Goddess in the Water

How could they possibly laugh? Didn't they know he was dead?

The young voices reached him through the scattered trunks of the slow-growth hardwoods. Male voices, excited and insecure, punctuated with the melody of a sweet feminine giggle.

Fuck. They didn't even know Scott - or Chrystal - had existed. Dusty ancient history returned to dust.

A powerful déjà vu swept over him, dressed in the tunic, broad white belt and accoutrements appropriate for Count Olaf Tentcleaver, as he was known by those who remembered the old days, and in a couple filks.

He had walked off, he thought, at random, to gather his wits. But he knew where the young voices, that musical cascading laughter, came from. The Dunking Pool, where all this recent pain had begun, so long ago.

-----

Forty years ago, to the day. Forty Halloweens ago.

The newly knighted Sir Olaf had won the Crown Tourney here at this campground near Colfax, festooned with idealized medieval pageantry for the weekend.

He'd won thirteen straight fights. None lasted near a minute. Nine bouts, he threw only a single blow - a 'one-shot.'

Forty years later, half an hour ago, an older, gimpier Olaf's mind had wandered to that peak moment and day, away from the armored combatants in front of him, and from his gloom, the emptiness he had felt slam home again at the news this morning of the second death. Scott.

First Chrystal, the reason he and Scott hadn't really spoken in...a lifetime. Gone. And now Scott, hit by a truck last night on his way home from fucking Safeway. Safe Way. Not for Scott, was it?

Just standing, watching the fight, Olaf's knee buckled. It happened often enough that he was ready for it, caught himself before he was in real danger of collapsing to the grass. Still, it was embarrassing. He moved away from the Field of Honor, walking toward the woods, toward stillness and quiet, refusing to let stiffness or an untrustworthy knee slow him too much.

"The gods walk among us."

Olaf turned, favoring the one knee, trying for a modest smile. He was a legend, granted, but hardly a deity.

No one. He had heard the resonant, friendly voice clearly, but there was no one in sight. He shook his head. Now he wasn't sure if the voice had been male or female.

He hadn't been the same since Chrystal's slow, ugly death, over a year ago. It had taken a year for him to reach out to Scott after decades of actively ignoring each other. Chrystal was gone, and she had been the grit that kept the forty year old wound fresh. After emails and a long phone conversation, they had agreed to meet here, this weekend.

Only this morning, still donning his tunic, belt, and chain in the parking lot, had another old timer relayed the news: Sir Roderick, Scott, closest friend of Olaf's youth, was dead, his compact old Honda CRX crushed by a drowsy semi driver who had wandered across two faded yellow lines. Safe fucking Way.

-----

The laughing voices consisted of two young men in the Dunking Pool with a slim, giggling, wet nymph. The two youngsters could have been himself and Scott, forty years ago. But the lithe beauty, long colorless hair clinging to her shoulders and head, was her. Not could have been. Was.

Forty years later and she looked exactly the same, in exactly the same place, the same short dress of clinging translucence.

The bigger of the two young bucks continued his chatter as she looked up, her eyes meeting Olaf. The voice dropped in volume, in importance, when those eyes abandoned the speaker.

Her thin, cautious smile disappeared for an instant before a wider, spontaneously delighted one showed small straight teeth, her delicate chin dropping, flashing a dimple. She recognized him.

No.

No. When her smile had returned, brighter than before, he'd seen it wasn't truly her. Of course. She couldn't be, not forty years later. His heart was loud in his ears, his breath short. Her grin faltered, as though disappointed he hadn't returned it with as much enthusiasm.

The girl was beautiful and...similar. The face wasn't the same, but still had those gracile, elven features he would never forget. Features no other face had ever reminded him of, over decades, until now.

The dress wasn't the same either, he saw now. A thin shift of faded muddy green, instead of the blue he recalled, it lacked the sleeves he distinctly remembered. Sleeves of lacy flutters moving behind her arms as they sculled, languid, through the clear water so long ago.

He'd forgotten so much. Just today, Olaf had heard two stories about himself that he had no memory of until hearing them told. Why did he remember translucent sleeves over graceful arms, fluttering through water forty years ago?

His head turned down and away in defensive reflex as soon as the tears began to form. Olaf glimpsed what looked like real sadness, disappointment, on the girl's face before his vision blurred. Then she turned her attention back to her young companions. The exchange only took a instant. The young speaker may not have even registered Olaf's presence, or the slim nymph's momentary distraction.

