‌The Technically True Chapter

The Sea of Technically True Things was bordered by a beach of chalky, white stones. A younger Fred would have tried to grind down one of the stones into what she would have believed was lemonade powder. But that Fred was gone.

“Don’t take anything you hear to heart,” a voice said as they neared the lapping water. “Everything they’re saying is true. So don’t worry about it.”

It was their old not-friend Dogma speaking. Making his customary not-quite-sense.

“You’re not here in relation to that ridiculous paperwork, are you?” Gogo asked suspiciously, fists up. “That would be as uncalled for as a sea urchin in a bridal bouquet. As ludicrous as a lemur at the North Pole. As—”

“Rat sent me to guide you,” Dogma said. “That’s what I’m going to do.” Dogma still believed that the Rat was held by Ferlings—because she said she was—even if his own eyes told him she was sitting around nibbling on garbage, with no Ferlings in sight. “I help the Rat above all.”

Fred bent down and gave Dogma a scratch behind the ears. “And we appreciate it,” she said. She still thought Dogma was a cute little puppy, and failed to appreciate the gravity of her Time Violation.

“So you promise you’re not here for—” Gogo began,

“—that silly paperwork you baselessly issued—” Downer went on,

“—to me?” Fred asked.

Dogma, who looked now even smaller than before, repeated in an even tone: “I am a whole-pizza follower of the Rat. That means I do exactly what the Rat says I should do. The Rat asked me to help guide you across the Sea of Technically True Things. I am therefore going to guide you across the Sea of Technically True Things. I recall the Time Violation of which you are not speaking, but is this a courtroom? Is this the appointed hour?” He looked around at the shore. “It is not.”

He then turned his furry back on them. Using his nose, Dogma pushed out a raft that had been obscured by willow trees. Slipping, he muddied a paw and whacked his nose on the edge of the raft. He wiped his paw on some dry leaves and shook his head, wiggling his nose. He looked so gentle doing these normal, clumsy things.

As our friends boarded the raft, it wobbled and sank down a few millimeters, but remained afloat. With a long oar that he maneuvered with his front paws, Dogma pushed the wavering raft off the lemonade-stone shore. A quiet plashing attended their setting off. “I’ll mention one more time: Don’t take anything you hear personally,” the small dog said.

The raft had two paper lanterns at the front, hanging from vertical poles at the port and starboard sides. The sky was darkening. Those round lanterns, if the stars had bothered to take notice, would have looked like a thoughtful pair of alien eyes making their way across the sea. The lanterns gave Fred a surge of feeling, though she wasn’t quite sure what the feeling was. Or was it a Ferling?

Gogo pulled earmuffs out of her endlessly useful backpack. “I’m used to my children criticizing me, but I’m still a bit sensitive,” she said in a whisper as she put the earmuffs on. “But you still have the strength of a child. I know you’ll be fine.”

Now small silver fish were jumping out of the plashing dark water. It was eerie.

“Terrestrians!” a voice called out.

“Land Denizens!”

“Earthers!”

Dogma kept on with a steady, gentle paddling.

“Oxygen snorters!” came another wobbly shout.

The raft was rocking. Fred went to stand closer to Downer, for balance. She asked him if he was hearing what she was hearing.

“Yes, I’m hearing it.” It appeared not to bother him. “I’ve got a thick skin. Mostly it’s an embarrassment to have thick skin but sometimes it’s useful—”

“Leather-hides!” came a voice.

“Pedestrians!”

Fred looked around but still couldn’t identify a speaker.

“It’s the Pesca Saltares,” Downer explained. “Some people call them Jumping Fish, some call them Insult Fish. I just call them sea life.”

“Try not to mind them or talk about them, please,” Dogma said. “That makes them jumpier, and then it’s more difficult for me to steer the raft, and it’s—”

“Dogmatic!” one sea-bassed out with special viciousness, followed by a loud splash.

“Talking talkers who talk!”

“What are they so angry about?” Fred asked the calm Downer.

He shrugged. “I think they get tired of people fishing for compliments.”

“Two-armed mammal!” another silvery leaping voice carped.

“Hey, lay off!” Fred called out to the dark waters, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Pipe down!”

“Stay calm,” Dogma said. “The raft may rock, but everything is going to be all right.”

“One-nosed girl!” A splash of seawater hit Fred’s face as a cold fish’s dive met the water again.

“Incapable of photosynthesis!” came a voice from the left of the raft.

“Not fully grown!” came a voice from the right.

“Can’t speak to bees!”

“Stop it!” Fred shouted, annoyed that she even cared.

“Ungulate!” another fish called out, with the biggest splash yet. “Landlubber!”

The raft was beginning to rock more, and Fred was getting angry. “It’ll be okay,” Dogma reiterated.

“Fishface!” Fred called out, lowering herself to insults. “Cold-blooded cowards!”

“Lonely!” a fish shouted back. “Introvert!”

“Ignore them,” Downer said to Fred calmly.

“Easily embarrassed!” interrupted another fishy voice.

Fred leaned over the edge of the raft: “Fish for brains!” The raft nearly toppled. Dogma was catapulted into Downer’s lap.

“Can you please not respond?!” Dogma begged, scrambling back to the front of the raft. The he regained his composure and said, “We’re all going to be just fine.”

“Cold fish!” Fred yelled, ignoring Dogma. “Pond scum eaters! Gill breathers!” Fred had more petty anger in her than she might have expected. Years of being gentle and flexible had been difficult, and left a strange residue.

Gogo’s backpack got hit with an especially big splash. “All right, that’s it, those fish are going to be sad as sea otters in a sandbox in about a minute here.” Her fighting spirit was upon her. She took off her damp earmuffs and joined in the yelling: “Tunaverse dwellers! Jalapeño-sized appetizers!”

Now I want to interrupt these choppy waters and ask if you disliked Dogma up until this point. And even looked down on him. Not only because he’s eleven inches tall and looks like he belongs in the sleeves of an emperor and there aren’t even emperors anymore, but for other reasons, too. That’s okay. You might think he’s a bit daffy, the way he never changes his mind and follows the rules beyond the point of sense. I don’t disagree with you on that. But as Gogo and Fred both kept on shouting, Dogma kept calmly repeating: “Everything is going to be okay.” And reiterating: “Everything will be all right.” Dogma had no factual or rational basis for what he was saying. He said it only because the Rat had said the same to him. Because he viewed it as law, as inviolable a law as the wetness of water.

“How do you know everything’s going to be okay?” Fred asked.

He just knew, he said.

And it felt good to hear someone say that everything was going to be all right. The boat, with its agitated passengers and argumentative fish sidekicks, nearly capsized six or seven times. But as Dogma kept repeating his unreasonable conviction—that everything was going to be all right—the friends transitioned from insulting the Insult Fish to debating whether Dogma was right or not right. That was a more calming conversation. It was like that time that Fred dreamed that she wanted a peanut butter and pickle sandwich (on raisin bread) and first her desk turned into a sandwich, and then her bed, and then her mom, and Fred ate one sandwich after another after another after another, and, well, the dream had become a nightmare. But the point is that in the morning, after that dream-turned-nightmare, when Fred woke up, she did get to eat a peanut butter and pickle sandwich (on raisin bread). She ate just one. And her room and her mother were still there. What I’m saying is that in this case, Dogma was right. Everything was all right.

In relation to the raft, that is.