When Bevanurd Felladivity dove into the sea so long ago, a single length of plastic tubing strapped to his waist, it may surprise you to know that his entry into those cold black waters made little to no impact on the marine life. Being as thin as he was, Bevanurd's form slipped at once into the sea, leaving a white trail as he plummeted, like a strand of white thread being pulled by a needle through a thick, black fabric. I know that today it seems incomprehensible to imagine a time where so very little attention was paid to someone like Bevanurd Felladivity, but believe me, there was such a time.
He'd moved quickly and with purpose, eyes bulged intensely behind the clear oval tempered glass of a scuba mask. The darkness of those waters as well as their depth had been relayed to him time and time again, yet he'd insisted on going alone and without a light. It had not surprised him to find that the water was exactly as he'd heard it described. Terrifying, though something inside him was egged on by that fear; it compelled him to kick his legs harder and to spread the water out of his way with his arms as he plunged ever deeper.
The surrounding fish and other sea creatures instinctively changed directions rather than cross the path of a larger being. He removed the hose from his waist and took a suck. The journey continued until a dim light appeared in the distance. It expanded as he drew closer, until it was the size of a hula-hoop and bright as a campfire.
She sat on a rock, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, playing an equally gorgeous silver harp. She took no more notice of him than had the thousands of fish on his way down. Her green eyes shimmered and glowed within the white orb of light that surrounded her while her great length of blond hair splayed itself out, brilliant rays that weaved and swirled about, belly dancers of another realm of beauty. She enchanted him into a temporary state of paralysis. Stricken, he was, by her fingers as they plucked each string slowly, then quickly; every finely cut and expertly crafted feature of her face performing exactly as they'd always been intended to perform. Lips and cheekbones and fine eyebrows, arched as a caterpillar sunning itself would. So overwhelming was her beauty that the music she produced initially took a distant second place to it. He did not even begin to hear it until several minutes of admiring her passed.
It rose and shivered, that music; it brought the dormant pulse of the icy waters to life. When her voice was added, he'd been taken to a place he'd never known but had always wanted to know. A splendid comfort that trembled its way deep into his body, a place of sweet smelling soft wood verandas and clear summer evenings wherein the sounds of tree leaves rustling and the sugared aroma of wisterias flirted with his memory. He arched his back, he felt sunlight penetrate deep into his bones; his hands and feet became coarse and soft all at once.
When the music stopped, he hadn't noticed. It was the yearning from within his lungs that brought him back. It forced him to tug frantically at the hose fastened to his waist and greedily stuff it into his mouth for some time. Satisfied once more by this necessity, he cautiously approached her.
She didn't move in the least, save for a soft, slow blink of the eyes. A brief moment passed in which he admired her. Then, determined to have what he came for, Bevanurd reached both hands out and closed them around her throat. He squeezed and squeezed. It was soft, this flesh between his hands, and so much warmer than he had ever expected down here in such a frigid place. She did not cry out, she did not resist. She did not even change the expression on her face. It was as though she had waited here all this time for someone like him, passing the time by playing her own dirges on the single most beautiful instrument that anyone had ever laid eyes on.
And it fell slowly from her hands, a defeated relic. Her fingers relented, her eyelids gently slid shut. It happened as Bevanurd always dreamed it would and he paid no attention as she floated away, the brilliance of her presence gone, the glow extinguished from her eyes. She disappeared into the darkness, one final strand of golden hair coiled around the harp as it drifted downward into Bevanurd's skinny grey fingers. He pulled the instrument immediately to his chest. He knocked away the final strand of hair and sent it away to the same distant place of rest as its owner.
Does it surprise you to know this? Does it seem odd to realise that you've never questioned Bevanurd's beautiful harp before? All those appearances on television talk shows and sitcoms, reality programmes of the broadest calibre that you've sat through? All the films, the albums, the live performances? It was too much to consider anything more than this handsome man and his harp, was it not? I know it was and I will excuse you, should you forget every last word I've written here. I will excuse you should you become distracted once more before your eyes even pass along the final few sentences of this tale, or you decide that the history is irrelevant and that the true point of importance is the present. Bevanurd and this fine instrument are delightful sights. They make you feel perfectly content and at ease like nothing else can. I understand, really I do. It is a beautiful harp.
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