(The following short story was inspired by a series of events, some real and some fictitious, which occurred in the life and imagination of the author. Enjoy trying to disentangle truth and fiction as you read this philosophical tale.)
The Angel and the Naiad
There is a fragment of truth hidden in every myth. Indeed, sometimes there is much more than a fragment. Thus, when we consider the fact that men, since times immemorial, have compared their beloved women to angels, elves, and goddesses, we should not be hasty to dismiss the comparison as fiction. Granted, such romantic notions have long annoyed good women and disappointed naïve men, but that fact neither adds to nor detracts from the accuracy of the notions. Truth is not always comfortable and convenient.
I submit to the reader that some women really are supernatural beings. In defense of this thesis, I present the following narrative, verified by my own eyewitness testimony. Let the facts here revealed suffice to show that at least two women once walked on earth who were not native residents of the same – for one was an angel, and the other was a naiad.
One autumn day not very long ago, I was in that curiously bifurcated mental state which a bachelor may sometimes fall into. Half of my mind was entirely content to be single, viewing bachelorhood as a noble imitation of Christ, an austere vista seen along the path of duty, and an invitation to perfect all those skills employed in the catching of smallmouth bass. The other half was in a state of pained desperation, lonely as Adam after the progenitor finished naming the beasts and no mate was found for him, in such depths of solitary anguish as can only be experienced by a 33-year-old male with early thinning hair.
I do not recall which half of my mind I was attending to when I first saw the Angel. It may have been either, or both in rapid oscillation. But whatever I was thinking before, I forgot it instantly when I caught a glimpse of her in the crowd. I say “the crowd,” because I was attending a conference at the time – a conference for Christian educators hosted by my school, at which I taught secondary English literature.
Who was she? And why did she stand out so brilliantly? The ringlets of her hair were blonde, but not of any especially remarkable shade. She had glasses that turned up slightly at the corners and gave the faint impression of a butterfly. Uncommon, certainly, but not uniquely beautiful. Was she just really on-point with her makeup that day? Perhaps, for there was a youthful blush on her check that may have been more the result of feminine art than natural complexion. Most strikingly, there was something about her features and dress -impossible to definitely identify- that suggested the angelic. If one had asked her the old pick-up line “did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” it would have been offensive, not because the line was boorish, but because the Angel herself was so obviously unfallen.
I needed to talk to her. I would talk to her. She was so strange and beautiful that to miss the chance would leave a scar worse than rejection. But where had she gone! The conference was hosting some 500 people, spread out among different workshops and lectures. I had seen the Angel for all of about 5 seconds, heading towards a lecture on maintaining a healthy work-life balance. Straightaway I felt a critical need for such a lecture, and in I went. But she wasn’t there! Leaving before the conclusion of the lecture (of which I remember not one word), I waited in the adjoining hall, noting three different rooms which the Angel might have entered instead if she had walked this direction. Patiently I waited for the workshops to adjourn, minutely scanning the faces of those who exited each room. Yet she was not among the lecture-listeners in “Fundamentals of Godly Instruction.” Neither did she appear in the crowd exiting “Ten Tips for Dealing with Unhelpful Parents.” For a half-second I thought I saw her coming out of “How to Engage Students with Classic Literature” (huh, probably should have gone to that one, I thought), but it was only a mere, blonde mortal.
The conference was nearly at an end, and only one event remained: the general session, held in the main auditorium. All the attendees would be present, and I resolved to comb through every one of them until I found the Angel. I was pondering the best way to go about this as I walked into the auditorium -and spotted her!
There she was, standing near a back row of chairs with a friend. Her back was to me, but her form and features had so impressed me earlier that I could not be mistaken. Not wanting to lose my chance, I made my way closer, weaving through the throng of people finding their seats. I had no notion of what I would say, but as I walked, I rapidly assembled a mental catalog of small talk.
