Elemental

Once a May Queen, once a maiden, then bit by a vampire, now immortal, the memories of a sunlit pasture with sunny flowers had lost all color. A library of books would do. As would a friendly mole and badger. Perhaps they could bring her food ... now and then ... she had suffered on crumbs above ground. Here she would be grateful for less.

She had been bored for centuries. She'd learned the secrets of the soils, fashioned swords and polished crystals, sailed with the winds around the world, braved the furnace of a volcano.

She had never studied water.

The fear of water had started as a child. Thrown into a pond to sink or swim at age 6 she had frantically swam to shore, never trusting humans again. She ran away as soon as she could. That fated morning the fog hid her and the mist drew her away from reality. Reality was over-rated in her opinion; it was painful, terrifying, deadly. She'd found a cave near a village she could raid at night. The Moon vowed to never betray her.

But time changes everything and she had fled to other caves and other dangers. Finally she met María Sofia who nibbled on her neck. She neither regretted the romp before or after. But Sofie abandoned her in Bulgaria to marry a count. Both were accused of being vampires and their bodies buried and staked.

She wondered about that as she approached 100, wrapped up like a mummy to keep warm. She moved back to a cave to avoid suspicion.

She studied everything but water.

But one day while gathering dandelions she met Philip who needed an old auntie to travel with him. They cruised the High Seas. The lakes under the sands of the Sahara intrigued her. The thermal pools of Yellowstone soothed her. The glacial waters of Jotunheimen refreshed her. The dirty rivers flowing through the cess-pool of humanity disgusted her.

No longer afraid, she made her peace with water. She respected it. Earth, wind, fire, metal. Each element had a voice that she had learned to heed; but, now she was drawn to water.

Unfortunately, Philip moved to London to settle down, giving up his immortality to marry royalty and to live long and prosper.

Undefeated, she began to study the language of water. It was older than her and she'd always valued the wisdom of elders. She would cup some in her hand. Hot or cold, clear or murky, in a rush or languid, she knew the messages they conveyed. Her library held the notes of thousands of years and the tears of generations of humanity. True, she was no longer human but she refused to deny that she had been born a daughter of muckland barbarians. She would die in peace, if she were ever granted her greatest wish ... to just die.

Until then she would listen to the gurgle of water; each whoosh or trickle telling her what season it was and carrying news from above. She withdrew into the liminal space between here and there where nothing but breathing mattered. Even the sand in her hourglass seemed to slow with her thoughts.

One day she gazed into a puddle. The puddle gazed back, then spoke. "You're an ugly bag of mostly water." She shrugged. Yes, she resented that put down, but years of study have proven it to be true. Whatever beauty her face once held had faded with the estrangement of hundreds of years and had been replaced with soft folds and crinkles. She dropped a pebble into the puddle. The ripples laughed back at her. She smiled. They always laughed. Small certainties anchored her to the here and now. The past ran through her fingers. The future gathered at her feet. Neither impressed her.

Take ice: so many forms. Humans were slowly rediscovering that it was more than just cold water. It was dense, she would remind it, when it chose to speak. It's subtle rising and falling tones as it melted or refroze told the stories of what it encased in its embalming embrace.

Or consider the steam rising from black sands or asphalt to join the clouds. The rain cycle hissed or caressed, darkened the day or lit it up with a flash and a boom.

She watched the slow motion through roots and branches, the joy it gave to new leaves and buds. Without water life would be as rare as she was. She raised a chalice to that morsel of wisdom.

This winter the badger would bring a rind of bread. The mole would share some grubs. She sat by the entry to her cave and promised to behold the crystals of a thousand snowflakes as they sang to a hushed world that paused to listen.

Word count: 800