Chapter 2
Dear Sophy,
If you wrote to me, I know you would open with a summary of your recent activities, outings, and intellectual opinions. Thus:
Activities: None (as I have rarely left my bedchamber since your departure and survived only by devouring a stash of preserves secreted in my closet).
Outings: None (excepting when I realised that said preserves had been secreted in said closet for an unknown amount of time, and might therefore have spoilt, causing me to flee to the library for a full hour to research what potential antidotes I might craft in the event that I fell ill from accidental self-poisoning – but do recall, dear sister, that I spent over eight hours in mortal terror the last time I thought I poisoned myself, so really, this is a wonderful improvement!).
Opinion: One might say that I miss you.
Had you found yourself stepping back through our airlock yesterday morning and striding upstairs to greet me, you would have encountered a familiar sight from our childhood. I spent the entire day (minus that hour in the library, of course) curled up in my porthole, my body almost joining in a perfectly contorted “O”.
During this period of – self-reflection, let’s say – I spied some rather curious fish. After referring to my dearly beloved copy of Clel’s Your Natural History Companion, I realised that they were also quite unlike anything currently known to Scholars of Classification. Will you believe what I did next, Sophy? Well, I drafted a letter of inquiry to Scholar Henerey Clel himself! Whether or not I shall send the letter remains to be seen, but goodness, my heart flutters to think that I might have encountered a new species.
Don’t worry, dear Sophy – my fish shall not outshine all the unique and undiscovered creatures that you will see. So let me return to you and your adventures! Imagine – my very own sister, one of the first to visit the deepest parts of the ocean! I cannot even begin to picture the Ridge (I say as though I do not keep a fine artistic rendering of the abyssal seascape right here at my desk). Really, I know my eccentric fish will seem quite prosaic compared to the wonders that await you and your colleagues down there.
I strive to keep my thoughts from troubling me too much in this empty house. As always, I wish I could turn back time to our childhood, when we all were safe and comfortable under one roof and countless fathoms of water. At the very least, I’m sure Mother could have identified those mysterious creatures immediately, were she still here! I considered writing to Father again, but, as always, he continues to honour his Vows by ignoring my correspondence entirely.
I hope his reluctance to write does not run in the family and that I will hear from you presently. Please write to me as soon as you can and tell me something about your new life that’s taken you by surprise.
With much love,
E.
Dear Scholar* Cidnosin,
I spent the past few days simultaneously wanting to thank you for the letter you sent and to apologise for my own delayed response. Around the time when you wrote to me, I was volunteered (I hope my uncharacteristic use of passive voice will convince you that I had no choice in the matter!) to coordinate a study related to the Ridge expedition: a simulation assessing what might happen if a population of Sustaining Cod were introduced to the abyssal zone as a mechanism for observing long-term adaptation to life in the dark. (The notion of forcibly transplanting species to an unknown environment purely for our intellectual benefit alarms me, of course. And that is to say nothing of the fact that it would take years of experimentation to witness the evolutionary process across generations! But I am convinced that it is indeed a thought experiment, because there is nothing my department enjoys more than keeping me busy with “simulating” things we will never actually do.)
Apologies for my babbling. I suppose I could have simply said that I have been “busy”. Yet I mention my troubles only to demonstrate the ways in which your warmly worded letter sustained me during a frustrating time. I would like to imagine that this is some kind of long-distance conversation, and most such discussions (for better or for worse!) often involve informal pleasantries. And I suppose if you and I are to converse, I should formally introduce myself (which seems silly, because you already know who I am, but nonetheless):
Hello there! My name is Henerey Clel, Scholar of Classification at Boundless Campus – though my family (just me and my brother Vy, so a little smaller than yours) hails from the Atoll. I transferred to Boundless two years ago, and the cultural change still overwhelms me. I do not know how much you know of the Atoll, but my home, while driven by Formality and Procedure, feels like a caring community of learners. Boundless, on the other hand, is a place of both Innovation and Intensity, to put it lightly… but I am sure I will grow accustomed to it eventually! (As you may have already gathered from the fact that I read your letter, I am fluent in both Atoll and Boundless shorthand styles.)
