Thursday, November 21, 2002

Stow Lake is one of

Stow Lake is one of those park lakes that lie so green and murky it’s easy to forget how shallow they are.  Maybe five feet, ten at the most.  But the virulent green of the water masks that lack of depth and implies a mystery residing below the surface, a mystery inpenetrable by human faculties.  I could probaby wade across the damn thing but I’d expect with every step to plunge into a bottomless pit of stagnant biomass. 

I’d substantially gotten over this impression of bottomlessness when I saw the old asian guy peel back the surface just a little.  He was squatting by the water’s edge, a beatific smile on his ageless face, a wide straw hat tied beneath his chin, a bag of bread in his hand, and a three-foot twig beside him.  He began by feeding the seagulls that flocked loudly around him, catching morsels in midair.  After a few minutes he took the stick and waved the gulls away so he could feed the ducks.  Incredibly, the rapacious, screaming gulls flew off while the muscovies and teals and widgeons paddled up for a snack. 

A few more minutes passed as he fed the serene fowl, and then used the stick gently to dismiss them.  The empty water boiled and soon a clutch of turtles surfaced, brown in the green of the lake.  They, too, took their nourishment from his hand, gracefully diving with crumbs and crusts in their beaked craws, their thin delicate legs describing heartbreaking patterns as they danced among each other.

The stick quietly sent them away.  Fish replaced the turtles, larger than I’d have expected, over a foot long in many cases, dorsals and gills caressing the water, eyes wide and active, maws gaping as they sucked down large chunks of soggy bread. I was entranced by their beauty; moreso by their activity; even more than that by their mere presence - but most of all by the nearly tame way they approached the old man for their share of his bounty.  Yet after a few minutes they too acceeded to the stick and went away.  What was left? I wondered, as the man held out his provender over the water, grinning calmly into the shallow lake. 

The water writhed.  A long face emerged from it, wide eyed and wide jawed, nostrilless, on a neck that stretched below the surface.  The mouth hissed roughly and the neck articulated smoothly, vigorously, very deeply… The bread was held suspended over the water, the man squatted among willows and rocks.  The eel took the bread in its mouth and retracted into the depths; another taking its place, the bread replenished, the man smiling…

For several minutes the eels fed from his hand, whispering to him, gazing deep into his eyes.  Then they ceased to appear, stopped being there, returned to some poseidal haunt far beneath the pea-green surface and paddleboats and pagoda and towering artificial waterfall.  The man, still smiling, stood easily and strolled away.  I stared at the shore of the small lake, watching feral wavelets lap the fabricated shore.  There was more there than I’d ever known, but depth was the only dimension I could articulate.  Now I know better; I know that lake gets deeper all the time.