The fishers watch her, but they’d never admit that, even if they were caught in the act. It’s too extraordinary for a girl to fish for a living; it’s uncomely and bad luck to fish with a woman so near, especially an unwed girl of twenty. To men diminished and brittle from long days and sore bones, her presence is a nuisance, so her abundant catches and exquisitely hand-crafted lures are hastily dismissed. Hints of witchcraft flit across their lips in whispers; suspicious good fortune and uncanny knowing of where and when to fish, especially by a girl-fisher, must have other-worldly explanations. It’s a good thing men are brave; otherwise, they’d be frightened by the wild, free, careless, fearless, cunning creature they saw in Magda.
“Nobody’s gonna help you out here,” one said.
“When ya gonna settle down and become a proper wife?” asked another.
“If anybody’d have her,” said a third, thinking she was out of earshot.
But Magda noticed and heard and felt every admonition, scolding, sideways glance, and furrowed brow. Any dangers posed by the river are trivial compared to what the men want for her — including becoming a proper wife.
But what will I do? she thought. Fish forever? No.
Always the same sequence of questions and answers, like a well-rehearsed dance, reflexive answers from endless repetition.
Give in to what’s expected? No, definitely not.
Leave. Possibly. But how? And what about Mama and Papa, it would kill them.
So then, swallow more of the fishermen’s venom. Get married like Mama and Papa want, then spend every day pretending, living a life that isn’t mine. Part of me dies either way.
Her only escape is the river, at night, alone. There, she can soak in the soothing warmth of the night air and the expanse of stars to become nothing more than a blade of grass, the resting place for a ladybug, protection for the dirt beneath her. Even the walk from the craggy cobblestone path behind the village to the river’s edge gave her reprieve. Through the grass that first consumed her feet and ankles, then knees and thighs, and finally her waist, she disappeared. Where the grass thinned and scattered, the muddy earth and rocks offered coolness and quiet. That’s where the river lived.
Taking the knife from her fishing bag, she threw it toward the ground so that it landed point down, sinking into the soft earth — a habit of hers when she fished at night. She dropped her fishing bag and plopped down on a low rock. Freeing her feet and ankles from the confines of soft leather and laces, she felt the mud creep between her toes, around her heels.
Searching for familiar constellations, she stared at the glinting winks that dotted the serene darkness. The tips of majestic pine trees that stretched their branches to the stars. She closed her eyes and listened to the gentle babble and spatter of the river. The cool night air, its breeze brushing across her skin, whispering across the tall grasses, tickling the ends of her hair.
Rhythmic swishing of tall grass in the stillness pulled Magda out of her trance. A low gentle voice called out, “Do you hear them?”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she felt the ground for her knife, straining to see a face in the shadowy outline coming toward her.
“Oh, hi. I’m just enjoying the evening,” Magda said, seeing the familiar stranger’s face. Mars, at least that’s what people called him, roamed the woods or ambled along the river. He’d stand silently, face turned to the heavens, eyes closed, giving a faint smile or slow nod to the moon or whomever, whatever he thought was out there with him.
Reaching for her bag, she intended to stand up swiftly and get out of there.
Mars sat on a rock a good distance away, “No need to leave, I’ll be wandering downstream.” He paused and breathed in the cool night air. Then sweeping a relaxed hand across the sky, asked, “Do you hear them?”
“Who?” She waited, but his long silence demanded more, “The stars?”
“The stars, the moon, can you hear them?
“Sorry. No.”
“What if the stars talk to the moon and the moon talks to the stars?” He said in a relaxed lilt. “If the moon and stars communicate with each other, maybe they talk to the river and everything else. Trees. Fish. Crabs. Grass. Stones … Us.”
Magda looked away and rolled her eyes, “What would the stars tell us?”
“What are you asking them?”
Mars ran his fingers along a stem of tall grass, barely disturbing it, “What if we’re all here crafting our own experience, and in doing so, we all have different vantage points. The water in the river sees much more than any of us. The stars see vast expanses of time and space beyond what the river can imagine. Why wouldn’t we be a part of all this?”
Magda stared at the tufts of grass near her feet and ran a muddied toe across a single, fat, green blade.
“I’m Gwydion, by the way. Friends call me Gwyd. I talk to stars, but in all fairness, I talk to trees, the river … everything. And they talk to me.”
“Gwyd, what if it’s just you, telling yourself what you want to hear?”
Gwyd raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“How would I even start to …,” simultaneously sighing and laughing, her voice trailed off.
Laying his finger to his lips, he uttered a gentle “Shh,” as he stood up and meandered toward the river’s edge.
Suddenly, the sounds of the night became louder. Her thoughts blurred as if the mist over the river seeped into her mind and hovered between her ears.
Absurd, she thought. I’m taking advice from a lunatic.
Still, raising her face to the new moon, barely a glowing sliver against its dark roundness, she closed her eyes to listen.
Angela Young is a teacher and writer living in California. Happiest outdoors, Angela adores and respects nature and spends as much time as possible among the trees. Hiking, biking, organic gardening, cooking healthy concoctions of all sorts, and walking with her pup are all-time favorite pastimes. See her site.