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he molluske - composed of a blob
of clammy, shapeless flesh, perhaps encased within a shell of gritty armour. Yet
in this simplicity it holds the mystery and promise of a treasure box, the
potential of an egg on the verge of hatching, and a subtle complexity which
offers a window into the minds of all sentient creatures. Whilst it is
undoubtedly unpalatable for some less humble intellects to contemplate their
stature as equal (or, dare I say, lesser) to such lowly creatures, my researches
have led me to conclude that there is no plausible alternative to such a
viewpoint.
However, I cannot expect the unprepared reader to follow or believe my
assertions on this subject without allowing them a glimpse into the meandering
pathways by which I myself arrived at this point. I feel I must hasten to
collect my thoughts on paper, so that they are not lost on the dark waves, to be
collected in the guts of gnackers.
Consider the life of a gnacker, growing all its life in peaceful immobility,
still as the pebbles it so resembles, mouth agape. Imagine that all your life
were to be spent catching whatever waterborne detritus should pass your way and
making use of it, somehow producing from the dregs of underwater life the
succulent meat and pearlescent shells that people across the world, with their
penchant for such things, so greatly admire. This transformation, carried out
every day by creatures many people barely even view as alive, is something to
fascinate the most uninterested of countenances, and in my view it is perhaps
the greatest magic ever witnessed. Who but a humble gnacker can take the
effluent of a city and craft a gleaming stronghold for itself?
Thus gnackers and all shellfish derive their nutrition from other creatures,
both living and dead, and use this to fashion, by some quiet and mysterious
alchemy, their shells in all their fascinating and beautiful variety; shells
which are ground down by the natural processes of wind and wave and rain, until
they become little more than pale grit, indistinguishable from the sand and the
soil.
My travels have revealed places in which the rock itself holds remarkable
similarities to the shells of molluskes. It seems evident that shellfish have
ingrained themselves into the very bones of the disc, whilst other creatures
crawl crablike and cowering across the surface.
>Enclosed here is an excerpt from Alav’s field notes, as it was glued to the
preceding page – I can’t honestly say whether it was intentionally fixed in this
way, as Alav’s experiments with gnacker glue appear to have had successful and
widespread results. However, this particular excerpt seems pertinent to the
subject. <
"I finally managed to arrange a guide to show me around the Noarian caves today.
The people here do not seem to have any understanding of my intentions – they
would not believe that I had travelled so far purely to look for shellfish.
Nonetheless, I was certain this unique environment must yield something notable,
perhaps even some entirely new forms.
Unfortunately, it appears that the constant human and elvish traffic through
this area, and the various alterations to the cave structure they have wrought,
have proven too great a disruption to the marine fauna, and it is largely
deserted. This is most definitely not to say, however, that it is a landscape
without interest to a molluske researcher such as myself.
On the contrary, I was shown around certain caverns and chambers in which the
walls were embedded with the petrified remains of ancient creatures, including
several shellfish of extraordinary proportions. Some resembled fragments of
trysters, but if my estimates are correct they would be perhaps exceeding a ped
in length. There were other forms, multitudinous in number, like beds of small,
pen-shaped molluskes growing in some ancient seabed as grass might grow in a
well kempt garden. I can only imagine what might graze on such pastures.
The rock itself was also unusual in texture. I have seen various samples of
limestone before, but it is only when I view it in such a massive scale that the
strangeness of its textures and properties become apparent. I have taken some
samples, but from inspecting the strange formations known as stalactites and
stalagmites, and with some questioning of my guide over the formation process, I
believe there are some highly intriguing similarities with the way that certain
stationary molluskes use a specialised secretion to "cement“ themselves to
rocks."
I have already mentioned the extraordinary capability of shellfish to build
castles for themselves, each more perfect and beautiful than any ostentatious
merchant’s kilv, and each apparently made of little more than the scrapings of
algae, flesh, or filtered effluent that makes up the creature in question’s
diet. How is it possible to build armoured turrets of bone white using the blood
and flesh that a parasitic limpet eats? How can a tryster construct its
flowerlike palace from only invisible floating waste?
