Daughters of the Lake(32)

In that time and place, the people had begun to forget the old legends and tales told to them by their ancestors, legends of fearsome spirits of the land and the water and the sky. They no longer believed, no longer prayed, and so the spirits turned a blind eye to their troubles, refusing help during times of need and delighting in confounding those who crossed their paths. But this girl, something about her was not like the others. Geneviève’s beauty and the force of her grief softened the lake spirit’s heart. He watched as she wept by the lakeshore and moved closer to listen.

“Papa! Why did you leave me?” she wailed. “How am I to get home? What am I to do? I am all alone in this strange place!”

The spirit of the lake knew how far she had traveled to get there—she couldn’t possibly get home on her own. And the people, he thought with a sneer of disgust, couldn’t be counted on to help her.

And so he waded out of the water, donning the human form that he and all of the spirits kept for occasions when they walked among the people, and said to her, “I will take you home.”

Geneviève looked up into his black eyes, and for some reason, she was not afraid of this stranger. He seemed to radiate a glow, even there in the darkness.

“My canoe is nearby.” He gestured to a long wooden boat. “I have blankets and a heavy coat to keep you warm and plenty of food for the journey. You will arrive safely, this I promise you.”

He extended his hand to her, and she reached up to grasp it. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

He placed his heavy coat on her shoulders, and she drew it around her, cuddling into its warm fur lining. Then she settled into the front of his canoe on a nest of soft blankets he had arranged for her, and they were off, gliding across the still water into the night.

The spirit of the lake had only planned to ferry her safely home, but sometime during the trip, he found himself staring at her long, shining hair instead of at the horizon as she sat in the front of his canoe. He began to make excuses to stop paddling and rest on land for a while so he could have a chance to sit and look into her bright eyes and talk with her face-to-face. He asked her about her home and her family and her upbringing. She spoke so lovingly of her parents that it melted his heart, and the first moment he heard her laugh, he knew he had fallen deeply in love with her.

When they finally reached her home, they were greeted with both celebration and grief. As the village mourned the loss of Geneviève’s father, they also celebrated the stranger who had been so kind to return Geneviève to the people she loved. They offered food and drink and hospitality to the stranger, who accepted it gratefully.

But Geneviève’s mother looked at this man and knew that it was not simple human kindness that had compelled him to save her daughter, and perhaps not human kindness at all. She was closer to the old ways and legends than anyone else in her village—she had heard tales from her elders of the spirits of nature taking human form and walking among the people. There was a slight glow about them, her grandmother had said, a subtle sheen in their eyes that wasn’t quite human. Look carefully enough, her grandmother had said, and you’ll see it.

Geneviève’s mother looked carefully at the stranger and knew what she saw. One evening, when they were sitting by the fire, when nobody else was near enough to listen, she told him she recognized who he was. He did not deny it.

“What do you want of her?” Geneviève’s mother demanded.

“I am in love with Geneviève,” the spirit answered. “I want her to be my wife.”

“But you cannot marry my daughter!” her mother cried. “She cannot live where you live.”

The spirit nodded his head. “That is why I will consent to live where she lives. If she’ll have me.”

Coming upon them at that moment, Geneviève sat down next to him and held out her hands for his to grasp. “If I’ll have you?” She smiled.

“Since your father is not here with us, I was asking your mother for your hand in marriage.” He smiled, his face glowing like the lake’s surface on a sundrenched day. “If you’ll have me.”

Geneviève threw her arms around him and laughed, a sound that filled up his heart like the prayers of the faithful once had. And so it was done. The spirit of the lake took the human name of Jean-Pierre to honor his bride’s father and married Geneviève on the lakeshore one beautiful, bright day. They settled into a small house in the village.

Along with his new name and his new bride, Jean-Pierre took on a new vocation as well, that of a fisherman. It was a way for him to at least visit his beloved home, even if he could no longer dwell there. He would paddle his canoe into a secluded spot, shed his human form, and slip beneath the water’s surface, stretching out to touch each and every one of the billions of water droplets that made up this great lake. Home. And there he would stay for much of the day—fishermen were away from the village from before sunup until sundown, after all—until he would fill his canoe with fish, don his human form again and paddle toward the village and his beloved wife. If there was anything Jean-Pierre adored more than his water realm, it was only Geneviève.

Soon, they welcomed a child into the world, whom they called Violette. Jean-Pierre walked to the lakeshore with the babe in his arms and waded into the shallows to introduce his darling girl to his true home.