The Lady of Amafel Pond
She was fading away, slowly but inevitably. They didn’t believe in her anymore, didn’t ask for her help with lovers, didn’t send the little boats filled with flowers across her lake. The townspeople who whispered about her in the past, who told stories and claimed to have seen her were preoccupied with their televisions, their computers, facts and technology. They had forgotten about magic, didn’t care about what they couldn’t see. She was lonely and tired. Who would take care of her lake if she was pulled behind the veil as had happened to so many of her sisters. She shook her head, her long, pale hair swirling int he water. She sat on the shore, considering her options.
She could just accept it. The world had moved on, maybe it was time she did too. But this lake was he home, had been forever; she wasn’t ready to leave it. she could frighten the people into believing again, a drowning or two, an isolated storm, a glimpse of her floating above the water. The Lady of Amafel Pond would be respected again.
That evening, as dusk enveloped the valley, a battered pick-up pulled up to the edge of the water. A lone man climbed out of the cab, her only visitor that evening. In jeans and work boots, he seemed like the perfect candidate, the tribute she would take even though ti hadn’t been offered. As she watched him set up his fishing poles and settle in, she reminded herself that it was necessary, that her people needed her whether they knew it or not. They needed to still believe in mystery, in elements beyond their control.
She approached, gliding across the water, singing softly to draw his attention. His eyes widened as he saw her just floating, her gown blowing gently around her. He stepped into the shallow water and she reached for his hand. She gently pulled him deeper and deeper, her melody soothing and sweet; he didn’t, or couldn’t, resist.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill this man so full of life, a man she had admired before, kind, handsome. She turned and led him back to the shore. When he was safe on solid ground, she caressed his cheek with her slender hand and kissed him. “Please,” she whispered. “Come again.”
Dottie at Tink’s Place has a Monday Morning Flash Fiction challenge that I’m enjoying. Each Monday a new picture prompt will be posted and if you choose to participate you post your story on Friday – 350 words, give or take.
I guess certain themes or character traits get stuck in my head. She reminds me of the naiad in the piece I wrote last month, “Bethane’s Tears”. Maybe the man’s Ben?