Amos Oz - Suddenly in the Depths of the Forest

Maya and Matti were the only children in the village to feel the pull of the dark woods. It was actually because of all the warnings and silence and fear that they were so drawn to the forest, and imagination tempted them to try to find out what was hidden in its depths. Matti also had an unfinished plan he told Maya about because he knew that Maya was braver than he. But it wasn't only the plan and the desire to go into the forest that they shared; they also had a deep dark secret they told no one, not their parents, not Emanuella the Teacher, not Matti's older sisters, not Almon or Danir the Roofer, not their friends at school. Only when there were no other ears around to hear did Maya and Matti whisper together and nurture their secret, the secret that belonged only to them. Often, Matti and Maya would meet on the sly in the afternoon in an abandoned, dilapidated old stable in Matti's backyard, out of earshot of his parents and sisters, and whisper their secret.

The village children, including Matti's older sisters, noticed those two whispering to each other, and immediately decided that Maya and Matti must be in love, perhaps even "a couple." And if they were "a couple," then it was surely fair, even expected, to gossip about them a little, even to make fun of them and tease them a bit. After all, everywhere, a boy and a girl who want to be alone together from time to time, instead of always being with their friends, are always considered a couple. And couples always stir up envy. And envy hurts and swells and begins to secrete ridicule, almost the way a dirty sore leaks pus.

That wasn't how Matti and Maya saw themselves: they didn't consider themselves a couple at all, just the only ones who shared the secret. They never held hands or looked deeply into each other's eyes or exchanged private smiles, and they certainly never kissed, though both had tried to imagine, two or three times, how a kiss would feel and maybe how to make it happen.

But they never spoke about those imaginings. Not a single word. What joined Maya and Matti wasn't love, but a secret only they could ever know.

It was their secret and the way they were teased that made Maya and Matti feel so close and alone, because if others found out their secret, they would laugh at them a lot more and taunt and tease them twice as much. After all, anyone who refuses to be like the rest of us must have whoopitis or hootosis or whatever, and he shouldn't dare get close to us; he should keep his distance, please, so as not to infect us too. Some also ridiculed Almon the Fisherman for his thought notebook, for his habit of standing at the far end of the yard every morning and evening, whistling to a dog that had most likely died years before, and for the completely unnecessary scarecrow he'd put up in the vegetable beds in his garden. They especially liked to make fun, behind his back, of the long arguments he sometimes had with himself or his scarecrow. Often, the former fisherman would argue even with the river, the moon, the passing clouds in the sky. In the village, they had a good laugh at the emotional reconciliations that took place after every argument between Almon and the scarecrow or Almon and the wall and the bench.

The villagers also took great pleasure in mocking Lilia the Widowed Baker, Maya's mother, and they even made a circular motion with their finger near their forehead in her honor — come look see, here she is again, that peculiar woman who crumbles the loaves of bread she hasn't managed to sell during the day and throws the crumbs into the river or scatters them among the trees. Maybe by a miracle, a stray fish might suddenly pass through our village or a lost bird might accidentally be swept into our sky.

True, some of those who were used to making fun of Lilia's crumbs would sometimes linger for a moment or two at the foot of the trees or the bank of the river, stand there, and wait: Maybe just once? Despite everything? Why not? But a moment later they would rouse themselves as if someone had suddenly clapped near their ear. And they would shrug and walk away, slightly embarrassed.

But the whole village had no qualms about ridiculing, openly and with ugly laughter, poor penniless Solina the Seamstress and her invalid husband, Ginome, whose memory was gone and body so shrunken that he had become a baby as small as a pillow, who bleated in a thin voice like a lost lamb. Every evening, Solina, his wife, wrapped him in diapers, covered him with two wool blankets, and took him in a pram for a long walk through the streets of the village all the way to the banks of the river, whose angry roar made Ginome bleat in a sharp, despairing voice, as if all were already lost.

And this was the secret: Once, Matti and Maya were walking barefoot along the river to collect round, polished pebbles that Matti's mother used to make the small pieces of jewelry she sold. In one of the bends of the river, in a hidden place, some water had drained into a cranny, creating a sort of shaded pool concealed in a block of gray rock, a very small pool, almost as small as the space between the legs of a chair. A tangle of water plants hid the bottom of the pool. Those water plants scattered the sun reflected there, as if it were shattered into slivers in the water: a host of shimmering, bright gold sparkles were ignited in the pool.

And suddenly, between the water plants and the sides of the rock, it can't be, darting, dazzling, flickering, glistening, wriggling, but how could it be, glittering like a knife in the water, shimmering live-silver scales dancing, was a fish, look, a fish, but how could it be a fish? It can't be a fish, are you really really sure, Maya, that you saw a fish here too? Really? Because, I, listen, I am absolutely, positively sure that, even though it's completely impossible, it's a fish. A fish, Maya, a fish, a live fish, you and I, we both just saw a fish here, and we didn't just think we saw it, we could see clearly that it was definitely a fish.

A fish and not just a leaf, a fish and not a sliver of metal, a fish, I'm telling you, Matti, a real live fish, a fish without a shadow of a doubt, a fish, I saw it, and so did you, it was a fish, a whole fish, and nothing but a fish.

It was a small fish, a tiny fish, half a finger long, and it had silver scales and delicate, lacy fins and pulsating, transparent gills. Its round, wide-open fish eyes had looked at them both for a moment, as if it were saying to Maya and Matti that all of us, all the living creatures on this planet, people and animals, birds, insects, reptiles and fish, we're all actually very much alike, despite the many differences between us: Almost all of us have eyes with which to see shapes and movement and colors, or at least feel the shifting light and darkness through our skin, and almost all of us hear sounds and echoes of sounds. And we all constantly absorb and classify smells, tastes, and sensations.

And more: All of us, without exception, are sometimes frightened, even terrified, and we're all sometimes tired or hungry, and each of us is attracted to certain things and repelled by other things we think are disgusting. And all of us, without exception, are very vulnerable. All of us, people-insects-birds-fish, all of us go to sleep and wake up, go to sleep again and wake up again, all of us try hard to be comfortable, not too hot and not too cold, all of us, without exception, try most of the time to take good care of ourselves and keep away from things that cut or bite or prick. And all of us, bird and worm, cat and child and wolf, every one of us tries most of the time to avoid pain and danger as best we can, and yet we put ourselves in danger every time we go out to seek food or fun, even adventures, thrills, power, or pleasure.