Death By Water

The late afternoon sun streamed into the courtyard and turned everything to gold. A wealthy merchant-sailor's wife sat at the fountain, weeping. Presently a Naiad rose from the fountain's water and asked her, "Why, O Human Woman, do you mix the salt water with the sweet?"

The woman, whose name was Tynadel, was too surprised by the Naiad's appearance to answer except with another question: "What brings you to my home, O Naiad? Should you not be blessing with your presence the wild springs and streams?"

"All waters are one water," said the Naiad, "and I am one with the water. Your fountain is a pleasant resting place. Why do you brine it with your tears?"

Tynadel sighed. "My husband is at sea again," she said, "and about no mere merchant voyage. The crew sails under a terrible oath that may claim his life. And that I could bear, for no journey is without risk, if only I could be sure to receive news of what might befall him. But that cannot be, for they sail beyond any isles we know."

The Naiad gave her a look like water, when water pierces stone. "O Woman, I can grant you the knowledge you wish. But are you quite sure you want it? Knowledge can grieve you worse than any ignorance."

"The knowledge of my husband's death is better come timely than late," Tynadel said. Then she gave a bitter laugh. "Or do you mean the knowledge of my husband's unfaithfulness? Oh, I have long assumed he finds a lover at every port; it concerns me not. That he has always come home to me is faith enough."

The Naiad gave her a look like water, when water caresses the shore. "And what faith does he require from you?"

Tynadel moved into the circle of the Naiad's arms. "That I am here when he returns will suffice," she said.

The Naiad kissed her and drew her down beneath the waters of the fountain. There Tynadel became, briefly, one with all waters, and she knew what the waters knew. She heard the beating of plague-drums, and she saw her husband's ship turn wide at the warning. By the time she surfaced, panting and shuddering in the Naiad's embrace, the ship had found berth on the wilderness side of the island and was taking on water at a stream.

"When did this occur?" Tynadel gasped.

"Even now," the Naiad whispered, lips brushing Tynadel's ear.

"Then he is safe, and saved, and I rejoice." Then Tynadel turned sober, and said, "For now."

"Remain beside me, and you will not lack for further news of his voyage." The Naiad kissed Tynadel's frowning lips until she smiled again.

The next morning, Tynadel dismissed the household staff until her husband's return. They would only worry over her strange behavior. And strange it was, for she spent more time wet than dry, submerged with the Naiad in the fountain, witnessing every league of her husband's journey. She broke the surface only to eat and drink; she left the courtyard only to fetch herself food and wine.

Thus Tynadel learned of the pirates that forbore to give chase, and of the sea serpent that failed to crush the ship in its coils. She watched her husband weather a three-day storm; she saw him thirst while they were becalmed. She wondered at the three shipwrecked children the crew rescued in open sea, and marveled to learn who they were.

She witnessed, too, the sort of hospitality her husband enjoyed at Redhaven.

"I told you that knowledge might grieve you," said the Naiad when they came to the surface. Her lower lip bled where Tynadel had bitten it.

"I am not grieved," Tynadel lied. "I am not surprised in the least. I suspected as much."

"But you are disappointed to have your suspicions confirmed."

"I will not speak of it," she said. "Kiss me again." The blood from the Naiad's lip tasted of the sea that flowed about the Isle of Brenn.

One day, when Tynadel's husband suffered no greater adventure than filling the ship's casks at a stream, the Naiad went stiff in Tynadel's arms. She shoved her roughly out of the water. Tynadel rolled over the fountain ledge and landed, bruised, in the grass. "What's wrong?" she asked when she caught her breath. "Have I angered you in any way?" She reached out a conciliatory hand.

The Naiad shrank from her touch. "The lake," she whispered.

"What lake? I saw only the stream."

"Others have gone inland. They found a lake whose touch brings death." The Naiad pressed her back against the fountain's spire and hugged her arms tight across her breasts. "Water should not bring death."

"But water brings death every day. Even tomorrow my husband might—"

The Naiad shook her head impatiently. "The water is not his element. He cannot breathe it. Should he try, and perish, the water is not to blame. It still gives life to the creatures that call it home, to those who drink it, to the world that would wither without it. But in this lake, no creatures live. All who drink it die. It kills at a touch. It is wrong."

Despite her bafflement, Tynadel could see that her lover's distress was real. But the Naiad would not accept her comfort. "I dare not touch you. All waters are one water, and I am one with the water of that lake."

She kept her promise. She continued giving Tynadel news of her husband's voyage. But she gave it by word alone, in a voice like water when water is empty of life. Every day she spoke thus, until what she said was this: "The ship has gone as far east as it might and still return. It is returning now." Her message delivered, the Naiad sank to the bottom of the fountain and rose to speak no more.

Tynadel burned with fear and worry during the long return voyage. Though she knew the crew would seek no unnecessary danger, danger still might find them. The sea serpent was out there. So were the pirates, and the storms. And there was no comfort for her fear, no amorous distractions with a lover, no kind words from a friend. She remained beside the fountain, hoping against hope that the Naiad would relent and break her silence. But she did not.

So Tynadel knew nothing more about her husband's voyage until the day her husband came home. She started out of a doze to hear the gate rattling under his hand. "Tynadel! Tynadel, are you there? Where has the gatekeeper gone?"

Relief melted warm and golden through her marrow as she sprang up and ran to let him in. "Rynelf! Thank goodness! The gatekeeper's gone home; I sent the staff away. Come in, come in!" She held his hands and pulled him, laughing, through the courtyard. "Tomorrow is soon enough to call them back. Tonight I don't want anyone disturbing us." They stopped beside the fountain and stared hungrily at each other, too reluctant to part with a sight they'd missed for so long even to fall into each other's arms.

Then Rynelf's eyes left Tynadel's and went wide at what they saw. The Naiad had emerged from the fountain. She gave them both a look like water, when the terrible weight of water crushes ships on the ocean floor. "My love," whispered Tynadel, unsure which of them she was addressing.

The naiad said nothing. She became a wave that crashed over both Tynadel and Rynelf then cascaded down their bodies to seep away beneath the grass.

The late afternoon sun streamed into the courtyard and turned everything to gold. Presently it set and night fell. And Rynelf and Tynadel remained there, two lifeless gold statues standing in a patch of lifeless gold grass.