Now the human mind has a funny way of noticing things without being aware that it has noticed them. Such was the case with my mind as I walked over to the Angel, during which process I got a good look at the friend standing next to her. The appearance of this friend was unremarkable, and I would not have given it much thought if not for the events that came later, bringing this second woman forcefully back to my remembrance. The friend had long, brown hair, straight and unadorned. Her clothes were all of dark, earthy colors, and her face, while not ugly, was not one which could honestly be described as pretty – though in her defense, she could have glowed with queenly radiance and I still would have ignored her, so fixated was I on the Angel. Now this friend saw me approaching, and gave me a most curious look as I drew near – a look somewhere between the smile of a sphinx and the smirk of a practical jokester. I thought (yet without thinking) that it was an odd expression to show a stranger. But I had more important things to attend to, and soon gave the friend no more thought.
“Hello there!” I said to the Angel, mentally considering every possible word she could say in reply. “How are you enjoying the conference?”
“Oh, it’s great, thank you!” she said, turning to me (confirming, as she did so, my suspicion that she was the most beautiful creature on earth). “I’m just looking forward to applying all this back in my classroom.”
“Oh yeah? Where do you teach, and what grade?” said I, just barely stifling an awestruck gasp.
“I teach first grade, at a school in a little town called Beaver Creek. It’s like an hour outside Portland. Far enough away from the crazies, you know?”
“Oh believe me, I live close enough to Seattle to know! Hah!”
And just like that, we were off to a robust conversation. As we talked, I noticed two strokes of good fortune. The first was the obvious common ground between us, for we were both Christian educators working in environments that were often hostile to the faith. It was as though a Sunday school teacher from Sodom had met a youth pastor from Gomorrah. But the other real boon to me was this: I happened to be wearing my school polo, and it gave my speech an air of authority. She was in my school, and I was the gracious host, inquiring as to the satisfaction of my guest. What conversation could be more natural?
“I don’t know how you deal with teaching high school,” said the Angel at length. “I get intimidated by those big kids.”
“I could say the same to you! How do you deal with teaching those little babies in elementary? They intimidate me for different reasons!” and I said that truthfully, for I had never been good at working with any grade level below ninth.
“I think I like the littles because they’re so easily filled with wonder. I can tell them all about my favorite things, and they’ll clap and cheer and shout. Adults take more things for granted.”
“And what are your favorite things?” I asked, instantly prepared to swear that whatever she answered, from knitting to whale watching, was the noblest of human pursuits.
She paused before answering. Then, in a quiet and cautious tone, “Stars.” And she glanced at me as if she had just revealed a precious secret.
“Stars?” I asked slowly, “like constellations and planets?”
“Yes" she said, still quietly. Then she added with sudden energy, “but not like astrology. People always think that. They misunderstand and think I’m into fortune telling and horoscopes and other unchristian stuff.”
“Well I don’t think that” I said. “And what’s unchristian about the stars? Wasn’t the birth of Christ announced in the heavens? And didn’t God make the stars in the first place? You don’t have to practice astrology to acknowledge that.”
“Exactly!” she exclaimed, making a gesture somewhere between clapping and bouncing. And soon it came out, through a torrent of excited words, that the Angel was deeply fascinated by stars and constellations, comets and planetary motions, phases of the moon, and all other things celestial. To this day I have no idea why she thought I was a worthy audience for this passion of hers, for I knew as little then about the stars as I did about Mesopotamian nursery rhymes. But I did my best to follow along, and indeed I had learned a great deal from her about the North Star, the planet Venus, and an upcoming solar eclipse when the Angel’s friend interrupted.
“Hey, we should get to our seats” she said, matter-of-factly. “The session is starting.” Prior to this the friend had stood by without any comment, a silent witness to all the preceding conversation. Her expression had occasionally glimmered with that enigmatic smile she first displayed to me, but had otherwise been placid.
“Oh,” said the Angel, “looks like they’re starting! I need to go sit with the rest of my school.” She paused as if she would say more, and I thought I saw indecision in her eyes for a moment, flickering behind the butterfly glasses. Then, seeming to have made up her mind, she said quickly, “it was really great chatting with you!”, turned, and walked across the auditorium, the friend soon following.