He hurried on, blinking, but not in time to stop matching wet tracks from running down from the corner of each eye.

Fuck. That was how it all began, all those years ago. Right there in the damn Dunking Hole.

Olaf and Scott had been inseparable. Roommates and best friends. They found the Society - a group of paperback fiction reading history lovers who thought they would recreate the best of the Middle Ages - at an early Fantasy Con near San Francisco. It took less than a month before the two had combined carpet, leather and some scrap metal into crude but wearable armor, held together with dental floss stitched with a curved mattress needle.

Two years later, They were Sir Olaf and Sir Roderick, still inseparable, and now cutting a swath through the growing Hippy-geek-outcast-artist society of the Society. Then lovely Chrystal, Scott's new girlfriend, joined them. Lovely, passionate Chrystal.

-----

The three had arrived early at the campground, Scott following after his shift at work ended at noon, Olaf driving down first thing in the morning. Chrystal joined Olaf, to make sure he picked the best available spot for their campsite, before the best were claimed. Once they were set up and settled in, the muggy and warm afternoon air made a dip in the nearby mountain stream sound ideal.

The three had followed the winding trail to the Dunking Hole. There were enough medievalist campers already setting up that they weren't surprised that they weren't the first to think of a cooling dip.

She had been in the water when the three arrived at the pool, where generations of visitors had stacked, moved and restacked rocks to form a suitably deep soaking area, continuously refilling with fresh flowing water. The newly knighted Olaf had heard her laughter, a soft music trill, before they rounded the last bend and saw her in the water.

Walking behind the Scott and Chrystal, Olaf saw Crystal stiffen at the sound. Already holding Scott's hand, she gripped it tight. Her stance grew almost wary. She pulled his friend close when the pool came into sight.

The girl was slim and pretty. Very slim. With a wide, open smile. Pronounced but delicate features formed her face, with arching high cheek bones and wide-spaced almond eyes an unusual pale blue-green that nearly matched her thin, soaked dress. Even absentmindedly waving her arms through the cool waters of the pool, her motions seemed graceful and fluid, arms and hands moving more like jointless fronds of kelp than human limbs. Mesmerizing.

Her patter of laughs ended when she saw the newcomers, but her wide smile grew brighter. Olaf was sure he'd been mistaken, but he thought for a moment that her eyes had glowed briefly, or perhaps sparkled, when they had met his. Alone in the water, he briefly wondered what had brought her laughter.

The stranger was beautiful, but more attractive than that alone could explain. Her musical laugh washing over him, she squeezed in between the two knights once the three newcomers had settled into the water.

When Chrystal cleared her throat, loud and annoyed, it took a determined effort for Olaf to drag his attention away from the new girl, her hand now stroking his thigh under the water, unseen leg close against his. Scott seemed entirely engrossed, did not react at all to his girlfriend's loud, clear hint.

Spending extra time with Chrystal, including the drive down early that day, Olaf had been almost ready to admit to having a crush on his best friend's girl. She was smart, low maintenance, and oozed sexuality.

Then Chrystal had stood up, out of the water, eyes blazing.

Olaf was stunned by the sight of her soaked, thin cotton chemise molded to every subtle and delightful curve as she rose up out of the dammed waters, eyes glaring at his friend in jealous, righteous anger. A small hand still stroking his thigh, Olaf stared up at Chrystal, displayed perfectly through clinging wet muslin, nothing hidden from throat to thigh, and knew he'd always remember that sight. And envied his friend more the squeals, giggles and other sounds he had heard in the darkness and coming from under a blanket.

Chrystal stood over them, dripping water. Face flush, radiant. Her eyes shot lightning at Scott, the fool completely engrossed in the slender beauty who had squeezed in between the two men, utterly oblivious to his girlfriend.

-----

When the two friends returned to camp later Chrystal wanted nothing to do with Scott, and told him so in very colorful, explicit terms. He'd had no answer at all when she'd accused him of not only "fucking around on me, but doing it right in front of me, acting like you can't fucking even see me three feet away."

