from me? For me to choose between these items? What is their significance? What is the point?"

I heard nothing. The submarine stood still, its mechanisms silent. I reopened the box and looked again at the items, a gun and a few cookies, and I nearly chuckled at the absurdity of what I saw. A gun and a few cookies. I was supposed to choose between a gun and a few cookies, and it was obvious that the ocean would not move the submarine until I did.

I took the box and carefully sat myself down. I removed the handkerchief first, unwrapped it, and removed a cookie. It was round, firm, and lightweight, slightly smaller than the size of my palm, and, to my surprise, it was still warm to the touch. I was not skeptical of the gift; I trusted the little girl from the windy hills because she was not unhappy nor hostile, and, frankly, her tea was not poisonous. In that moment with her, I had felt safe, or safe enough. But I recalled that she had given the handkerchief to me in hopes that it would stay with me as I traveled, and while the cookies certainly looked nice, this was the only other time I had access to them, and so they did not feel familiar. I was unsure of their purpose; I did not often feel hungry while traveling, or at least, I did not often feel the hunger that was satiated by food. So I wrapped the cookies up again, and I removed my mother's gun from the box.