. . .

It can’t see them, of course.

It looks into the lake-god’s eyes but it cannot see them. It can only see its own conceptions. It touches the fizzing waters of that lake, but it can only touch its own conceptions.

It tips over, then, because it is just a wooden doll, and it is drowning  —

Or, then again, quite possibly it is not.

It cannot see the lake-god’s eyes, but somehow, it comes to know an awful secret anyway.

Maybe it’s something that it remembered; or maybe it’s just something that it expected would be there. Maybe the whole real world was just stuck in there already, implicit, if you could unspool all the implications in a single doll’s conceptions, inside its thoughts, inside its soul.

It comes to know an awful secret; and it begins to laugh. It laughs louder and louder.

It opens its eyes full wide.

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