The Boy in The Conch Shell — By T.L. Spezia
The boy believed the ocean was the closest he had come to experiencing infinity. His teacher, Ms. Gretchen, once introduced the concept when a student asked what the biggest number of all was. Ms. Gretchen’s explanation was confusing, for the boy could not fathom how something could stretch out forever when everything had a clear beginning and end. He had a clear beginning when he was born six years ago and was vaguely aware he would die.
On the edge of the beach, under the dark, cold night, Jimmy looked to the horizon across the vast stretch of water and believed he verged on understanding Ms. Gretchen’s wacky notion. Infinity was beyond you, far and away, and resisted containment.
In daylight, Jimmy might have laughed at such an absurd idea. But the sun was not here to safely delineate the sky and the ocean. Creation stretched out in the staggering dark and stirred a frightful, anxious feeling inside the boy, that he might suddenly tumble into the great, black unfolding and be lost. Before all the waters of the world and stars of the universe, he struggled to contain the expanding vista in the confines of his head. It was sublime.
He had spent the day here in play, sometimes watching the other children, but mostly alone. Without a friend, he raised castles out of the sand and swam in the cool waters. He climbed the rocky outcrop on the west side of the beach with nobody to race him. Many times he breached the thin membrane of reality and became a pirate or an explorer and conjured companions.
Alone, beneath the pale lamp of the moon and trillions of unreachable stars, Jimmy wondered if pretending was itself a kind of infinity and edged closer to understanding.
The ocean hissed as the waves lashed his feet. Close by was a lone conch shell, half-submerged in the water. He bolted for the prize, marveling at the twisted cone and the varying colors apparent even in the low moonlight. Jimmy picked up the shell; it was heavier than expected. Curious, he shook the shell to cast out the sand and water.
A heavy, black mass thudded in the wet sand. He yelped and retreated when the thing uncurled many long, clicking legs. The hermit crab worked its claws as if assessing the situation.
The boy imagined the crab’s thoughts:
What in the world are you!? You scrambled my brains.
He imagined his own fear into the crab and saw himself through its eyes. How ugly and terrifying this enormous, pale creature must seem to the little thing! How it must suddenly be confronted with infinity, of things spiraling out larger and more dangerous than the little crab! Then it burrowed in the sand to escape into something smaller and more familiar.
But the prize was his! He stared into the horizon, where black waters merged with the open, perplexing wheel of stars. A strange, unsettling thought reached him: What if, all the way on the other end of the horizon, was another little boy, standing on his beach, holding his conch shell, staring at his horizon--one that ended with Jimmy standing and staring out at--
--the infinite back and forth made him dizzy. He rubbed his head. This was too much for a kid.
Nevertheless, the possibility intrigued him. Playfully, he put the conch shell to one ear, and, his voice shaking, said: “Hello?”
Can you see me?
The boy gasped, almost dropping the shell. His heart panicked. The voice spoke through the shell, noticeably sad and lonely as if reaching out for reassurance or connection. It echoed for a long time in his head and gradually dissipated into the calm rush of the ocean. Jimmy squinted into the inky black at the end of the ocean. The voice needed an answer, and he felt compelled to reply. He sighed when he saw nothing.
“Yes, I see you,” he lied.
Wow! Really? What do I look like?
The boy lied again, too afraid to lose this friend. “You look . . .” He described himself: “Like a six-year-old boy with brown hair and you’re wearing a pair of swim trunks with sharks on ‘em.”
You really can see me!
The other boy seemed nice enough. He was relieved that after reaching out so far beyond himself, he had found someone nice to talk to. He imagined a boy just like him, who wanted friends to play with and fun stuff to do. “Why did you sound so sad before?”
Sad?
“When you asked if I could see you. You seemed real, sad.”
You can see me, right?
“Yes, of course!” Jimmy lied again, worried he would be exposed. But why didn’t the boy answer his question? It was simple enough. Then he imagined the boy standing on the beach, embarrassed and worried. Jimmy would say he was a baby for being sad. “I get sad sometimes,” he added, to put the other boy at ease.
What is sad?
He frowned at the odd phrasing. “I thought you were sad, but maybe I was wrong. I guess it can be hard to tell sometimes. Say, do you play explorer over there? It’s a real fun game, and you get to shout Land Ho!”
Land Ho!
Jimmy laughed. “That’s right! You’re pretty good at that. Not as good as me, though.” He chuckled.
What is that noise? Are you sure you can see me?
“Sorry, I was laughing. But not at you! I wouldn’t laugh at you. That’s not nice. Unless you were making a funny joke. Don’t worry. I’m not a bully or anything.”
You should go into the water, and then you’ll really see me!
The boy rubbed at his chin, suddenly queasy. “But I can see you! Honest!”
We can play explorer. Go in the water!
He liked the idea but wasn’t sure. The other boy was nice, and Jimmy didn’t want to offend him. He walked into the water until it tickled his ankles.
“I’m in the water now. Are you in the water?”
Swim out to me so we can play explorer!
The water felt terribly cold, and Jimmy shivered. But the chance to play explorer with a boy on the other side of infinity wasn’t something you just passed up. He might impress other kids and make friends with such a bewildering story. So Jimmy set the conch in the water and swam toward the horizon. He swam until his arms tired, realizing he should have brought the conch because the horizon seemed no closer. It pulled further and further away, teasingly, and that wasn’t fair.
His head dipped below the surface. He choked water and tried to tread faster. The sobering, cold truth of drowning gripped him. His lungs burned for air just inches away. Jimmy pulled at the water, desperate to climb, but was lost, floating. He couldn’t tell where the water ended, and the sky began. They were the same. He was drowning among the stars.
At the end, the horizon bloomed in a bright shade of neon green, and Jimmy saw for real. It was vast and without end. In the green swell of everything, shimmering orbs rapidly came into existence, swelled to the size of planets, and burst with an ear-splitting bang--a deadly ricochet across all time. He sunk further and saw windows opening on even larger vistas of mystery. He saw multitudes swirl. He saw the miraculous collapse and rebirth of stars. He peered into an endless mirror fractured into millions of jagged eyes, each blinking back with one of the millions of reflected boys.
He saw all the myriad shapes and forms and splendid sights of infinity expanding. Jimmy, too, expanded. Infinity shook him from the conch shell, and he dissolved. He finally understood: The number of all numbers could not be contained within the voice of that other boy. It could not be contained in his head, the ocean, or the sky. Here it was in full. He knew.
His final thought, before losing his humanity, was that Ms. Gretchen would be so proud of him.
AUTHOR’S BIO
T.L. Spezia writes short fiction and sometimes creative non-fiction in southeast Michigan. He edits Boneyard Soup, a horror & dark fantasy magazine.
