la bas, song of the drowned
When I was a very small child - I was old enough to float but not yet swim - I and my sister were at the house of our parent's friends. They were the only ones we knew who had a swimming pool, and me and my sister loved to play in the water. The house was short, and brown, and bordered by a fence on the other side of which stretched a vast empire of dirt, abandoned railroads, and power lines. On this particular day we were playing in the shallow end, and all the adults were inside the house. My sister convinced me that we could venture into the deep end of the pool; all we had to do was cling to the sides. I was scared to, but my sister's assurances won out, so I clung to the edge beside her, and we began to inch our way over. I had floaties on, you know those little inflatable armbands? We got about halfway across the pool, and the thrill of the forbidden end, the impassable deeps must have overcome me, because my little hands slipped. I panicked, inasmuch as a four year old can, and convinced that some hidden force was drawing me away from the safety of the edge, into the vast abyss below, I scrambled to grab hold of the only thing within reach; my sister.
She must have thought I was trying to drown her, the way my limbs were flailing about, and my hands frantically scrambling up her sides to her face, trying to reach safety. I think I pulled her off, or maybe she let go to try and get me off of her. The next thing we knew we were both drowning. I because the force was pulling me under, and she because I would not let go of her, with relentless four year old fury.
I started going under. I kept looking towards that edge of the pool, two feet and a thousand miles away. I thought of crying for my parents to come out and save us, but there was too much water. My sister kept crying for me to let go of her, I was drowning her. That ledge was all I could think of, all I could see. Twice I went under, seeing only the blackness of the inner house above that ledge.
The third time I came up was when it happened. I went down seeing nothing but the distant edge and emptiness beyond, I came up and there was a man. He was smiling. I remember thinking it odd that a man should stand smiling while he watched two children drown. The next thing I knew, he reached in and took me and my sister out of the water, one with each hand. Wet and scrambling and scared, he told us to go into the house and find our parents. I don't recall if he actually spoke, but that is what he told us.
And so we ran inside, screaming and babbling incoherently, our parents and their friends looking at us as if we were crazy, utterly and entirely unconvinced that my sister and I had nearly just died.
At the time, I remember thinking that the man came from the mysterious world behind the backyard fence, from the dirt and rails and electric power lines. To a four-year-old's logic, if the man did not come from the house he must have come from the other place.
When I was in my teens, I began to think it was an angel. Then I reached my early twenties, and began to think my memory was merely wrong. Now I'm approaching twenty-six, and a week ago I sat and talked to my sister for five hours. We talked about the ghosts growing up, and how things only make less sense when you become old enough to understand, and about that one time I drowned my sister.
I had never seen that man before, and I've never seen him since. Neither has my sister, and my parents still have no idea what we are talking about when we ask them.
She must have thought I was trying to drown her, the way my limbs were flailing about, and my hands frantically scrambling up her sides to her face, trying to reach safety. I think I pulled her off, or maybe she let go to try and get me off of her. The next thing we knew we were both drowning. I because the force was pulling me under, and she because I would not let go of her, with relentless four year old fury.
I started going under. I kept looking towards that edge of the pool, two feet and a thousand miles away. I thought of crying for my parents to come out and save us, but there was too much water. My sister kept crying for me to let go of her, I was drowning her. That ledge was all I could think of, all I could see. Twice I went under, seeing only the blackness of the inner house above that ledge.
The third time I came up was when it happened. I went down seeing nothing but the distant edge and emptiness beyond, I came up and there was a man. He was smiling. I remember thinking it odd that a man should stand smiling while he watched two children drown. The next thing I knew, he reached in and took me and my sister out of the water, one with each hand. Wet and scrambling and scared, he told us to go into the house and find our parents. I don't recall if he actually spoke, but that is what he told us.
And so we ran inside, screaming and babbling incoherently, our parents and their friends looking at us as if we were crazy, utterly and entirely unconvinced that my sister and I had nearly just died.
At the time, I remember thinking that the man came from the mysterious world behind the backyard fence, from the dirt and rails and electric power lines. To a four-year-old's logic, if the man did not come from the house he must have come from the other place.
When I was in my teens, I began to think it was an angel. Then I reached my early twenties, and began to think my memory was merely wrong. Now I'm approaching twenty-six, and a week ago I sat and talked to my sister for five hours. We talked about the ghosts growing up, and how things only make less sense when you become old enough to understand, and about that one time I drowned my sister.
I had never seen that man before, and I've never seen him since. Neither has my sister, and my parents still have no idea what we are talking about when we ask them.