Olaf remembered: it was like exactly that. Nothing mattered but the slim, slick little nymph in the pool. He remembered the shock of snapping out of it, at the sight of Chrystal's clinging chemise and radiant, envious, angry glare staring down at the oblivious Scott. When she had stormed out of the water and away, Olaf's eyes had captured one last look at the thin wet cloth hiding only the deepest shadows of her striding, retreating bottom.

When the vision vanished with the first bend in the trail, Olaf turned as though commanded, saw Scott standing in front of the girl, legs submerged. The girl whose eyes held Olaf's. Held him with an intensity that made it clear he was not to look away again.

She half floated, kept her eyes on Olaf as her mouth joined the slim hand that pumped his friend's cock. Scott's face shone with the idiocy of ecstasy, his eyes glazed, unseeing.

Her hips, slighter, less flared than the ones that had just stormed off, rose in the water. The sensual, beautiful Siren began to slurp and suck with abandon right in front of him, finally released his eyes as she turned her backside to him.

More than his eyes, his attention, his very being, were tied then to those lithe hips. Fully erect with no memory of any of the familiar intermediate steps, he reached for her in the thigh-deep water. His hands found her waist as twin pale globes broke the surface, fingers slipping under the filmy skirt bunched there.

Her upward movement dragged his swollen, sensitive bulb down between her cheeks. A numb, tingling, electric fire radiating out from where he touched her, the center of his unnatural focus. Floating, bobbing, her smooth soaked crevice stroked back against him, up and down, in time with the motions of her head swallowing Scott's length.

Her cry matched his at their contact: wordless, voiceless moans, hers muffled by the contents of her mouth. Frantic fingers found his thigh, a slim arm filmed with gossamer cloth reaching back just below the water's surface. They urged him closer.

His tip found her welcome where the water met the air. No aiming, struggling, or adjusting. He pushed, opening her, feeling how ready she was.

Still, she was small. Even with his strong grip on her weightless hips it took the surprisingly strong hand she reached back, grasping further and deeper behind his thigh, to force her back onto him, force him fully inside her.

-----

Scott had driven off in a frustrated huff, unable to face Chrystal's accusations. Olaf had been in a haze of euphoria since the encounter in the pool.

Face up in his sleeping bag, the glow still filled him, fueled his stupid satisfied grin in the dark. The girl in the pool had been so attractive, so chemically appealing, and so intent on him. Scott had been a mild addition, simply because he had been present and there was so much intoxicating sex in the air.

The little nymph had been focused on Olaf in the water, focused with her body and desire, once Chrystal had left. And now he couldn't keep his mind from focusing on her. How her mouth had abandoned his friend as soon as he released his seed. How she had spun in the water, effortlessly graceful, while impaled deep on him.

How she had ridden him, encouraging him to empty an impossibly wrenching, draining load deep inside her, and then continued on, keeping him at a feverish pitch of lust until he emptied himself in her a second time. How he had felt her body sucking him, pulsing and squeezing in ecstasy to take in every last drop of his offerings.

He heard Chrystal enter the tent. Other than a dim shadow as the flap opened, he couldn't see her at all in the inky dark.

"Ollie?" Her voice was tight, constricted. He heard the tears and frustration in it.

"Yeah." He hoisted himself up on one elbow. After a brief rustle, he felt her hand on his leg, through the sleeping bag. Having located him, she dropped down, pulling her knees up, wriggling her back against him. Olaf draped an arm over her, found the heavy wool cloak she was wrapped in.

"This sucks." He felt a twinge of pain at her voice. Usually so strong, so confident, her vulnerability left him at a loss so he held her in silence. Finally she spoke again, her voice small, unsure. "Will you fight for me tomorrow, Ollie?"

Tomorrow meant the Autumnal tournament, where each knight would fight to make himself the next King, and his Lady Consort the next Queen. He and Scott had often joked that the rule was put in place so the geeky nerds who had started the tradition would have an excuse to get a date.

"Of course." Even as he promised, he knew Scott would be furious, and rightly so.

She turned in toward him, buried her face against his neck. He felt the vibrations of her words, lips against his neck, louder than he heard their sound.

"Make me Queen, Ollie." He shivered as the lips pressed close, under his ear. "And I will make you very happy."

-----

Of course he had made her Queen, fighting like a man possessed. Of course it ruined his friendship with Scott, who refused to speak to either of them after he heard of Olaf's victory, and the lady he had fought to honor. Of course, Chrystal had made him extremely happy that night, teasing and pleasing his exhausted body in ways he had never experienced, pleased him almost enough to distance his memories of a soaked nymph in the Dunking Hole.