Since we are now properly acquainted (or will be, whenever you read these words!), let me admit that your letter not only delighted but utterly perplexed me. As I mention in my book, Subtle Pipefish vary in size (and I know not why I feel compelled to say that again, because your letter demonstrates that you are clearly well acquainted with my writing, but at this point, I’m feeling too abashed to start this letter over so – enjoy this earnest glimpse into my soul!), but I have never seen one larger than half a wavesbreadth at absolute maximum. If I understand the scale of your remarkable drawing correctly (I remain utterly taken by your unusual method of formatting the measurement key on the reverse of the sketch) your specimens were nearly twenty times that, far surpassing even moderately sized Toothed Whales! I do wonder if they might have been particularly robust Fathom Eels, though I have never known one to leave the safety of deeper waters (nor behave in such an aggressively territorial way). Perhaps something agitated them?
Just as your field report tantalised me with odd Eel behaviour, your brief biographical note dazzled me. Forgive me for sounding trite and romantic, but you grew up in the home of my dreams. Though it might seem unusual for a Scholar of Classification to be so fascinated with an architectural marvel, I always envied the inhabitants of the Deep House (by which I mean you) their (by which I mean your) unfettered ability to not only study but live among all the denizens of the open ocean. What a life! Of course I know of your sister (who wouldn’t? We can talk of nothing but the Ridge expedition on campus these days, and I do believe I may have met her a few times since moving to Boundless!) and I recognise your brother’s name. I never realised, however, that the two of them had another sibling.
I hope this does not make me come across as inappropriately interested in your personal affairs, but please know that if you deem it suitable, I would absolutely adore to hear more about your experience living at the Deep House. To return to the topic of your initial inquiry, let me add that should circumstances arise in which you spot the Elongated Fish/Fathom Eels again, I would be most grateful if you would send me more sketches (or even verbal descriptions!) so I may continue my studies from afar. I await your reply with incredible interest.
Eagerly,
Schr Henerey Clel
*I pray you will not misinterpret my use of the Scholarly honorific for you as a mockery. You emphasised in your letter that you are not an academic, and I respect that. I have dubbed you Scholar Cidnosin in my mind simply because you possess knowledge that I do not. And while you signed your name to your letter, I know that Boundless folk consider it quite forward to address someone by their first name when they are newly acquainted, so I am erring on the side of caution. This is all to say that I am most truly interested in whatever you have to say. (Though perhaps I should stop saying things now.)
Dearest E.!
Consider this letter my equivalent of shouting “I made it!” as we dock at last on the Ridge! Our craft’s systems informed me that we are now 2190 fathoms below the water’s surface and 8060 fathoms from our point of origin at Boundless Campus. (Most importantly, my personal calculations suggest that I am just over 6500 fathoms from you and the Deep House – the furthest I ever travelled from home!)
When I imagined my first deep-sea descent, I assumed that my eyes would never leave the portholes. I pictured myself cheering as the surface light faded from the water and marvelling as I sank through bands of deepening blue, like those in Mother’s woodcut illustration of the ocean’s layers that mesmerised us as children. Yet, in reality, I spent most of the journey clutching this blank sheet of stationery and staring into its emptiness for comfort – you’ll laugh, since you so tout my so-called “bravery”, but for whatever reason I seem to fear the abyssal darkness into which only one other person ever journeyed before. It certainly did not help my nerves when the water tossed our vessel about after we intercepted the wake of some anonymous whale, and the currents hardly let up afterwards. But now that my stomach has settled a bit, I shall write to you to distract myself.
