h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

As the Chinese poet-drinker Li Po gazed up from his boat at the silvery moon, the stars in happy chorus appeared to him to sing out once more their complete approval at his own songs of drunken laughter.

"Again my cup is full of wine!" he exhorted. "And again I can see in my wine the reflection of all the night with it's glittering stars, glittering the way the moon does mirrored on the lake!"

And as the boat tossed gently to and fro, Li Po whistled out loud a tune - a tune that seemed to have scurried up to him from under the rushes and out of the reeds - a tune that might have drifted along across the water and flown into his ear like a tiny hummingbird whispering all it's secrets. He continued to whistle until his whistling turned to song and then the song gave way again to laughter. How full and erratic and loud and fit to burst was the heart that still triumphed in his breast.

"What a life!", he cried out. And once again a song danced out of his grape-stained lips.

As the warm evening air carried aloft its delightful music, Li Po roused himself enough from his reverie to recall the dream he'd had the night before and thus the reason why, in the first place, he had the prescient inkling to row his boat out all alone at dusk into the heart of this old blue lake.

He continued to sing, but now with purpose. And after a while, out of the silvery night, a magnificent kingfisher appeared, all its colours sparkling, caught in a moonbeam. The bird landed upon the boat and stood at the poet's feet, gently holding in it's bill a firefly so bright and firey that Li Po's face lit up as if he were sat by the hearth of a fire. After a pause, it's tail still bob-bobbing, the Kingfisher let go the firefly go whereupon it hovered and buzzed around the poet drinker's smiling head.

Whoosh! A flash of silver and the kingfisher was gone. Still the firefly hummed in the air. All was quiet save this golden insect with it's precious glow. Then, it's mind made up, or so it seemed, it flew straight into the lake - a tiny golden dart, fizzing deep into the water like brilliant magnesium, leaving behind in it's wake a trail of tiny crystal bubbles. Down and down it went until it was gone, and all became calm once more.

Li Po shuffled a little, got up, unsteadily, and peered over the edge of his boat. Silver ripples lapped the hull as he stared into the darkness of the water. Almost imperceptibly at first, a faint glow appeared to sway and blur deep beneath the surface of the lake. Brighter it became but distant too it remained for it was deep, deep down. While Li Po fixed his gaze on the tiny golden spot below, he scrabbled around in his bag for a hook and a line. Once found, he untangled the line and coiled it in a loose loop around his arm. Attaching a lead weight and the little hook to it's end he took aim at this shimmering target deep in the water. He threw the line from his hand and watched it quickly unravel. The lead weight broke the surface of the water and then slowly, lazily it sank to the bottom of the lake.

Li Po sat down and waited. Indeed he waited for a long, long time, chugging all the while on his pipe and pouring himself wine from a flask. And still he waited, staring occasionally down at the glow at the bottom of the water. Sometimes it was bright. Sometimes it was dim. And sometimes it all but disappeared. But still he waited, a faint grin on his happy, leathery old face.

Suddenly the line sprung taut - a shower of tiny droplets falling down upon the water's surface briefly twinkling by the light of the moon like little precious gems. From the poet's hand to the surface of the lake the fishing line was tense, straight and quivering. Li Po, now aroused from his thoughts, pulled hard at the line and drew it up with both hands onto the boat. After many moments the whole of the line was onboard and, flapping violently and comically at the end of the hook, was a very big, very fat fish.

Li Po wasn't the least bit surprised by this and wasted no time at all in removing the hook. Holding the fish he squeezed open it's mouth like a purse, and pulled out of it's mouth a crumpled piece of parchment paper. No sooner was this done did he let go of the slimy, wriggly fish which flew out of the poet's hand and splashed back into the water. Plop! Oblivious, Li Po hastily donned a battered pair of spectacles and with massive concentration he carefully unravelled the wet and withered document. And this is what it said:

"Li Po! It's time to die!"

Li Po slowly raised his head as a great wonder dawned upon him. He unhooked his spectacles and the arms that had raised the paper to his weary eyes now fell down again against his sides. And then he began to howl. He howled with laughter. Li Po was beside himself. The tears ran down his face. He bellowed and guffawed and roared and sobbed and wailed and groaned in absolute joy. In hysterics. It was the funniest thing in the world. Really, it's impossible to describe just how funny it all was. Supporting himself by holding on to the side of the boat to steady his legs, he giggled helplessly. He tried to regain his composure but the more effort he made the more hilarious everything became. This was indeed the moment of revelation he had long since stopped looking for. All the striving after everything, all the self-imposed exile and loneliness and the terrible, insatiable thirst to do exactly the right thing and to know and to know and to know! And for what? To what end? For what purpose?

Well now he knew. He couldn't quite articulate it with words but he knew deep in his heart that this life of difficulty, with all its yearning, desire and striving, that this was all good and necessary in order that we learn the knack of listening. Listening deep down into the very soul of things, to listen out for life's great cosmic joke. And when you're ear is trained on that great laughter that's always rumbling away deep down in the bowels of the earth, then all things gain perspective. All frightening things are frightening no more. Li Po had learned this late in life. In fact, he had learned this just in the nick of time. He finally seemed to give in to that which was shaking his own soul. And it was as if all souls everywhere were reverberating at the same frequency, a magic conversation with the secrets of the world, the laughter of souls.

He stood up and stared at the moon with tears in his eyes. He poured himself a little wine and raised his cup to the moon. After knocking back the wine he stretched himself and spread his arms out wide and allowed himself to topple heavily from the boat into the water. His body turned upside down and with a sudden splash of sound he fell into the lake face first. There was no struggle and there was no effort. Very soon the poet's aged body had disappeared.

Apart from the gentle lapping of water against the swaying boat, a great stillness fell about the night once more.

And then, just as before, and with a brilliant flash, the silvery kingfisher returned to perch itself upon the rim of the empty boat, it's eyes nervously bright with the moon. Moments later with a rush of movement up from the water appeared the brilliant firefly to hover and hum next to the bird's head.

And so the two remained, paying vigil, as the boat rocked and swayed upon the lake, their souls watching life, life watching them. All was safe and all was still. Truly peaceful. And if you had learned the knack of listening, it was also possible to make out the sound of soft, strange music drifting with the mists across the water. It was a music like no other, like night-secrets turned into melodies. It was a blue winding mist-music that rises out of from among the bent rushes and the swaying reeds, that little green boundary between this world and the next.