#river sprite

Perhaps I should make a prophecy. One of my very own. Just the thought made my wings flutter and my feet want to dance. But what will happen when it comes true?

So many possibilities lay before me, with the promise of a prophecy coming true. What should my reward be for fulfilling the prophecy of the shadow-less shadow? Ah-ha! All of the village children will pay me a sweet. One sweet per day, and they will take turns.

I pranced on the flowing river water, quite pleased.

Positively lovely. What, then, should my prophecy be?

Hm.

Something with a shadow that wasn’t a shadow, of course. But the man’s face could hardly be a prophecy. It was intriguing in its hard-edged symmetry, with sharp cheekbones and jawline, like a well carved rock that moved.

No, he didn’t belong to the village. And I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop trying to figure out how his face and hair and skin worked with hair the color of snow and eyes the color of blood. And his body. While his skin was not the color of bark or heartwood, the only thing tree-like about him was his size, adorned in leather clothes hand stitched to fit such a large frame with shoulders I could walk for miles.

He looked like no other human I’d seen before.

I was tempted but for the cardinal rule: We do not touch the land folk.

Cardinals and their rules. But cardinals would feast on us if we disobeyed, their beautiful singing and vibrant red feathers making a lovely mask for the cruelty they hid beneath.

We do not touch the land folk.

And what made them give such a decree? Ruthless, crimson beasts.

The man grunts, staring from atop his mount as he surveys the river and the surrounding landscape. His glowing eyes scan slowly, a light wind catching his white hair and combing through it. Lucky wind. It knew what his hair feels like.

Is he human? Is he of the Folk? With his coloring and sharp features, could he be?

I should smell him.

He climbed off his horse, leading the mare to one of my favorite places in the river. My river, I’d like to think, but no sprite owns any inch of the world. Still, possessive is often used to describe us. And territorial. But aren’t all living, breathing things possessive and territorial of the places where they live?

The mare balks against his lead, nickering and stomping her hooves against the soft, damp earth. Her hair looks like raw clay in summer, with the sunlight showing how much red lived with the brown. Her eyes were dark, shining, and she is watching me.

Hello, sweet. She would hear me. She would know. You can drink. It’s all right.

“It’s either drink now or wait until tomorrow.” The man’s voice is deep and rumbling, like rocks breaking and falling one another. 

I edge closer as he gathers up his white hair, long and straight and dirty from days of travel, and he crouches to the river. His hand scoops up the crisp, cold water to his pursed lips, and he drinks with an impressive hunger.

Hands lined with veins as thick as flower stems. What would they feel like to walk across?

We do not touch the land folk.

I scowl skyward. Curse you and your rules.

The horse stubbornly digs at the earth. Horses are smarter than humans. They know when to question, when to stay away. I am a stranger to her. An unknown sprite. I would have to gain her trust.

“Come on, Swing.”

“Swing?” I couldn’t help myself. Such a name is an insult to such a lovely creature. 

The man flounders, shocked eyes searching even as his body succumbs to falling. When his head resurfaces, his feet finding the riverbed, I spin close, breathing in deeply to take a big sniff. No, not of Folk. Folk don’t smell sharp and stinky. But he is even more impressive up close, the peaks and valleys of his face curious, especially as he scowls.

We do not touch the land folk.

Back to my original complaint, I flutter in front of his startled face, head tilted, hands on my hips. “You named your horse Swing?” 

“Bloody hell!” He sputters, wiping water from his eyes. “What–what are you?” Water sprays from his lips. “Where did you come from?”

“Rude.” I twirl, my toes skating across the cold water. “And you should give your horse a better name. A pretty name.”

He stares at me, eyes bright like candle flame. “You’re a sprite.”

I blink. “At least you can answer your own questions.” I float in a circle, tracing the shape with my toes across the water. “Swing doesn’t like her name.”

He looks from me to his horse. “What’s wrong with Swing?”

“It’s a silly name.” I trace the shape of his mouth in the water, the river sweeping it away as soon as it was made. “It doesn’t suit her at all.”

His uplifted eyebrows share his amusement. “And you know what suits her?”

“I know what doesn’t suit her.”

He exhales, the force of his breath pushing me back.

“Hey!” My heels draw lines as I dig them into the water. “Watch–”

But a panicked look wrinkles his face as he looked down. “Something’s got me.”