Could this be some form of magic that the mages have yet to unlock? My
discussions on the subject with those magicians I have come across have been
fruitless. No such person has greeted my ideas with anything more than ridicule,
and often they have been angered and affronted by the inference that molluskes
practice magic unknown to they, the "higher beings“. They retaliate with angry
curses, cynical laughter, or pointedly ignore my presence. They say I am mad-
>The page is torn off at this point, and the notes for some time are in
disarray, many badly damaged. Alav seems to have been in some confusion as to
how to express himself, and I’m afraid that, given the situation, I had to
resort to educated guesses. Therefore any inconsistencies in the ordering of the
fragments (if not the fragments themselves, which I have not altered in any way)
I take full responsibility for. <
I cannot find any conclusive means by which the shellfish and snails can form
their shells. I can only assume it is a process beyond my intellect to discern.
Yet my argument still stands. The things that molluskes do to please themselves
and to continue their ways of life are so strange and impressive that they
cannot be the simplistic, uncomplicated creatures they are commonly assumed to
be.
If I cannot discern the means by which molluskes build shells, I can at least
have a clearer idea of how they build that most nebulous of treasures, the item
for which so many of our shellfish are harvested, the pearl. A staggering amount
of effort is put into harvesting pearls, mainly from oysters and trysters,
though most aquatic shellfish produce them occasionally. Formed by the coating
of a small irritant particle with nacre, or “pearlfather”, they are in effect
little more than a reaction to small intrusions on their tiny, intimate world,
on behalf of the molluske concerned.
Yet for we, the supposedly “higher beings”, they hold the attraction of being
rare, shiny, and hard to obtain, and so we build them up in our imaginations,
carefully allowing ourselves to forget that they are formed of the diseased
secretions of a dying molluske, and instead telling ourselves that they are a
hidden treasure created by the bounty of nature for our benefit. One can only
wonder what the molluskes' view could be. Are these iridescent beads made purely
for comfort, or is there also an element of control? Is it not a basic urge of
all living things to alter the things they come into contact with? To absorb
them or transform them, even for a short time, into something that can be seen
as beautiful? Maybe I am being overly fanciful, viewing things from my indelibly
human perspective. Pearls belong, after all, to the molluskes, how can my view
match theirs? It is very hard to think straight…
Pearls, as has been confirmed by various attempts to farm them, take a very long
time to grow to a “useful” size. This of course requires molluskes themselves to
have considerable life spans, which they do. I have measured shells that I
estimate are older than I, and some that are older than any human could hope to
live, but still apparently strong and healthy. In truth I cannot guess how long
a shellfish could live, as I expect it varies greatly with the species and
conditions. Sadly the majority are caught or killed before reaching the great
ages they have the potential for. What do they do for all this time? When trees
grow to great size and age, we tend to give them characters, talk of them with
reverence and even speak of them as “wise” and “noble”. I see no reason why this
should not also, perhaps even more so, apply to molluskes.
So, despite their appearances, it seems shellfish are considerably more complex
than commonly assumed. Certainly they exhibit complex behaviour, if only one is
willing to search for it. My observations of gnacker colonies have raised some
fascinating questions, for instance, the way they react to threats. The
investigation in question was carried out on a community living in an isolated
rock-pool, so I was able to study them at close quarters, and introduce various
new experiences to them to see how they reacted. I would enclose the research
notes but I can’t find where they have gone… they are stealing from me, I am
certain. They are no longer content merely to watch and laugh….
The experiment. My aim was to find out how gnackers use their eyes, which, as
you know, gaze from a small transparent section of the shell. No other shellfish
have eyes like this, as far as I know, so why gnackers? They are, after all,
perfectly mundane examples of marine shellfish, in every other respect. I began
to wonder if perhaps they used the eyes to see predators approaching. To this
end, I made several silhouettes which would create shadows and dark shapes
analogous to those created by a large fish or other potential predator. And as I
expected, whenever this was introduced to the molluskes they bunched up their
colonies by shortening their anchor fibres, and any with open shells rapidly
closed them.