Strange though it may seem, in all our chatting I hadn’t gotten her name. It was all the more bizarre because everyone at the conference was wearing a lanyard with a nametag (except, to the best of my recollection, the Angel’s friend). Somehow, a combination of her flowing hair and the folds of her clothing (not to mention my own distraction) had kept this nametag hidden during our entire conversation. I had caught the first letter, “E”, and that gave me something to speculate about as I sat a few rows back from her (as close as I dared without seeming too presumptuous). Esther? Emma? Eliza? After much deliberation I resolved to simply designate her “the Angel” until I learned the rest of her name. And I had reason to hope for such a revelation soon, judging by how well things seemed to be going.
After the closing lecture (of which, once again, I remember nothing), the attendees were dismissed. I made haste to intercept the angel – I needed to strike while the iron was hot, for it was not likely that we would meet again by chance. She was already out of the auditorium, walking quickly towards the main doors which led to the parking lot when I caught up to her.
“Hey thanks for telling me all about the stars and stuff.” (Yes reader, I know “stars and stuff” was not my finest prose. Give me a break – I was nervous and she was pretty.)
“You’re welcome” she said, looking down, yet still moving towards the exit.
Something was wrong.
“And hey, I didn’t get your-“
But she was already out the door, and hopping up the steps of a waiting bus nearby. I looked after her for few moments, then shut my eyes and turned away. I was old enough to know what a sudden departure like that meant.
I was also more hurt than I wanted to admit. But I swore I would cauterize my heart quickly. Working would help. The conference was over, but I still had things to do up in my classroom. So I went upstairs (where it was dreadfully, oppressively quiet), went to my room, and shut the door. Immediately I began planning all the tasks I would get done that afternoon. I would answer emails, grade papers, and maybe even organize that old file cabinet.
Right after I stopped crying.
How strange a thing is the heart of man! With bold steps and mighty shouts it seeks respect, but only by furtive glances and half-ashamed strategizing does it seek love. But who can deny that love is the greater prize? The Apostle tells us that even if we have the respect of martyrs and sages, yes even if we speak with angels, we are nothing without love. Yet a man will declare to the whole world that he wants respect, without even whispering to his own soul that he wants love.
Such were my thoughts as I grieved. For I was a man of thought, and my lamentation expressed itself in thought. I made no sound as the tears rolled on.
At length, when the tempest of emotion had passed, I lifted my head up from the desk on which I had laid it, and composed myself to prayer. I prayed for the ability to serve God well as a bachelor, even as God’s own Son had done. I also prayed many blessings over the Angel. Then I took a Bible down from a nearby shelf, and opened to a random page, thinking to close the time with a word of scripture. From the prophet Isaiah I read these words: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you wade into the rivers, they shall not sweep you away.” Though I saw no obvious application for this passage at the moment, it comforted me nevertheless. I wiped my eyes (“rivers enough to wade through!” I thought), and gathered my things. There would be no more work today.
As my grief subsided in the days that followed, a certain idea began to take shape in my mind. It was the sort of idea that could either be called romantic genius or foolish desperation – I wasn’t sure what to call it myself. For you see, though I didn’t know the angel’s name, I recalled her mention of Beaver Creek, Oregon. As near as I could tell from a little online research, there was only one Christian school in that small town. What would happen, I wondered, if I sent some mail to that school? I knew about a certain children’s book about stars and constellations – “The Stories of the Stars” or something like that. It would be perfect for first graders. Might she not appreciate that? Of course, how to address an accompanying letter was a puzzle. “Dear Nameless Angel” would hardly do. And too, hadn’t she already hinted -more than hinted I thought- that she didn’t want my attentions? It might be uncharitable to persist.
For more than a week, my thoughts revolved like a whirlpool around this one idea. One day I was sure it was nothing but romantic nonsense, and the next day I was planning how I would gift wrap the book. I even called up a friend of mine and pitched the idea to him, ending by saying “so that’s a pretty stupid idea and I shouldn’t do it right?” to which he replied, “Yup. Don’t do that.” I heartily thanked him for his advice, hung up, and ordered the book on Amazon.