“Nothing’s got you.” Silly human, knowing nothing of rivers.

“I’m telling you,” he says slowly, his voice level but his eyes burning. “Something’s got me.”

“But–”

The cold water flowing around my feet whispers, I have him. Big, strong, delicious human.

“Oh.” I stare, his eyes following me. “The river likes you. Really likes you.”

“I’m sinking.” He grunts. “If it likes me, then why do I have the growing suspicion it’s going to kill me?”

“The river knows you’re not from here.” I flutter, unaware that rivers liked humans. How do I tell the river to not eat this large, delicious one?

Calloused skin that I can make soft, the river croons. Long hair like silk that I will forever run smooth.

“Is that why it’s pulling me in? Oh–” His eyes widen. “I think the trees are involved.”

I gasp. “The trees?”

“There are roots around my ankles.”

“The river may have asked the trees for aid,” I say. “The trees are very grateful for the water.” But the thought of what it would take to hold his massive form in place… “That’s a lot of root, to wrap around those ankles.”

A dimple appears on his left cheek as he smiles. “Would you mind telling the river I mean it no harm and I’m sorry for falling in?”

“It’s true. You can’t help it. You're a giant.”

“I’m not a giant.”

“You’re much larger than the other men who come here.” I swing my arms loosely as though my bones are gone. “Their bodies look like sticks and reeds and tall grass before the reapers come. But you’re a tree. A tree body with tree legs.”

Still fluttering in front of his face, I round out my arms to emphasize a larger physical girth and stomp on the water, tiny ripples undulating wherever my heels touch down.

He laughs, the rumbling-rock sound pleasant.

“Please, little sprite.” He squirms, likely trying to free himself from root and mud. “I’d like to get home alive and well. Tell your river to let me go.”

My river. Oh, the warmth that spread to my fingertips and toes! “What a sweet thing to say!” I rest my hand on my heart, touched by his kindness.

But he looks at me with one white eyebrow raised, like the snowy peak of a very lumpy mountain.

I don’t wait for another word, so touched am I by his esteem of me. I dive into the river and say, “You mustn't take him.” Desperate for a reason, I add, “His horse loves him. She would be lost without him.”

I doubt that, in all fairness. The mare would get on fine if something happens to her current rider. But rivers like emotions and sympathy, and we both agree that horses are magnificent.

But he’s so beautiful. The river courses around him. Would that I could hold him forever.

“You mustn’t,” I say again. “Please. Let him go. His horse would be heartbroken without him.”

The river sighs, the strength of its flow waning. Alas.

The river lets go, and the man crawls from its wet embrace onto the bank. I skate across the river’s gently moving surface, proud in my success.

“Thank you, little sprite.” He grips his hair with both hands, water streaming through his fingers. His horse nudges his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a name.”

“Names are important, little one.”

“Then why did you name her Swing?”

“Swing is a great name!”

“No.” I giggle, the sound like bells tinkling. “She hates it.”

“She doesn’t hate it.” He looks at her, his confidence wavering. “Do you hate it, Swing?”

The mare and I share a knowing look. “She likes you, so that’s something. But gods above, name her something lovely.”

“It is lovely!” He turns to her in a plea for support. “I swung from a rope and landed on her back, and we’ve been together ever since.”

I scrunch up my face. “You swung from a rope?”

“A daring escape from some dangerous people.” He rubs her nose affectionately. “I saved both of us that day. She was one of the horses prepared for battle.”

Battle. Such a dirty human word. But the mare did meet his eyes in gratitude.

“What should I name her, then?” His smile relaxes. “Buttercup? Petunia?”

“Certainly not!” She is very much not like a flower.

“Or River.” He gestures widely, looking around us. “Seems appropriate, as she and I have just made a new friend.”

Friend. Now that was a beautiful human word.

After seeking the mare’s approval, I say, “You may call her River, and I will call her Friend.”

Oh, how I long to pet her nose! But the cardinals had their rules, and the sprites must obey. We do not touch the land folk.

The man and his mare bid me farewell, and they walk along the river bank before disappearing from view. 

With the prophecy fulfilled, I sing to the crows of my victory. I had aided a shadow that wasn’t a shadow and saved a beautiful mare from a less-than-beautiful name.