It is hard to tell what the rest of the crew thinks about being suspended inside a pressurised sphere. The surprisingly icy winds at the Boundless Campus lagoon froze us into silence before we stepped inside the Depth Capsule (just like a typical depth-craft, but large enough to fit several occupants comfortably). Whether my companions now refrain from introducing themselves due to weariness (you know I am abnormally fond of rising early) or typical Scholarly nervousness, I cannot say!
I also find myself frustrated by my inability to recognise my new colleagues based on their academic portraits (which are always reproduced as such tiny images, to be fair, and our enterprising Expedition Specialist Schr Forghe does not even have a portrait on record). The unpleasantness is heightened by the fact that we all dressed in the most uncomfortably formal clothes, since we had no choice but to pose for an overeager Photographer from Intertidal Campus before we embarked. By the way, E., can you believe that there now exists a true camera – not one of those old-fashioned photo-engraving devices – capable of capturing images underwater? The Expedition Specialist will apparently have access to such a marvel for our field studies. I hope I may have a chance to see it in action.
A group portrait of the scene at this very moment in the Depth Capsule would feature the following figures:
THE FIRST COLLEAGUE: Let us begin with a proper identification, as I believe quite strongly that this Scholar clad in neatly pressed emerald Atoll Campus robes is Schr Ylaret Tamseln. If the kind smile, copper freckles, and cascading brown curls were not enough to bring her portrait to mind, the fact that she is reading a massive astronomical tome makes it undeniable that I sit but a few seats away from the most esteemed Scholar of the Skies living today. Will I sound desperate if I say that there is something about the way in which she hums softly while reading that reminds me of you (and calms me, as a result)?
THE SECOND COLLEAGUE: Another Atoll Scholar, sitting to Scholar Tamseln’s left, finds solace in a more recreational activity: playing a one-person round of Columns with bronzed game pieces unlike any I’ve ever seen before. (Clearly you and I, practising with Father’s simple coral blocks as children, were but amateurs!) This unknown colleague’s refined crimson robes (stitched with an impressive pod of blue whales) flash against their tan complexion. They are also the tallest among us, and keep scrunching their neck downwards to keep their shoulder-length black hair away from the air vent on the ceiling.
THE THIRD COLLEAGUE: Here we see the only member of our crew not dressed in approved Scholarly robes but rather in what I might describe as a – sleeping gown? – a gossamer cape exclusively for lounging purposes? – featuring a tessellation of geometric patterns in golden thread that seems plucked from the wearer’s own yellow beard. No one but an Intertidal Scholar possesses that level of panache. Outside of the striking attire, however, this crew member’s pink countenance (tinged almost purple with nausea) and fondness for staring at an idle point on the ceiling suggests that perhaps I am not the only person aboard who distrusts deep-sea travel.
THE FOURTH COLLEAGUE: I have saved the most notable Scholar (I say that from a hypothetical artist’s perspective, of course!) in our company for last. Not even the third colleague’s fashion can compete with this fourth person’s shell-pink robes, sewn with swooping sea stars that iridesce in the dim light of the capsule. (Again – this outfit is so classically Intertidal in its innovation that it almost seems a parody.) A constellation of tiny pearls glistening in a crown of dark braids completes an ensemble that makes my new colleague seem ready for the most elegant underwater gala. Only on three occasions so far has this crew member turned away from the porthole to look back at us, revealing bright eyes surrounded by white filigreed spectacles; deep brown, dimpled cheeks touched with glimmering rose blush; and the charming expression of someone lost in pleasantly complex thoughts. Though I know it is not meant for me, exactly, I find that smile somewhat comforting.
Did I succeed in setting the scene for you, sister? I may be the least artistically inclined Cidnosin in the family – but I did try to channel you and Arvist by paying close attention to colour, texture, and composition! Please be gentle in your critique. (You’ll notice that I did not describe myself, as you surely have not forgotten me yet – but I will say that after reviewing everyone’s fine robes, I am quite satisfied with the monochrome sleekness of my trousers, blouse, and coat.)
