"The Cave of Adventure" by Helen De Cruz
A choose your own adventure story! Would you choose to be happy?
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The Cave of Adventure by Helen De Cruz
You walk home from work through Citadel Park.
This fine October afternoon is just warm enough that you are comfortable in the light cashmere cardigan and skirt you bought for exactly this kind of weather, an elegant dark green outfit that goes well with your strawberry blonde hair.
The park is clad in glorious autumn tones, the reddening leaves of tall beeches, maples, and oak trees catching the final rays of the low afternoon sunlight. Its large pond is overpopulated with geese that aggressively beg for food to anyone that dares to approach them. It has a little pavilion that sometimes hosts open-air concerts with slightly-out-of-tune brass instruments played by elderly gentlemen. The crumbling seats of its open-air theatre are covered in moss and lichen.
But by far the park’s most striking feature is the complex of artificial caves at its center. These are simply called “the Caves” by the people of the city of Ghent. Overgrown with ivy on the outside, the Caves have artful stalagmites and stalactites and three passageways on the inside. It takes less than two minutes to walk through the main, center passageway, a shortcut you often take on your way home through the park. The Caves have their own microclimate, a slightly damp, musty atmosphere that smells vaguely of basement. You will sometimes just stand and pause there, taking refuge in the stillness after a busy day at work.
Those stalagmites and stalactites are fake, as is everything else about the Caves, which are somewhat grotesque, molded from big blocks of concrete, daubed with layers of plaster and paint. The walls are covered with graffiti—most of it small, inconspicuous, scribbled with sharpies and blunt pencils rather than spray paint.
Rumor has it that the Caves hosted an exhibition with aquariums showing fish from around the world, back in 1914. When the fish had died and tanks were drained, World War One just broke out and the people of Ghent had better things to do than to tear down the heavy, concrete construction. This history has piqued your interest. You’re an ichthyologist after all, investigating what fish can do with their tiny brains.
The two main passageways of the Caves are open to allow people a shortcut through the park. But the third is closed. The entrance and exit are obscured by a stack of large boulders, and an inside connecting passage is locked behind a heavy wooden bolted door. It’s in the darkest part of the Caves, where direct sunlight never reaches, the shadows are always long and the walls emanate dampness.
You’ve always known the large, rusty padlock on that door to be shut. Now, however, as you stand there in the middle passageway, you notice that the lock is open.
You look around and listen. You can hear the suety voice of the park’s cat lady, just outside of the Caves. Cats scurry past you, scrawny tortoise female cats, and bulky ginger tom cats, and black and white sleek tuxedo cats. Though she’s not far off, she’s barely audible—the Caves create peculiar sound effects like that.
The previous time you were here was just two days ago. You were hurrying to get home as it began to rain, and you and David went into the Caves to seek shelter.
You were arguing. Again.
“I think right now,” David said, his voice sounding both hollow and metallic as it echoed throughout the Caves, “It’s plain that we’re not getting pregnant. How much money did we spend? It’s a lost cause.”
You were still smarting from the heartbeat you didn’t hear when you showed up for the ultrasound, as the sonographer carefully moved the transducer over your now plainly non-pregnant belly. You had gone through this before, the nausea, the hormones, the bloated feeling of pregnancy that waned again, as suddenly as it had come. The sonographer looked sympathetically at you, her face telling you what you already knew. That argument in the Caves was the final straw, proof that you and David were on a very different course in life, that your philosophies just weren’t compatible.
The embryos they implanted were the last ones you and David had frozen. They didn’t take. Again. You’re only thirty-four; it’s not supposed to be this hard.
In spite of this, you didn’t want to take more than a day off work. Reboot, recharge, move on. Work is just as important for you as having kids. Be a scientist, be a mom, be good at both, that’s always been your plan since you were about eight, and you’d haul around one of your many dolls, and a microscope kit or your telescope.
For your postdoc, you study memory in fish. Fish don’t have three-second memories, as some people assume. They learn, they remember. You’ve set up Y-shaped mazes with a reward in one arm, and nothing in the other, and watched in eager anticipation as the zebrafish hesitate, and then go for the correct arm. You cheer them on, give them names, “Come on, Rusty, you can do it!” You built more complex mazes in which you drop larval fish and train them, then put them back and let them solve the maze as grownups. You root for them, as their little stripy bodies flit through the water, not just because of the paper you’re writing but also because it matters that fish remember. It matters that their lives are more than just a bunch of fleeting moments without connection.
If you decide to walk on without opening the door, go to OPTION #1 at the bottom of the email.
If you decide to open the door, read below.
Staring at the mystery door, you decide to go in. You grab hold of the handle. It’s made of copper, shaped like a rococo shell, a mismatch with the plain, heavy dark wood. You push. The door opens noiselessly. You are surprised by this. You had expected a loud, ominous creak. A staircase, made in the same concrete as the rest of the Caves, with uneven steps, leads downward. You fish your phone out of your cardigan pocket (remaining battery life 7%), holding it in front of you as a torchlight as you descend the stairs carefully.
