“Petal! What are you doing?” cried Aron. “Petal!” He ran
back and forth along the shore as he squinted and tried to
peer into the inky water. But he saw only the round, white
moon above and his own dark silhouette gazing up at him.
Finally, he jumped in.
The water was cold and black, and he couldn’t see a
thing. He came up for air, then dove even deeper, grabbing
blindly at the water, ripping at lily pad stems and smacking
a few startled fish. But after becoming so tired that he
nearly drowned, Aron finally pulled himself onto the bank
and collapsed. There he slept, his legs and arms twitching as
if he were still diving, until he was awakened by the
morning sun and the warbling of birds.
Convinced that his daughter had drowned, Aron mulled
over the idea of taking his own life as he returned to his
cottage. But, lo and behold, who did he find there, once
more curled up in her bed as if nothing had happened, but
Petal!
Aron shook his head. He was almost ready to believe
he had dreamed the whole adventure, except that, once
more, he saw puddles on the floor leading to his daughter’s
bed.
Though he was overjoyed, Aron was also furious. He
was about to shake his daughter awake and demand an
explanation when he decided, No, let her confess to me on
her own. It would be better that way.
But confess what exactly? That she had gone for a
midnight swim? Surely that’s all there was to it. Surely there
was nothing – no one – in the pond waiting for her.
Still, in the Forest of Wayreth, you never know.
So all that day, Aron waited for his daughter to tell him
what happened. From his loom he kept eyeing her, but all
she did was go happily about her duties.
Fine! thought Aron in frustration. Let her think she’s
fooled the old man! I will just have to catch her in the act!
For the rest of the day, Aron played the innocent, too.
He smiled at his daughter, engaged her in polite
conversation during lunch and dinner, and generally acted
as if nothing were on his mind – except that, while at his
loom, he was busy weaving a plot.
Then, in the evening, earlier than usual, he said, “I’m
tired. I think I’ll turn in.”
Petal, darning in a rocking chair near the fire, said, “All
right, Father. I’ll put out the fire.”
Aron stretched a phony stretch and went to his room.
But he had never been more awake. He crouched by his
bedroom window and peered out into the night air, waiting
for his daughter to leave the cottage.
He waited so long, though, that he nodded off for a
moment. When he stirred himself, he hurried into Petal’s
room and saw that she had left. Nearly panic-stricken that
he had lost an opportunity, Aron grabbed his stick, a
lantern, and a net, and he hurried outside and passed
between the two tulip trees.
By the time he reached the pond, Petal was already
standing on its banks and calling toward the abandoned
beaver dam, “My love, my love, take me to your home.”
Then she slipped off her gown and stepped into the water.
Aron waited. He wanted to catch both Petal and
whoever came to her. When the water reached Petal’s neck,
her long fair hair floating behind her, Aron sprang out and
tossed the net across the water. But Petal dropped below too
quickly, and Aron pulled in only a turtle and two frogs. He
quickly lit his lantern and held it over the water. What he
saw below horrified him.
Just beneath the surface, but sinking ever deeper, was the
pale form of Petal, hand-in-hand with another being, a
shadowy creature made indistinct by both night and water.
Aron pressed so close to the water to see that his nose and
lantern went under, the flame extinguishing with a hiss. The
two forms disappeared.
Aron pulled back and sat on the bank near his
daughter’s gown, which he took in his hand. His heart was