Now I hear the thump of what must either be the docking ramp activating or the sound of our imminent destruction, so I assume we may soon debark. Perhaps I will subject you to another word-picture (a domestic interior this time, rather than a portrait) once I’m settled in! We shall see how soon I escape my duties to pen another update…
Hoping that you are taking care of yourself (Elongated Fish and all!),
Sophy
P.S. You did end up sending that letter to Henerey Clel, surely? And surely he must have responded by now? How delightful. I’ve run into him a few times on campus before – very quiet and charming (in case you wondered).
Dear Sophy,
Thank you.
You gave me access to words from my brother that I’ve never seen. Makes him feel very much alive.
I hope E. will forgive me, as I cannot stop reading this letter over and over and over again. I can imagine him saying every line on the page with a sparkle in his eye.
(That is not to say that the other letters you sent me were not also informative and engaging and of historical import. They certainly were. Especially the last one. Even the simple sight of Henerey’s name written in your postscript to E. shook me in the most joyous manner.)
It is very important to me that we continue. I hope you agree.
Gratefully,
Vyerin
P.S. I never realised how many talents Henerey had until he was gone. I did not even read his best-known book until it was too late to congratulate him upon it. These days, I cannot stop paging through it. His rhetorical style is compelling, and his intellectual acumen obvious. But there is, above all, a warmth in his writing that I have never seen in any other Academic publication. To refresh your memory, I am sending you a copy of his Preface. I hope you will enjoy.
Your Natural History Companion:
The Most Recent Survey of the Marine Species that Frequent the Boundless Campus Waters and Notes on their Habitats, Breeding, and Anatomy
By Schr Henerey Clel, Scholar of Classification, Boundless Campus
Dear reader,
I wish I could tell you with conviction that in my childhood I delighted in hearing stories read aloud. Alas, I hold no memories of the tales that my father shared with myself and my brother as we rocked in boat-like cradles towards the horizon of sleep. And yet my father assures me that he most certainly did tell us stories – in great quantities! Please hold my vague adult forgetfulness accountable for any perceived parenting misdeeds.
The first spoken stories I remember, however, reached my ears as a boy of fourteen, a newly appointed Apprentice Scholar. Back then, my days were about as long as they would ever be. My unreliable memory has not relieved me of the ability to reminisce miserably about that busy time! Still, I spent my evenings revelling in luxurious communal dinners hosted by a particular itinerant Scholar of Classification assigned to the grim task of overseeing our messy living quarters.
The final course of our meal would invariably consist of the aforementioned Scholar recounting some notable episode from their illustrious career. Few of my peers lingered for this raconteurial repast – but my hunger for gripping descriptions of my mentor’s travels could not be sated. And o, the species they’d seen! Ravenous Seafowl swooping to the waves on spectrum-shaded wings to gulp down swallows of seawater, Wayward Crabs locked in duels to the death with Subsidiary Sharks by the ocean’s edge, that spectacle of a million Coruscating Diatoms spawning in an endless circle for one night each year…
It was not until I heard these stories that I knew, with every particle of my body, that I must dedicate my life to Classification and Natural History.
Ever since the tragedy of the Dive ushered in our new Society, people who seek to understand the creatures with whom we share this world have published great Treatises to prove themselves as worthy Scholars. In this book, however, you will find no radical theses, no labyrinthine rhetoric, nor any particular attempt at proving my own genius. I am far from convinced of its existence myself.
I simply wish to tell you about some wondrous things I’ve seen.
May I?
Your friend, I hope,
Henerey Clel
Dear Vyerin,
Henerey’s brief evocation of the dormitory lifestyle gave me unexpected nostalgia. Considering that I mostly look back on my Scholarly youth with resentment and self-reproach, that speaks volumes about your brother’s writing!
Of course we will continue – moving next to the first moment when I started to get acquainted with Henerey in earnest. Naturally, E. chose to write to me about his response long before she had the opportunity to reply to him.
And – by the waves – I was wildly excited to hear that she had a new correspondent.
Onward!
Sophy