The Diver's Son

I used to be a diver. Best there ever was, according to some.

Our divers, you must understand, are the celebrities at the center of our culture, the suns of an adoring solar system. They are all but worshiped.

Millions will crowd into the Great Valley, family ships stacked upon one another as high as the eye can see, to watch the divers plunge into the Wafte. One at a time, they soar from the black cliffs and plummet into the murkiness. Gravity has no power in those lawless depths, so they fly. It feels like deep, strident, freedom.

Once in the Wafte, a diver’s main objective is to collect the Tendrils–-long, slender threads of light and sound–and weave them or wind them into a bright Vinerre, which is then thrust out of the Wafte in full view of the audience. We never know exactly what the Vinerre will look like or sound like, but years of practice help to guide us in selecting the Tendrils that will have a certain impact on the viewers, whether that is delight, sorrow, frustration, tenderness, or something less nameable.

That used to be my specialty–creating a Vinerre that no living creature could describe with words.

Experiencing a Vinerre is among the deepest pleasures known to our species. It is the perfect match of sight to sound, and though there is no formal language, it is the most effective communication of how it feels to be alive.

Although every Vinerre is fundamentally beautiful, there are degrees of experiences from one to another. The youngest and most timid divers collect Tendrils from the outer reaches of the Wafte, and these are the palest in color and tone. The richest hues and deepest sonorities are found in the center, but only the bravest dare to harvest the Tendrils there.

At the center of the Wafte is a black, silent, pit. It is haloed by Tendrils as bright as it is dark, and as loud as it is noiseless. It has a gravitational pull which cannot be escaped once it has laid hold on you. Many divers have been lost to the pit, and it is this great danger which gives divers the quality of heroism. The more magnificent the Vinerre, the more dangerous the dive.

I was the greatest diver of my generation. I cared only for the Vinerre, and I considered it acceptable to risk my life each time I created one. I harvested Tendrils from the innermost rim, where the light is sliced by blackness, and the music swallowed by silence. My Vinerres ended wars and formed societies. I considered myself a worthy recipient of every accolade and honor I received.

How long ago it seems.

I am attending a Vinerre performance in the Great Valley because I have been nominated for an award, and I expect to receive it after the divers are finished.

I don’t deserve it. Even though I know I am the only nominee worthy of it, I am hoping that a logistical error sends it into someone else’s hands.

The first diver leaps from the black cliffs. I feel the electricity in the air as the crowd screams, but I’m not watching the diver.

I’m watching my son.

An unsteady toddler, his round face and soft hands are always sticky with something sweet. He is holding his sugary treat limply, watching the performance with shining eyes and parted lips. A slight smile creeps into the corner of his mouth when the diver disappears into the Wafte. He likes peekaboo, and apparently expects the diver to reappear with a goofy smile to make him laugh.

My husband has a strong arm around both of us–my son needs it to keep him from climbing off the bench we are seated on, and I need it because my heart is bursting with conflict.

They’ve seated us in a special booth near the stage. My husband, my little son, and I are sharing a long bench with lavishly dressed dignitaries and a few retired divers. I’m avoiding making eye contact with any of them. I’m pretty sure the other divers are doing the same.

The career of a diver is short. Only those in the prime of life can withstand the toll of the Wafte, and even the strongest are quickly overpowered and beaten down by injury upon injury, or simply the psychological strain. Though I am now still young and healthy, I am far too old to dive.

As a young girl, I watched former divers be honored by the greatest award in the field–the Wafte Trophy, an award only given to divers who truly shaped the age into which they were born. I had vowed to one day earn this award, and I always pictured myself gleefully dancing and squealing as I accepted it on stage. Wasn’t it the highest honor given to the living?

Now, I am minutes away from holding this trophy in my hands, and I just feel sick. I hope the Vinerre performances go by quickly so we can get to the awards and be done.

I force myself to turn back and watch as the Vinerre emerges. It’s hard for me to just enjoy it; I’m conditioned to analyze it, and this one has flaws.

I try to picture myself going on stage when my name is called out. I decide to practice smiling, but it hurts.

Turning back to my son, I stifle a giggle as I see him attempt to stash his treat in the pocket of a celebrated diplomat sitting nearby. My husband is closer, and he intercepts the sticky dessert before it ruins our neighbor’s garment. We both are trying not to laugh as we shift further down the bench, creating more distance between expensive fabric and our son’s sugar-glazed fingers.

Our baby settles back into the crook of his Daddy’s arm, sheepishly looking at both of us before his attention is arrested by the whirling, singing Vinerre. My eyes are magnetically attracted to his little face. I would rather watch him watch the greatest sight in the universe than watch it myself.

I feel a weight of guilt settle over my heart. I don’t deserve to be honored for what was almost the greatest mistake of my life. The memories of my greatest achievements are like splinters in my mind.

Each choice to fly deeper toward the pit could have stolen my child from me. As an unattached, reckless, diver, I considered my life of lesser value than a perfect Vinerre, so I willingly laid it down. If only I had been able to peer into the future and glimpse my baby’s happy face…I would have seen that bringing him into the world was going to be the true masterpiece of my life, and my life had value--if for no other reason but that it would one day produce him.

I look in my husband’s eyes and feel every muscle soften. I know what I have to do. He nods quickly, and I realize he has understood me without a word.

Standing up abruptly, I pick up my baby and we leave the booth. My child thrusts his sticky hands into my hair and buries his sticky face in my neck. I don’t care.

No one tries to stop us as we make our way to our family ship. It would not occur to them to try and stop us, because no one expects us to leave.

My husband has his hand warmly on my back, and I know he is proud of me. That’s enough.

“Let’s go get something to eat. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

We buckle the sleepy toddler into his seat and my husband takes the controls.

Sitting comfortably in my chair, I watch my two great loves just living in front of me, and again feel the pang of regret for all the times I risked this moment.

After a while I feel the engine slow and stop, and my husband begins ordering food over the coms.

“Anything for Vinerre?”

The side of his chubby face is pressed heavily against his seat, and his breathing is slow and deep. I smile.

“No, he’s asleep.”