‘Once an old spirit called Mor awoke from great sleep and stretched out long over everything like a black cloud. He rained down and washed out crops, flooded houses. People ran to higher ground, all was watery-cold. But Mor threw down lightning. People had shivery-fear. Waters rose. In sky people see their tombstones. Old Mor laughs a thousand laughs with thunder. Trees crash down. Some say he is devil. Others say other things. A man tries to make fire. No one helps. They run into cave. Man tries to make flame but all is wet. Sparkling-fire not possible. Man sees waters rising. People call to him from cave, saying, “man come, no good what you are doing.” But instead man goes to water, does not know why. He dives and is swimming. Old Mor thunders the funny of a thousand laughs. Old land is new ocean. Man is sleep-tired and ocean is wide.’

‘Grandpa. The man is silly and is going to snuffle.’

‘Wait, Nada. Wait. You must hear it till the end.’

‘I don’t like it. Bad story.’

‘Well. I have to admit its not a nice story. I suppose it’s not really for young ones. But my mother told it to me.’

‘Only joking. I was just being tricky.’

‘Oh…’

‘But you are saying it funny. You must make it a better story.’

‘Well, listen Nada and I’ll tell you. So … man is swimming and swimming. There is no land. Why is man swimming? We don’t know. But he has become sleep-tired. He begins to fall.’

‘Grandpa, stop. Bad story.’

‘Wait, Nada. Listen. Man sinks. He is … he is … he is about to snuffle. But … what do you think, Nada? Can you guess?’

‘An angel?’

‘No … a fish. Not any fish, this fish was special. Because a light was in fish’s eyes. Special fish was small, but had much strength. Fish says to man, “we must swim a thousand swims to a little island. Old Mor can’t see us there.” The island was an overlook on Mor’s part.

“I have no strength,” man says

“Hold my fin and touch my eye. I will give you strength.” And the man does as the fish said and fish is swimming. One hour, two hours, three, four. Man feels stronger, but sees fish’s eye getting darker. He takes his hand away. 

“Nay, man. Do no take your hand away.”

“But I am taking your strength.”

“It must be, for that is Old Mor’s sleep.”

Man puts hand back and they keep swimming. One hour, two hours, three, four. Again man takes away hand.

“Nay, man. Do no take your hand away.”

“But I am taking your strength.”

“It must be, for that is Old Mor’s sleep.”

Man puts hand back and again they are swimming. But all the time fish’s eye is getting darker. Man has stopped believing. He is man-strong but not mind-strong. Yet they are swimming the swim of a thousand strong and long swims. World is darker. Water is rising. Yet there are swims to swim. 

“Fish. Stop.” Man is saying. “No good what we are doing. There is no island. Ocean is our end.”

“Nay, man. You must hope, then island will come,” fish is talk-saying. 

Man does not believe. “There is no island. There is nothing.”

“Look!” fish says. Man looks, and ahead there are three circles, not bright, not bright, resting on the water. One white, one blue, one black. 

“What are they?”

“Doors.”

They stop and the white one makes sounds. They stop and the blue one makes pictures. They stop and the black one makes a horrible smell.’

‘Gramps,’ Nada interrupted, ‘is there an angel?’

‘Well …’ 

‘I want an angel ’cause then she could fly him to the thing.’

‘True. But I’ll tell you what the fish said. He said, “You must choose.” 

You see, Nada, the white one had sounds of a soft flute, then his own giggling child, then singing and sweet sounds of his wife. They call him, names only he knows. Dear names. Man says to fish, “I choose the white one.”

“Nay, man. See them all.”

Man sees blue one is making pictures of a table full of roast meats, of breads and wines. Man sees his wife and child dancing together. They beckon him to come. 

Man says to fish, “I choose the blue one.”

“Nay, man. See them all.”

Man then sees black circle. Fish’s eye is fading, almost nothing. Thunder thundered. Circle has nothing but smell of rat and rotting. Man looks, blackness is long, he is dark-scared. 

“Choose, man. Quickly choose,” fish is talk-saying.

“I do not want black circle. But which of the other two. One is good for the eye, the other the ear. Help me fish. Which should I chose?”

“With hope, will island come. For that is Old Mor’s sleep. The light is fading. Choose!”

Man looks at white and blue. He wants to chose white. He wants to choose blue. 

“Only through one, is there hope,” fish says.

Man sees white and blue. Shakes head. “No, I cannot choose only sound, only sight. It is both or none.” Man sees black one, has shivery-fear. He shakes head and is sad. He doesn’t know. Fish tells him light is fading. Fish is sinking. Man must choose.’ 

“Old fish,” man says, “if I must choose it must be black. For that is Old Mor.”

Fish swims up, out of water, man and fish fly through black circle and fell down, and down and down. Man and fish are falling down into a thousand darks.

“Take away your hands from my eyes,” fish says. He does and the eyes become sparkling-bright. Man closes eyes.

“Open your eyes,” fish says but man does not. He is dark-scared. “Have hope, open your eyes.” 

Man does not. He is mad-scared. 

“Open your eyes, three times nine falls have we fallen. Only one more.” Man does not. “It is the end,” fish says. 

Man opens eyes. Sees hands sparkle-shine. Fish and man slow. In hands is a gold light. Light is blind-bright. Man has hope. Man and fish drift down onto island.

“Go quickly and find a flower,” says fish. 

Man runs around island but all is rock. All is wet as ocean. And ocean is all around. He looks and look and looks. Then he sees a little flower. He touches it and both hands sparkle-shine and ground near turns from rock to grass and flowers. It spreads and trees bloom. He looks up and dark clouds move apart. Then he sees all island become grass and flower. Above, high-blue sky. World is getting lighter. Old Mor makes a hundred anger-thunders but sun is shinning. Leaves are coming. Flowers. Everything lighter and lighter. Now water is getting lower and lower. At last, all water is gone, and man can see forests and fields, mountains and valleys. And all is as was before. 

Man ran to fish but it was gone.’

The grandfather was silent for a time, but clearly little Nada didn’t like it.

‘But it is a happy ending,’ the grandfather said, ‘because, the man went back to his home to his wife and child and there was a big feast with roast meats and breads and wines, and flutes and singing and dancing.’ 

Nada pouted. ‘The man didn’t care about the fish,’ she said.

‘He wanted to. But—’

‘He’s a silly man. He should have had a fish bowl.’ 

‘Oh … well … were you scared, Nada?’

‘No, but I don’t like the man. You should have put an angel in the story ‘cause then she could have flied him to island.’

‘Well …’

‘Gramps, tell another story. But make it good this time … with an angel.’