What I didn’t expect was to see that even those which were completely
surrounded, effectively blinded, by the other gnackers clustering around them,
reacted. On further investigation the reason for this became clear. When those
on the outside of a colony detected danger, they pushed their circulatory valves
out of their shells, and seemed to blow jets of water at their neighbours before
closing their shells properly. On feeling the water jet, the central shells also
blew water at their neighbour and then closed, so that news of the threat
travelled extraordinarily quickly through the entire colony.
If gnackers did not warn their “blind” neighbours, and those neighbours were
eaten as a result, a hole would open in the centre of a colony, exposing more
shellfish to predation. Thus it is in the interests of all to communicate
danger, even if this means that individuals have to keep their shells open for
slightly longer. It is incredible, really it is. Intelligent behaviour, an
example of selflessness and communal thinking more perfect, I could not hope to
imagine.
There are other puzzling behaviours which seem to whisper of strange and subtle
intelligences lurking among the molluskes and their relatives. Of those that I
have endeavoured to study, only a few lived up to my expectations – my methods
are haphazard at best, I cannot deny that. Among those not quite so closely
related to the quietly beautiful bivalves, such as the cephalopods, I found some
intriguing contrasts, such as that between the kraken and the cuttlefish. The
kraken is an inordinately variable creature. On one day it will travel the maze
with perfect ease, and on another it seems not to even know where it is. At
times it sticks itself to the bottom of the tank and sulks, or maliciously
destroys all within reach. I wonder sometimes if it is mocking me, breaking my
equipment and laughing at the importance I place on such toys. How can this
spoiled creature, so different from the noble gnacker, be yet a close relation?
It seems to possess all the failings and inconsistencies of humanity.
The inkfish, on the other hand, though still occasionally showing the frailties
of temperament to which mobile life is heir, is still of a much more stable
outlook. Perhaps this is because it, unlike the Kraken, has the benefit of an
internal shell. This bears thought; if man were born with a shell, like a clam
or gnacker, would he too have the benefit of their outlook on life? It is
notable how humans constantly try to create an artificial shell: suits of
armour, clothes, and shoes, all are barriers between ourselves and the world.
Even more so, castles and houses are nothing more than attempts to create
something like a shell for ourselves, where we can be safe. Are we blindly
striving for the blissful passivity of the shellfish? An inkfish gains some of
the benefits of the shell, yet their exterior is still vulnerable. Perhaps this
is why, though more stable than the kraken, they still sometimes show fear,
anxiety, and ambition, things the gnacker and the barnacle never seem to be
troubled with.
I am sure, I cannot help but be sure, that some, if not all, molluskes are
intelligent, albeit in a way which is different and strange to we, the creatures
of fleeting fashions and constant hurrying from one fragile wish to another. I
have spent many years trying to understand the way that molluskes must see the
world, and although my view is fallible and clouded by the petty demands of the
culture I grew up in, I believe I am close to true understanding. That, after
all, is what a true researcher craves, more than empty knowledge, which is but a
gateway to the deep and fundamental truths that understanding of a subject
brings.
I will try my best to explain. A molluske never has to hurry. If it acts
quickly, as does the gnacker on closing its shell to a potential invader, it
does so at exactly the right moment, after dutifully fulfilling an obligation to
its neighbours, who in turn, do not panic. For sedentary shellfish such as the
tryster, there is no need to move, ever, other than the slow graceful gaping of
shells, welcoming with a contented smile the bounty it harvests from the waters.
Everything they could ever require is brought to them. It is as if the world is
built for their convenience. For those molluskes, such as slugs and snails, and
even the kraken, which do move around freely, life is closer to ours, but still
holds some of this unhurried, accepting approach to the world. Slugs are never
scared of anything, I am sure of it. Fear is a result of stressful, undignified
lives.
In this utter ease of life, I believe that I can see a beauty unlike any other.
