The Man with Yellow Hair

Prologue

He had been like this for some time now. Cool currents rocked him, rippled along his length. It was pleasant and peaceful. Above him stretched the surface, with its shadows and shapes. He admired how the colors deepened, and, at other times, were shot through with light. He had lost all idea of time. He had come from another place; he knew that. But that was all. He didn’t know anymore except that he was safe. That seemed important, that he was safe. It did feel strange, though. He knew he hadn’t always been this way. He seemed to be in a new skin, like he was a frog, except that frogs come up for air and he didn’t seem able to do that. In fact, he was unable to move. He seemed glued to the bottom of what he didn’t know.

He began to notice that the shapes came closer, made sounds, sounds that, try as he might, were impossible to make out. It was a relief when they withdrew and he was once more able to float, to idle away the hours, to dream. He knew he’d been dreaming because he found himself trying to remember what they were about. The best he could do was grab the end of a song, allow it to tremble through him, the words in a strange language. At those times, a change came over him: the snippet of melody energized him, and he imagined himself cutting through the surface of the water like some razor-finned fish, shaking droplets off his glittering flanks as he took to the air, wiggling his tail fin, scattering bubbles that sent shards of rainbow out into the blue beyond.

Of course, this too was a dream, this thinking that he could escape. His body felt like stone, like it belonged to someone else. He seemed condemned to live out the rest of his life in this stagnant pool. He couldn’t even get angry about it. In the area of feelings, he was dead as well. And yet, was he dead? He wasn’t sure. But before he could work it out, something changed.

The shapes and sounds beyond the surface didn’t go away. They stayed, pushing at the surface. He tried to move away, again fruitless. The shapes became hands that rose from the dark of the water, stretching the surface until it snapped and they were through, sending prickles of unease as skin met skin. The fingers began to dig painfully into his flesh until he was in a sitting position. Pain spread through his body until he was burning up with it. The sounds became voices that spoke a strange language. Food arrived in his mouth, and he swallowed. It became a heaviness that moved down and out of him. It was a relief when it was gone. Liquids the same, passing into him and out again. Now the hands moved over him. Again, he tried to resist but couldn’t. All he could do was wait until it was over and then fall back into the cradle of the water, fall back into drifting and rocking and dreaming.

He began to welcome these times when the hands and voices broke through, so much so that when they retreated, and the water closed back over him, he felt a loss. With this fresh discovery he began straining to see and hear. He tried to think his way out of it. But what are thoughts against the weight of water?

End of sample. From The Man with Yellow Hair.