Turns out you didn’t need the light.
You are in a large cavern, a big, wide space with a low ceiling, fake stalactites dangling down and stalagmites rising up, near the edges of the room so as not to restrict the view (are stalactites the things that go down, and stalagmites the things that go up?, you wonder—you never could recall). Your eyes are drawn to the five large fish tanks on display, each of them shimmering with a deep blue light that mingles with the warm yellow light of three large Argand lamps.
Your expert eyes immediately identify the denizens of each aquarium. In the first tank are gathered a large colorful procession of cichlids from the African lakes, mostly Lake Malawi. The second tank contains Papuan rainbow fish, the third is an Amazonian tank populated with a few large piranhas and a vast cloud of tiny neon tetras darting about them. The fourth tank is a classic mixed tropical aquarium which holds a small shoal of zebrafish, and also mollies and gouramis. The most impressive tank is set up at the center. It’s a sea aquarium with orange and yellow anemones, clown fish, starfish, and seahorses. A large blue lobster clambers up at the side. You approach this tank and gaze at the fish, who ignore you in their blissful azure biosphere.
What would it be to live as a fish inside that quiet life of the tank, without predators, not worrying about writing grants, landing a tenure track job, or publishing papers, about getting pregnant (perhaps never getting pregnant), about failed relationships?
Your latest research is on episodic memory in zebrafish. Episodic memory combines the where, what, and when; it’s not just knowing that something happened, but the taste, the smell, the feel of things. That moment when you defended your dissertation, and your mom and dad, David, and your advisor all beamed at you. That moment you published your first paper, in Animal Behavior on whether fish can count (“Subitization in the zebrafish (Danio rerio) by Julia De Meester, Ghent University”), and you held the physical paper copy of the journal issue in your hands. Though everyone now reads online, you had bought it especially so you could see your work in print.
You walk up to the tropical aquarium, push your nose against the glass like a little kid, and murmur as your eyes follow the shoal of zebrafish, “Hey there, do you have long-term memories? Will you remember me, when I’m gone?”
You only now notice that someone has quietly walked up behind you.
You turn around. A child stands in front of you, her face turned slightly upward to stare at you properly.
She is perhaps seven years old, and wears a white dress with lace, her hair is a similar shade of strawberry blond as yours, and she looks at you with grave, grey eyes.
You know instantly that she belongs in here and not out there. For one thing, she’s barefoot. So, you don’t ask “Where are your parents?” or “Don’t wander off down here,” the patronizing things grownups say to children they can’t quite understand or situate.
Instead you ask, “What place is this?”
The girl walks up to the tank with rainbow fish, and leans against the glass. “You asked the wrong question,” she declares, in a matter-of-fact voice.
You are puzzled, and so you reply, “What question should I have asked?”
“Who am I?”
“Who are you?” You put your phone away. The torchlight was still on.
The girl pauses. Then she says, slowly, “My name’s Amelia. I am your daughter.”
This isn’t a game. You want to be angry. It’s insensitive. You are not anyone’s mother, and you tell her this.
“Out there in the real world,” the girl gestures with her pale right arm towards the exit of the main room, “You are not a mother. But in here, you could be. Would you like to be?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say. This is partly true, and you’ve learned this, the hard way, like every aspiring scientist. Dreams are important, wishful thinking, on the other hand is a dangerous path.
Amelia pushes herself away from the glass, and walks past the five aquaria toward an opening in the uneven Cave walls, where there seems to be yet another hall. You follow her, deeper and deeper inside the Caves. They must be so vast underground—you had no idea. Though she’s on bare feet, you can hear her steps echo.
You come into an even larger, dimly lit and long hall.
You are startled when you look into the tanks. The same shimmering blue, but where you expected more fish you now see people in these tanks. There are about twenty, maybe twenty-five tanks. Each holds one person—men, women, young, old. The people hang horizontally suspended in the water, their long hair tangled around their faces, their bodies covered in nothing but what appears to be a simple white nightgown that ripples and moves slightly in the water. There seems to be nothing to keep them alive—no tubes to feed them or to give them oxygen.
And yet, these people do not appear to be dead. You’ve seen plenty of dead things in water—these people are suspended, with their closed eyes and slight, archaic smiles. You stare and stare at them, and say nothing.
“These people are asleep,” Amelia says as she walks with you observing the suspended people, as if commenting on displays in an aquarium, “But, as far as they’re concerned, they’re living their wildest dreams.”
“This young woman here,” she points, “Is a world-champion jockey. She’s always dreamt of riding horses, but her parents wouldn’t let her, too dangerous. She grew up in a flat and she never even scraped a knee. But here … she rides her horse every day. She wins prizes.”
You look at the relaxed face of the woman and the dark masses of hair that surround it like a halo. You point out the obvious: “But she’s not a jockey. She’s lying suspended in a tank filled with water.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t know that,” Amelia objects. “She’s blissfully happy. And isn’t that what counts? Would you want anything more than happiness?”
