“No, Prophet. The lily pad has turned north instead of west,” The Child hollered.
The Prophet looked at The Child: her face, hard, like Mt. Rushmore, her eyes spilling over with water: her hands balled into fists, magnifying her frustration.
“The lily pad is moving correctly, Child.”
“Then, why did the speeding boat with people I know go west?”
“You mean those people who waved as they passed by?”
“You know what I mean, Prophet. Why are they going west, and I’m going north?”
“You’re upset Child.”
“No, I’m not. Why don’t you answer me?”
“Come back on the lily pad, and drink this soothing seaweed tea.”
The Child, standing on the sea, stood there shaking her head.
“No. I always listen to you, but this time you’re wrong, Prophet.”
“You don’t have to go to the north if you don’t want to Child. Turn the lily pad westward.”
The Child dried her eyes, walked to the lily pad and turned it to float west.
“I can use that tea now, Prophet.”
“Of course, Child.”
As she drank her tea, the sun eclipsed; darkness hovered over her. Suddenly, Mr. Whale and Mr. Eagle faded; the lily pad got lighter.
“Prophet?”
“Yes, Child.”
“Something’s wrong. The lily pad’s lighter and Mr. Whale and Mr. Eagle disappeared.
She observed The Prophet. “Prophet, you’re fading!”
“I know, Child.”
“Oh, no,” The Child cried and got up to walk on the water; she sank.
I can no longer walk on water.
Quickly, she turned the lily pad northward and climbed back onto it.
A few knots further, the sun shone; the ocean roared; Mr. Whale appeared, and Mr. Eagle flew over her head.
“What’s wrong, Child?”
“Oh, Prophet,” she cried, “I thought I’d lost you.”
“Come, Child, let me tell you a story.”
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