This was crazy. I needed to clear my head, to pray and think logically. Forthwith, I packed my things to go fishing. An afternoon out on the Green River would be just the tonic my addled soul needed. It was September, and salmon season was just starting. Could there be anything more mentally healing than standing on a gravel sandbar in the middle of the river, listening to the flow of the water and the splash of jumping fish, watching the evergreens wave in windy cascades on either side, all while hauling in pound after pound of delicious salmon? No, my good reader, there could not be, and there is not. And when I got home! Baked salmon, smoked salmon, salmon sliders, salmon jerky – I would feast like a river king for days on end, and forget all about my misguided plans and angelic visions.
When I arrived at my preferred spot, I was surprised (and delighted) to find no other fishermen present - it seemed I had the river to myself. That suited me just fine, and straightaway I got my waders on and plunged into the current. The water was cold (I could feel it even through the waterproof material of the waders), and the current was surprisingly swift for September. Laden with my rod and other gear, I had to pick my steps carefully or risk falling in. Even so, I made it over to my favorite sandbar without much difficulty.
What a spot, and what a day for fishing! Standing at the tip of the gravelly promenade, I was surrounded by water flowing over the stony riverbed, with trees rising up on either bank. Far off to my left, I could see a trail winding up through a grove of maple trees, leading to a picturesque cabin. Apart from this, there was no sign of human activity or habitation in all the wild landscape surrounding me. The chilly autumn air and the sunshine dancing on the water promised a halcyon afternoon of fishing.
I suppose I must have stayed in that spot for a little over an hour. I had terrible luck with the salmon – I hooked two that got away, and one snapped my line and vanished into the river when I had him within two feet of the shore. But these failures did nothing to diminish the refreshment I drew from my surroundings. As the river flowed and the fish jumped (specifically to taunt me, I was certain), I had a rejuvenating time of thought and prayer.
As I cast my line out for what seemed the hundredth time (which just meant I had one hundred times more joy in casting it), I heard a splashing noise far behind me. I turned to look, and saw a curious sight. Some distance downriver, perhaps 75 yards away, someone was swimming. Now that struck me as very odd. As I said, it was a cold day, and the current was strong and fast. Yet whoever it was seemed to be in no danger. She (for I could tell by now it was a woman), seemed to move through the water with as much ease as the salmon I was fishing for.
I was distracted from the swimmer by a tug on my line. Ah! More than a tug – a mighty fish was on the other end. A battle ensued, for he was a fighter and would not come ashore without a struggle. More than once I was sure my line would snap again, but finally I managed to pull him within arm’s reach, at which point I scooped him up with my net – and that with some difficulty, for he was indeed a monster! He flopped and splashed in that net, at least 15 pounds worth of angry scales and muscle, but he was caught!
Another sound behind me got my attention. This time it was not a splash, but the crunch of boots on gravel. I turned once more, and instead of a swimmer I saw another fisherman coming up out of the water. He was dressed in waders and a broad-brimmed hat, and his face-
I froze, still holding the net (wherein the salmon, far from freezing, went on flopping with offended dignity). It was no fisherman. It was a woman - that friend of the Angel’s who I had seen at the conference! She took off her hat and looked at me with an aloof expression, mixed, I thought, with just a hint of that sphinxlike smile I had seen weeks ago.
I tried to speak, but could only succeed in uttering a few surprised noises. She seemed to interpret that an invitation to speak first.
“Nice catch.”
“Thanks! Hey I remember you from the conference! I’m sorry I never asked your name, miss…?”
“It’s a nice catch, but you’ll do better” she said, ignoring my question. She glanced at the fish, then at me.
“You’ll have to excuse me saying so,” I said, somewhat flustered by her manner, “but I doubt that very much! This guy is so big my arms are getting sore just holding the net!” As if to collaborate this description, the salmon gave another indignant convulsion.
