I make my way down a winding path, mindful of where I step; least I take a stumble like last time. I shudder, recalling the rock that barely missed my head by a hair’s breadth when I plummeted to the ground a few days ago. It was a tree’s root that was nearly my demise. That, or my lack of attention to my surroundings. Damn my inability to learn cautiousness. I stop in my tracks to steal a glance to the sky in between the branches, their dark webbed fingers reaching up. I smile, despite myself and my anxious mind. Will away such scary thoughts, I chide, soon you’ll meet with her.
It’s not long before I reach a stream, rushing and glistering under the midday sun. I know I must be quick with what I need, so I gather my recorder from my backpack and sit down at the end of the water. I press the play button and a red light glows faintly.
“Hello,” I call out.
The wind blows my bangs out of my eyes. There is no reply, doubt that anyone else is out here but me. But it isn’t another person I’m looking for, and anticipation rolls over me in waves. I’m shaking, my body already buzzing from the adrenaline. A bird cries in the distance, perhaps a chickadee.
A woodpecker, my child, a strong yet gentle voice tickles my ear. I start almost violently at her presence, nearly standing. “Hello again,” I say, excitement gripping me. “I get them confused.”
You need practice, she says, and the water ripples before me. “I know,” I reply automatically, watching her. The stream.
And I know what you’re here for.
“Yea,” I reply. Then sheepishly, “once again.”
The water seems to rush down its slim cannel faster than before. It rises and falls, like a chest. It quite literally comes to life; I’ve never seen water behave like this. It’s an indication that she’s awake, that she is here, now, and suddenly I remember my questions, and the words bubble out of me.
“Are you immortal?”
Yes, comes her immediate reply. There’s a silence and I hold my breath as to indicate her to continue. I have been, always. And I will be, eternally, she states. I’ve been giving life since life was in question. I was here with Air; she carried my waters. Magma and I were close companions, we created land together for you.
“’Were’?”
Still are.
“Are you,” I make a vague gesture with my hands, looking for the right words. “Are you everywhere? Like, the ocean. Are you the ocean?”
Yes, child.
“Every ocean?”
She laughs, the sound making my body tingle. Every ocean, she parrots. There is elegance in her voice each time she talks. She sounds like the audible embodiment of grace and knowledge, if ever such a thing could exist. I lick my lips.
“How does it feel to be everywhere at once? If you’re here now with me now, in this stream, how are you also on the banks of a faraway land?”
You could never understand. Her reply is short, curt, and I almost take offense. I consider egging her on, rewording my question, desperate for information, but I hold tongue once she speaks again.
Your mortal mind could never comprehend, even if I attempted to explain such a thing. She clarifies, and I blush at how I’d forgotten she could read my thoughts. Though, she considers slowly, and my ears perk, my grip tight on the recorder, I could show you. If you step into my waters.
”Someday soon,” the words leave me before I realize I’ve spoken them. She ripples in response, and I’d like to believe she smiled.
I continue, “Speaking of, do you like having all these animals in your waters?”
They are my children, much as you are. I take pride in housing them in my dark untouched depths, as I pride myself in my shallow waters upon a tropical beach, where they live too. Life is beautiful, their lives are beautiful.
“And humans, too?”
Humans come to me for many reasons. Most of the time they need my waters to bathe, drink. They splash and squeal in shallow oceans and lakes, and it brings me joy. You protect my waters, with your many projects and initiatives. You photograph me, for your magazines. Yet there are times humans cause hurt, with their pollution, human waste, and killings of the creatures who reside in my waters. I do not like it.
Guilt washes over me, as cruel images swim across my eyes, like snapshots. “I know, I’m sorry.”
I do not like it, she reiterates.
She then spills over the dry rocks of the bank, her just frustration manifesting, and the water licks at my boots and wets the lush grass. The roar of the stream heightens for a brief while. Though as fast as she started, she quiets, and everything returns as it was, the water retreating and falling into a calmer pace.
I am old, child, she speaks again when I do not. I have seen and heard it all, ever since any thing was anything. I have seen your civilizations rise and fall, your seasons change millions of times over, your languages multiply. You, as all creatures, seek me. I am needed for everything, and that need overfills into greed. I am old, child, and it tires me so.
I gape at my reflection in the water, distorted and warped. She’s never talked so much before, and it excites me as much as it awes me. The recorder sits in my lap, forgotten.
I will myself to speak, “Will you be here next time?”
She ripples. Always here.
I nod, a small smile etching my features. “I love your replies. I’m sorry you’re sad sometimes. Because of,” I pause, “the bad stuff.”
I become sad enough, and waters will crumble your cities.
My face slackens in shock as I bark out a breathless laugh. Despite her words, there is humor in her voice. She ripples once more, as though hundreds of little feet dance on her surface. I feel it now, that it’s time to go – that she cannot exist on this plane with me any longer, and that she must recede.
I stand, my knees cracking. “I’m going now,” I say to her.
Yes, she replies, back home.
I sense she means herself as much as me, and I smile at her, bidding farewell as I say my thanks. And just like that, her water, which has swayed like waves on an ocean and rippled so beautifully, falls into a regular stream once more.
I turn my back and head down the path I arrived on, fumbling with the recorder. I click replay as to have some sense of company on my lone walk home. I hear myself, my voice crackling out of the little hard box.
I hear myself, and the rushing water.