You both walk on to the next few tanks. Amelia tells the story of each one. It seems that people’s desires involve prestige, wealth and fame. The tanks are filled with world-famous novelists, musicians, actors. A few of the tank people’s wishes involve smaller things—family, security, safety. That man over there, the guy of maybe fifty years old, is finally living as a househusband with his three children, happy to no longer live as a stockbroker in New York, but spending his days crafting with them and eating ice creams in the zoo.
You have arrived at the final tank at the bottom of the long hall. It is empty.
“If you wish,” the girl says, her voice enticing, inviting, “This one could be yours. Your every dream will come true. Just say the word, and I will make it happen. I can be your daughter. We will be happy together.”
You stare in her cool grey eyes. Who would miss you? You have no close friends. You broke up with David. Your parents don’t even like you anyway. They don’t understand you—they still don’t even exactly know what it is you do except that it’s something to do with fish and that’s just cause for mirth in family gatherings.
To be able to live your dreams. What would that mean for you?
Well, for one thing, it would mean that you never broke up, because David’s less of an asshole. Or maybe you never got together with him in the first place. Whichever way it happens, you’d be a parent, to a little girl that people would refer to as “wise beyond her years”. You are happy together. You have a tenure track job. You just published a paper in Science on episodic memory in zebrafish. And you’d never know that you were there, suspended in that tank, with no memory of this day. Your bad memories would be wiped away. Fish probably don’t have short memories, as people suppose, but what a blessing it would be to be a fish. To live each day new, and happy, carefree.
If you accept Amelia’s proposal, go to “CODA - you chose the tank” at the end of the story. (Either way, skip ahead to the end)
If you don’t accept Amelia’s proposal, read on below, and then read “CODA – you didn’t choose the tank” at the end of the story. (Either way, skip ahead to the end)
OPTION #1 (From The First Choice In The Story Way Above)
You say, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. That’s not my life; it wouldn’t be me.”
“Are you sure?” Amelia asks “You’re making a mistake. What if you’re miserable for the rest of your life? You’ll regret this.” Only now does she sound like a true seven-year-old.
But you have considered the losses. That paper on fish memory? It wouldn’t really be yours.
You turn around, and run out of the large hall with the people-filled tanks, you dash through the central broad hall with the five large fish-filled tanks. Next thing you know, you’re plunged in darkness. You try your phone, but it’s out of battery.
You fumble through the darkness, searching for the staircase. You put one unsure foot upon the first step.
Your fingers probe the rough, slightly damp, fake cave walls as you stumble up the stairs. You suddenly feel the splintery wood of the door and you push, you push as if your life depends on it.
The door gives way, quite suddenly and smoothly as it did before, and you find yourself back in the Caves’ main passageway.
You hurry out. The sun is now so low, it’s shining right in your eyes as you come out at the other end of the caves. Still, not much time has passed, as you still see several mangy park cats scattered by the exit. Though the food’s all gone, the cats linger, hoping for more.
Your flat is at the other end of that park. You’ll need to find some arrangement soon. Probably best for you to move out, David likely won’t want to. You will need to start sorting this out tomorrow. Today’s the first day of the rest of your life. It kind of sucks right now, but at least, it’s yours.
THE END
CODA – you chose the tank: “Julia De Meester holds the Robert Dancey Chair in Behavioral Biology at Harvard University. She has a PhD from Ghent University, Belgium, and has a long, distinguished career with multiple awards and honors for her work in establishing intellectual capacities in fish that biologists would before not have thought possible, such as numeracy and long-term memory. She is happily married to David, and lives in Cambridge, MA, with their daughter, Amelia.” – You smile as you read the blurb on your latest academic monograph, the fruit of long, hard work. THE END
CODA – you didn’t choose the tank: “Julia De Meester is Associate Professor of behavioral biology at the University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands. She holds a PhD from Ghent University, Belgium. Her work has focused on establishing intellectual capacities in fish that biologists would before not have thought possible, such as numeracy and long-term memory. She is the single parent to two wonderful adopted children, Kevin and Keisha.” – You smile as you read the blurb on your first academic monograph, the fruit of long, hard work. THE END
Discussion Questions (Discuss in Comments)
Amelia asks Julia, “Would you want anything more than happiness?” Is truth more important than happiness? Is it wrong for a person to want to simply be happy?
If you could choose to be in the fake world offered to Julia, like the fish without predators, would you? If so, what would your “fish tank” be like?
In which story outcome is Julia living her best life?
Amelia says, “What if you’re miserable the rest of your life?” Would that change your decision regarding Amelia’s offer?
Does success only have value when it comes with the risk of failure?
"Is it wrong for a person to want to simply be happy?" I don't think it's wrong but without truth -the depths of mystery & soul have nowhere to reside.
That’s a good one!!! Me? Reality over illusion every time. Life is fuller when now and pain are juxtaposed. An imagined life can’t change the world or make life better for others. Give me truth, even when it’s hard.