Olaf and Chrystal had married, moved inland to the foothills of the western Sierras. She had honored her promise, making him happy for many years, and eventually even dimming slightly his haunting, bone-deep reminders of another girl in a swirling pool.

Mercifully, the cancer had been aggressive, quicker than the worst of them, and almost painless. She had just been so tired, so drained of vitality. Too drained to even speak near the end. The only sign of her vibrant, feisty life was the twinkle that had never left her eyes. Not until they closed the last time as he sat next to the hospital bed he had placed in their living room, holding her hand, lost and alone, listening in horror to those last harsh breaths.

-----

He hurried on from the Dunking Hole, the pace making him lurch to one side to ease the strain on his worse knee. He used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe the tears from his cheeks, shaking his head. He had set off walking at random, with no intention to return to that fateful spot. His feet, or some unrecognized yearning, had led him back there.

Now, those feet led him upstream, a narrow game trail paralleling the creek. The path emptied into a clearing. The creek had widened at that spot, becoming an almost still pool of shallow water.

An old woman stood ankle deep in the pool near the bank, staring downstream. She was willowy, with long, grey hair plastered straight down her back. She appeared to have just stood after submerging in the pool.

She gave him a brief nod, a narrow smile, before her gaze returned downstream.

"M'lady." He nodded in return. "I did not mean to intrude."

Her eyes returned to him, stayed. "You are not intruding, Sir Knight. Not at all."

Her voice was low, soft, musical, like distant bells.

Olaf bent his head in a hint of a bow. "I am Count Olaf. Pleased to meet you."

"I know who you are." The answer didn't surprise him; he was still well-known among many of the older Society members, even if he couldn't place her. "My name is..."

"Come again?" It was an old, immature joke and it came out without thought.

She giggled at his response to hearing her odd, lengthy name pronounced, covering her smiling lips with slender, graceful fingers. Looking at her, he wondered how a simple laugh could wipe so much wear and age from a face. When he had first seen her a moment ago, standing so still at the edge of the pool in her faded teal dress, the color bled away until what should have been a festive shade had now turned almost camouflage, she had seemed ancient.

Handsome, lovely, with high cheek bones framing her face, but ancient. Her skin was not sagging, but covered with tiny cracks and winding empty rivulets. Ancient, though the slim body beneath the clinging, flowing dress looked shapely and fit. Her long hair, not tied up but cascading over her shoulders, was a shimmering silver grey.

Had her hair shimmered when he'd first seen her, before the laugh? He could swear it had been dull, dingy grey, that her posture had been more sagging, almost decrepit.

Now her eyes, also an unusual, faded green-blue, twinkled as she laughed. The back of the hand covering her mouth looked smoother than before; her face as well.

She smiled up at him. A proper smile, open and friendly. It showed no age, no receding gums revealing too long of teeth. "You should see how they try to spell it. Call me Eddy."

"Eddy." Maybe he had heard something distantly resembling 'Winifred' in the long name she had rattled off. Maybe.

Eddy, like a swirling current of water, going against the flow.

He stood on the bank above the sandy-bottomed patch of water. Two leaves and - momentarily - a large red dragonfly resting on the flat surface indicated the lazy swirl of water back upstream along the bank, inches beyond his toes, defying the slow progress of the rest of the water down toward the dam of roughly stacked rocks that formed the Dunking Hole.

Continuing its slow and doomed journey upstream to where Eddy stood, one leaf moved aside enough to slip past her slim bare ankle.

Olaf realized that she was standing in or perhaps on the shallow water. He stared. The water was clear; he could see the sand of the bottom inches below the surface. His eyes traced her shapely ankles down to the water but he saw no sign of her below. No feet, no toes, nothing disturbing the sandy bottom.

In shock, his eyes came back up to meet hers, now brighter than before. Her grin was wide and open, her skin toned more, her hair shimmering bright.

Olaf inhaled sharply. He knew her.

His eyes went wide in shock. Not at recognizing that this old woman, this beautiful, ageless woman, was the same girl he had encountered yards from here forty years ago. His eyes went wide with surprise at his own inhaled breath. He hadn't been able to breath like that, without a sharp stabbing pain in his back, since an operation five years before.