In our society life is a battle, one which we inevitably lose, taking with us a
great many other small lives, none of them holding any more worth than the
others. We search desperately for nobility of purpose, for great endeavours,
like bored children wanting to be given a small task so that we can feel
important. Molluskes know no such triviality. They have no need for purpose. The
aim of life is immaterial, the only pleasure not in achievement but pure
experience, in a glorious passivity by which one can regard the full panoply of
life as one might watch the world from a dream, detached but inspired towards a
vague, perpetual awe. There is a whole other side to life, which I am immensely
grateful in beginning to discover, which is opened by this “molluske
philosophie” of detachment and faith that the world will provide. Is there not a
marvellous integrity to the purity of faith that believes, and is right in
believing, that everything it could possibly require will be brought to it as a
matter of course?
The final stage in my enlightenment came directly from an experiment – I had
been studying the habits of the parasitic limpet, a very interesting member of
the family. I allowed one to attach to me – causing a fierce pain of the like I
have not elsewhere experienced, sharp and visceral – I became intensely aware of
the movements of the limpet’s mouthparts through my flesh. This in turn inspired
a grisly fascination which, aided I think by substances released by the creature
as it burrowed, allowed me to forget the pain and watch with the passiveness I
required. There was remarkably little blood, considering that within ten minutes
it had embedded itself so firmly in my leg that I could not dislodge it and it
seemed immune to any pressure I put on it, though I couldn't say the same for
myself.
Eventually the pain returned, as the creature settled in, and soon became too
much, despite numbing it with liquor. I believe that my being a terrestrial
creature made the limpet’s usual method of feeding more laboured, forcing it to
feed more aggressively and thus cause greater pain. In the end I took a long
blade and cut the creature out of the well it had made, as task that was, in
itself, difficult, involving copious bloodshed and dizzying pain. When the
molluske was finally removed, and I was able to rest, shakily grasping the dying
shellfish in my hand, I was overcome with a terrible guilt of the like I have
never felt before. I realised, with a clarity that astonished me, that I had
wilfully placed my comfort over the life of another creature, killing it for no
reason other than it hurt me. I have another leg, do I not? But the limpet
cannot live in any other way. Why did I not just give in? If life is such a
struggle, then maybe that is all the proof I need that it is not… feasible, in
the long term. Molluskes live a life without struggle. Why can’t I?
>There appears to be a long gap between this fragment and the next, but all
the other notes were illegible or impossible to make sense of.<
The past few weeks have made me feel very old. I cannot believe I will finish
this task in time to see its result. The wound in my leg is beginning to smell,
but I cannot call for help or they will hear me, and come… Increasingly I cannot
believe I will finish it at all. The only thing I can be sure of is that I had
the germ of the truth, for a while, and somewhere among these notes it survives.
I do not know if I still have it, it’s so hard to concentrate and I wish only to
sleep, though when I do I am roused by terrible nightmares. I have a recurring
dream, which I will describe here, as it seems to illustrate better than
reasoned arguments the core of my ideas.
I dream I am a creature made of some soft, pearlescent material, walking on the
bottom of the seabed. It is vast and empty and very lonely, and the light comes
down in streamers from the surface of the waters, far above. After a while I
look down at my feet and realise that they are sinking into the grit of the
seabed. I try to pull them out, but they sink further, sending up tiny puffs of
sand in the clear water. With every slightest movement my feet sink further into
the seabed, and I begin to realise that my skin is changing. As the grit stirred
up by my movement scrapes at it, the beautiful pearlfather sheen is roughened,
ground down, until it becomes white and chalky, and begins to flake away. Soon
the water is opaque with the smokescreen of grit and chalk, and I can’t see
anything but can only feel myself sinking, wrapped tighter and tighter still in
the weight of gravel and rock, until it slips over my eyes, and I can’t blink or
even breathe, only lie immobile in the crushing blackness under the seabed,
which is the same as me: I am in its bones.
Terrifying though the dream is, it offers an uncanny representation of the
lifecycle of our earth, claiming the bones and shells of the dead as its own.
There is, therefore, immortality, of a kind, at least for shellfish. I feel very
tired, and the wound left by the limpet stinks of decay. I wonder if I will be
absorbed into the earth. I think I would like that. I can see, now, why we place
so much stake on burial rites and ceremonies. Not merely to prevent unhygienic
bodies from causing problems, but because it does matter what happens when we
die. And in this small, but permanent act, we can have some control over that.
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