“I said better, not bigger. But mind you, I don’t think you’ll keep the first one. It’s going to rain soon.”
I looked up at the sky in bewilderment, seeing nothing but a few wisps of cloud in a blue field.
“It’s not going to” – I began. But the mysterious swimmer-turned-fisherwoman (for somehow I knew, without quite knowing how, that they were the same person) seemed to have decided our conversation was over, and walked past me before I could finish my sentence. I hastily put my net down (setting a rock on top to ensure the salmon’s captivity), and turned to call her back, but she ignored me and kept walking. Into the river’s churning water she went- much to my amazement, for she moved upstream through the swirling tide as easily as if it were air. More amazing still, fish seemed to follow in her train. Indeed, before she took ten steps, I saw a massive salmon (every bit as big as one in my net) jump out of the water directly in front of her, nearly touching the brim of her hat with his fins. At that point, sheer curiosity outweighed my shock, and I yelled after her,
“Who are you?”
She turned around, and I saw her open her mouth in reply, but instead of words, I can only say I heard singing. Now notice, I do not say I heard her singing, although for all I know she was. I say I heard singing. From who or what the words came, I cannot be sure. As I remember the experience, it was as though the very wind and water around her (maybe even the fish!) were all participating in the same song. The air itself became a current of sound which seemed to flow past me. It was a bright and fresh current, and the words came to me (is it even true to say I heard them?) with perfect clarity, exactly as I have set them down here:
I cannot catch the water’s rise!
The weeping cripple said with sighs.
The flow is stirred by spirits strange
Who heal the sick, the blind and lame.
But ever they pass over me,
Though others bathe with revelry
In healing waves, that whelm the pool
And wash their wounds so clean and cool.
But I still curse my left-out lot
For all the wholeness I have not.
No healer helps, no savior stays
When channels churn in heaven’s rays.
At this point, there was a brief pause in the song, yet a sort of rhythm remained in the atmosphere, as though waiting for it to resume. The wait was not long. The woman in the river looked straight at me, her face full of startling intensity and purpose, and the song resumed again with greater power than before.
I go to stir the water’s rise!
One sullen soul, I’ll new baptize.
So spake the sacred spirit strange
Who healed the heartsick, lone and lame.
For God has not passed over thee
While others bathe in revelry;
The wholeness of that heavenly pool
Thy burning brow will calmly cool.
What’s hope delayed, but not forgot?
The healer helps, the Savior stays
And through the river guides thy ways.
When she started this second stanza, a few drops of rain began to fall. By the time she had reached the middle, the sky was overcast and a heavy shower had begun. When she finished, an absolute deluge was falling from heaven. I tried to call out something else to her, but the noise of the rain (sheets of it!) falling on the river made further communication impossible. The last I saw of this extraordinary woman, she was walking upriver, unperturbed by the rain, which was flowing over her broad hat like an umbrella. A thick mist had risen up from the water, and waking still onward into this, she vanished.
Now I had been rather astonished during this whole episode, but the sudden rain and this unnatural mist put a note of fear into my astonishment. I decided it was time to leave– immediately. Hurriedly, I gathered my rod in one arm and my netted salmon in the other. The mist had gotten so thick and the rain was coming down so mightily that I could hardly see the shore opposite the sandbar. Yet in order to leave, I would need to wade across. The current had swelled to dangerous proportions, but I was spooked enough that I didn’t care. I was getting out of here.
The current was ferocious. Just a few steps in, I could feel it rushing against my shins, threatening to knock me over. I continued, carefully balancing my load. Halfway across, I was chest deep, moving slowly and cautiously. My careful movement contrasted with fury around me, for all trace of the pleasant fall afternoon had vanished. In its place were battering rain, writhing mist, and the dull roar of seething water. But in spite of the elements, I was making it through the river alright. If I could just get through this particularly deep span, it would be all uphill to the other bank. I had almost won.
And then my salmon tripped me.
