It lands with a thunk, from nowhere, out of time, out of order, thrown from the future or perhaps from the past, but landing here, in this place, at this moment, which could be any moment, which means, you guess, it's no moment.
It appears to be a film.
Herbert 'n' me is ridin' bi-cycles over to Anastasia Island. They got that new bridge now. It's November 30, 1896, and almost dark but not just yet. I don't know 'zactly the weather because they don't got records this far back, but it's Florida, so it's probably warm, no matter when. Anyways, we's yippin' an' hollerin' and whatnot, the things young boys do, on account of us being just that, and full of beans to boot. I’m about to tell a tall tale to Herbert about a ghost on account of I know he spooks easy and it’s always fun to try ’n’ get a rise outta him. Herbert an’ me, we met on account of the Sisters taking us both in when we was real little cuz we was orphan babies that got found right in the Tolomato grave yard, no lie, which is itself pretty spooky, if ya think about it. So the Sisters, they took us in and that’s how we met, and now we’re both adopted by the Widow Perkins, who is old and lonesome and she wanted some boys around to make her feel young again an’ not so alone, she says. But that’s not here nor there as we ride our bi-cycles toward Crescent Beach on account of the fishin’ is good there for croakers. It’s still not dark and we grab our poles and leave our bi-cycles and make our way down to the water.
“What’s that?” says Herbert.
I don’t rightly know, but since I been plannin’ on spookin’ him anyways, I say, “Maybe a spook, Herbert.”
Now, Herbert wants to hightail it back to town when he hears that, so I tell him I’m only just foolin’ and t’ain’t no such thing as a spook in truth, and that seems to convince him it might could be worthwhile to get closer and investigate.
Herbert agrees with some trepidatiousness to proceed to the lump, for that’s what it appears to be, a lump.
Well, sir, it is large! I’m no measurin’ expert, but I’m guessin’ it has to be twenty feet long and ten feet wide. It has four arms. It’s white and feels rubbery hard like the soles of the Colchester athletic shoes Widow Perkins bought me for my last birthday at which I was ten. Herbert won’t touch the thing, but I can’t keep my hands off it.
“What do you s’pose it is?” Herbert says.
“I don’t know, Herbert,” I say. “What has the mighty sea thrown up to us? Who can know what lurks in the inky dark, black murkiness of the sea? It’s kind of like a, what do you call it, metaphor for the human mind in all its unknowability.”
Herbert nods, bored. He’s heard this all before. Even though we’re close as real brothers, we are very different. Herbert is not interested in matters of the spirit or mind. One might say he’s more of a pragmatis’, truth be told. But he puts up with my speculatin’, and I love him for indulgin’ me. So I continue: “The Bible that the Sisters learnt us at the orphanage is chock-full of fish symbolism, and from what I heared, there’s fish in almost all mythological traditions, be they from the Orient or otherwise. Fact, from what I been told, there’s a young Swizzerland feller name of Carl Young, who believes fish is symbolic of the unconscious—is it unconscience or unconscious? I can never remember.”
Herbert shrugs.