Suddenly, mid step, as my boot was raised a fraction of an inch off the uneven stones of the river bottom, the salmon gave one final contortion in his net. I was holding that net in my right hand, and the salmon’s jerking movement pulled the net ever so slightly downward. It dipped into the water, and the salmon, finding himself for a brief moment in his native element, surged and pulled with a renewed frenzy. He pulled the net, the net pulled me, and in half a second I had fallen into the raging current. Cold water rushed into my waders, and sense of panic swept over me. The rod and net fell out of my hands as I flailed and tried to regain my balance. I was underwater, plunging, plummeting, tumbling, jumbling. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain on one side of my skull, and the chaos around me quieted. Just before I lost consciousness, the thought wafted across my mind, like a piece of ribbon floating in the river beside me,
When you wade into the rivers, they shall not sweep you away.
Unconsciousness is very curious thing. To be unconscious is to lack intellect, emotion, and will – all the things which make us human. Yet we lack them while remaining human. Indeed, we lack them every night, for about 8 hours, but nobody thinks we stop being human between 10 PM and 6 AM. How too, one may ask, does one become conscious again? He cannot decide to do it without intellect. He cannot feel like doing it without emotion. He cannot want to do it without will. Yet the sleeper wakes.
I myself awoke, or at least I thought I awoke, to a confused bundle of sensations, including warmth, dim, orange light, and a headache. I thought I heard voices, but it hurt to concentrate on them. I could only make out a few words that seemed to rise out of the dimness. A man was speaking.
“lucky…not be moved…”
Another voice, feminine, and strangely familiar, said something in reply that I didn’t understand. Listening was hard. I blacked out again.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, I opened my eyes and saw a skylight, set in the ceiling of a rustic cabin. It must have been late evening, for the sky beyond was nearly black in its deepness. A flickering orange light danced on the wooden panels surrounding the skylight, and I could hear the crackling of a fireplace somewhere in the room.
Suddenly a face, grizzled and stern, appeared above me. A low, gravelly voice spoke. “Hey. You awake?”
I tried to think about the question. Awake. What was that?
“Yeah” I said slowly. “I’m awake.”
“Good” the grizzled face said. “Now listen, how much do you make in a year?”
I stared, uncomprehending.
“I mean after taxes. Like net income.”
“Uh… what?”
“Okay forget that, but do you drink? And I don’t mean like a beer at a party sometimes. I mean do you DRINK drink, you know?”
“What in the world“ (here my incredulity was interrupted by a fit of coughing) “what are you- oooh my head…” the coughing seemed to wake up my nervous system, sending pain shooting through my head, neck and shoulders.
I heard a sudden gasp, somewhere over on my left (I still had not turned my head), followed by a rushing patter of footsteps in my direction.
“Dad!” a woman’s voice said, “don’t bother him! Here- let me sit, let me sit.” A shuffling ensued, and the man withdrew while grumbling something about a law. In his place, a concerned-looking young woman sat down beside me. She leaned over and put a hand on my forehead, as though checking for a fever. As she did so, I thought absentmindedly about how pretty the ringlets of this woman’s blonde hair looked, gleaming in the firelight, and how her glasses had a funny way of reminding me of both butterflies and angels.
I coughed again, and this time I didn’t notice the pain. The Angel! Surely, I was hallucinating. But if so, let me never again be lucid!
Illusion or no, she continued her gentle ministrations: changing bandages on my head, adjusting blankets, bringing water to my lips, and otherwise making me desperately hope there were more rocks nearby on which I could injure myself. She talked as she worked, though I could say little in reply (either because of my injuries or my rapturous shock. Probably both, actually).
“I’m so glad you’re awake! You’ve been asleep for a night and a day. I wanted to get you to a hospital, but dad doesn’t trust doctors, and we both agreed that you couldn’t be moved in your state.”
“How- where-“ I stammered.
“Dad was outside when that freak storm came on, and he thought he heard someone calling for help down in the river. You were badly hurt and nearly drowned by the time he got you out.”
There was a rattling of dishes in another room, presumably a kitchen, over which noise Dad called out, “I thought I heard a woman!” This was said in a tone of mild reproach, as though I bore some guilt for not drowning more manfully.
“But where did YOU come from?” I asked the Angel, more than half expecting her to say “heaven.”
“We’re on a father-daughter camping trip” she said. Then she added, blushing, “Do you remember me?”
“How could I forget? You came and went like a shooting star.” This eloquent little quip cost me a fit of coughing, but her resulting smile (and her flutter to soothe my cough) were worth it a hundred times over.
Suddenly we looked at each other, and in the same moment it seemed to occur to both of us that we didn’t know each other’s names.
“I’m Josiah,” I said quickly.
"I’m Eva” she said at the same time.
We both stopped to avoid talking over each other, and there was a short silence.
“That’s Josiah with a J” I added unnecessarily.
“Short for Evangeline” she said simultaneously.
At this point we both just laughed, my injuries notwithstanding. Ah, reader! How shall I convey to you the joy unlocked by that shared laughter? It was as though a prison door which had long shut out all light were suddenly thrust aside, or as if a bird with broken wings had learned to fly again. I had not known, until that moment, that I bore wounds more serious than a dainty head injury, yet no sooner were they discovered then they were healed.
We talked, and sat silently together (which was better than talking), long into the night. Our conversation ranged over all sorts of topics, including family, salmon, teaching, and -of course- astronomy. Eva pointed out to me all the constellations visible that night (for I was situated on a bed near a window), the most prominent of which was Delphinus, the dolphin. Or at least, Eva told me it was a dolphin. To me it looked more like a glimmering square with a handle sticking out, but I didn’t tell her that. Meanwhile, Mr. Hunter (for he instructed me to call him by that name, or else “Sir,” and by absolutely no means “Dad”), was our self-appointed chaperone, sitting in a nearby corner with watchful eyes. Yet for all his gruff and jealous demeanor, he seemed pleased with the goings-on in his cabin. He said little, and stirred only occasionally to add additional logs to the fire.
At length, after one particularly delicious silence, Eva spoke softly. “I’m sorry about leaving. At the conference.”
“It’s alright now” I said, blissfully content.
“I was just scared” she went on, in that womanly way of explaining a thing when a man has already indicated he understands it. “I really enjoyed talking to you, but… I was scared.”
“It’s alright” I repeated. “But say, I have a question for you.”
"Hm?”
“Who was that friend of yours, the one you were talking to at the conference just before me?”
“What friend?”
“You know, that quiet girl with the straight brown hair and weird smile – she was standing right next to us.”
Eva looked puzzled. “Nobody was standing next us when we first met. And I don’t have a friend like that – and I don’t think I want to, based on that description. But look! A shooting star!”
Far away in the western sky, a streak of light passed through Delphinus, and every star in the constellation seemed to twinkle.
I could go on, and describe with joyful exactitude the rest of my time in that cabin, and all the events that followed from it: how Eva and I became the closest of friends, flooding the airwaves with calls between Seattle and Portland and choking the postal system with little gifts for one another, how she moved closer by when a job for a first grade teacher opened up at my school, and how, having convinced Mr. Hunter that I both possessed a sufficient net income AND never drank alcohol, I asked for and received his matrimonial approval. But these blessed memories of mine are perhaps of more interest to myself than to my readers. They are only peripheral to my thesis in this writing, however central they may be to my life and heart.
The essence of that thesis, you may recall, was to prove that some women really are supernatural beings, whatever else they may be besides. That some women are angels, I know well enough, for I married one. But what of that other, stranger woman? I never did see the Naiad again (for such a being I consider her to be). Eva maintains that the she was nothing more than the product of a few mild concussions on my part (but Eva also has reservations about being referred to as an angel, so what does she know?). The scripture says that God “makes the wind his messengers, and flames of fire his servants.” Is it really so strange then, to think that a river spirit should do God’s work as well? Who knows but that all creation, from the highest heavens to the deepest oceans, is full of His ministering spirits, taking now one form, then another?
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