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A Short Story From My New Book, Loverless Love


 The Neck

The neck, or water nixie, is a shapeshifting water spirit.


I met her while walking along a stream that runs through the heart of the campus. For the most part, this narrow watercourse is quite open to view, with few trees or shrubs on its banks. Every few hundred yards, arched walking bridges look like they came from paintings by Monet. Only two bridges allow for motor traffic and they are at opposite ends of the “old campus” half a mile apart. Beyond them are all the newer buildings, dormitories and sports facilities mostly. In the heart of the old campus, though, it feels like another world, nothing but limestone and red maple trees, and gardens of perennials everywhere.

I found the neck sitting on the bank of the stream between two bushes, one nestled up against one of the bridges, the other a couple of yards further downstream. I saw at once that she was lovely, with golden hair and a yellow flower tucked behind one ear. She wore a luminescent blue-green dress that stretched from her throat to below her feet; in other words, as long as a wedding dress with a train. I stopped and she turned to look at me, pulling her dress up slightly to reveal lovely bare feet.

“Hello,” she said, surprising me. Most women on campus, students or faculty, would have simply turned away from a stranger who stopped to look at them.

“Hello,” I said.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“I would, if you don’t mind,” I answered. I was carrying a load of books and papers and the idea of a short rest was appealing, not to mention the company.

She pulled her dress across her knees and made room for me between the bushes.

“I know what I remind you of,” she said, as I settled down.

“That would certainly impress me if you did.”

“A neck, or nixie.”

“You’re right! How could you know?”

“Because that’s what I look like!” she said and laughed.

“Yes, but only a professor of northern mythologies, among other things, would even know what a ‘neck’ is. And most people can’t tell a nixie from a pixie, and you’re no pixie.”

She laughed again and put her hand on my knee for just a moment.

“You’re funny.”

I began to feel a bit ridiculous and suspected some kind of game was going on. I looked around, expecting to see a camera phone peeking out from behind a tree. I almost got up and walked away, but, even if it was a game, I thought, it seemed harmless enough.

“Thank you, I guess,” I said and patted her knee slightly, which caused her to just slightly pull away.

“I’m sorry. I’m harmless enough,” I said, echoing my own thoughts.

“Sorry for what? What do you mean harmless? Of course, you’re harmless. Why else do you think I asked you to join me?”

“Good point,” I said, a bit confused. “Can I ask why you’re wearing such a beautiful gown?”

“Why, don’t you like it?” 

“I do like it. It’s charming. It’s just a little unusual given the circumstances.”

“I don’t understand,” she said and frowned, almost on the verge of being upset.

“I only meant that most women on campus don’t wear such lovely clothes, except at parties or other events in the evening.”

I paused, but received no reaction.

“You don’t dress like that all the time, do you?”

Now I was really off track. A tear fell from her eye, which she touched with her forefinger. I thought she was about to stand up and leave. Instead, she laughed and touched the tear to my cheek.

“There, now you’re mine, not that you deserve it,” she said, her smile half human, half flower.

“In what sense?” I asked, playing along.

“You know exactly in what sense.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I do.”

“Forever,” she said.

Again, I looked behind me, even under the bush on our left.

“Why do you keep looking away? You like looking at me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

I thought, from this moment on, the less I said the better, and wondered if even saying “yes” might have been inappropriate.

“Good. I like looking at you,” she said, but quickly continued. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Or maybe just sit here and enjoy the Marigold.”

“The what?” she asked. Now she was looking around in every direction. “I don’t see any marigolds.”

“The stream. It’s called the Marigold. Didn’t you know?”

“Of course not. And that’s not its name.”

I wasn’t about to argue, but curiosity couldn’t prevent me from asking, “What do you call it?”

“It’s not what I call it. It’s its name.”

“And what is that?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to tell you. Besides, you wouldn’t understand anyway.”

She was smoothing the dress along her thighs, not in the least suggestively, but in simple admiration of its stunning fabric.

“I’d tell you if I could,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” I said quickly, since she seemed on the verge of upset once again.

“Why do you call it Marigold?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to remember, but nothing occurred to me. “Perhaps before they built the campus the area was full of marigolds?”

“I think it was named after Mary Gold. A young woman like me, with hair like mine.”

“That would make sense,” I agreed. “In fact, I like your explanation far better than mine.”

“I would like to meet Mary Gold.”

I thought, just look into the river, which at that moment was still as a mirror. But I didn’t say anything, afraid again of saying something inappropriate.

Here I must explain that I was, at that moment, 47 years old, a tenured professor, and a married father of a daughter attending Harvard on a full scholarship. I was homely as a shard of broken concrete, but people liked me because I was a nice, honest, hard-working fellow always ready to help out or listen to a friend. My wife of almost 30 years was no raving beauty either, but she was liked for many of the same reasons I was. I adored every bone in her slightly plump little body.

Thus, it came as a huge surprise when a student, I was later to learn a graduate student in biology and a former member of the football team, came up from behind and said, “Is this guy bothering you, young lady?”

She turned and looked at him and said, “No. He’s my friend.”

“I saw him put his hand on your knee.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” I insisted. “I barely touched her knee in an innocent gesture of agreement.”

“That’s not how I see it, buddy,” he persisted. “I see a man sitting in the grass talking to a young lady half his age and I’m pretty sure you made her cry.”

He turned to the young woman and smiled sympathetically.

“Did he make you cry?”

“Indeed. He made me shed a tear. Now he’s mine forever.”

“Okay, that’s enough. Get to your feet, professor, and be on your way.”

“How do you know I’m a professor?”

“Who cares? I could throw a rock across the quad and have a fifty-fifty chance of hitting a professor.”

I started to get up to have a private word with this young asshole, but the young lady grabbed my arm, holding me back, then stood up. She leaned down and said, “Remember, you are mine forever. That’s when we’ll meet again.”

Then she kissed me, lingeringly, just for a moment, on the lips.

She turned to the young man and slapped his face so hard he fell backward on the ground, his head just missing the sidewalk.

“What did you do that for? I was trying to help!” he cried.

“You wanted me for yourself. I am no one but his, and he knows when we shall meet again.”

Then she turned back toward the Marigold and dove in, her body as straight and strong as a young willow.

The young man stood and came forward.

“Yowza!” he cried.

Shoulder to shoulder we stood waiting, but she didn’t surface.

“Hurry!” I shouted and took off my shoes and jacket. We entered the water at the same time. It was a stone bottom stream, so the water was very clear. There was no sign of the young lady.

After diving numerous times both up- and downstream, we gave up any hope of finding her. The campus police had been called and arrived almost immediately. They too shed their heavier clothing and dove in repeatedly. The water was only four feet deep, so there was no need to drag the bottom.

Just as the sun was beginning to set behind the campus library, I noticed something fluttering under one of the foot bridges. I called everyone to that point and went in after it. I came out of the water with the young woman’s garment, which was all that was ever found.

There was an investigation, of course, by the police and by the college administration. Both the young man and myself were accused of vaguely inappropriate behavior, but nothing could be done with no witnesses and no more evidence than a shimmering dress.

There was never a report of a missing young woman. Every young woman on campus and from the town nearby was accounted for.

I never could convince myself that it was all a hoax to demonstrate inherent male issues of disrespect toward women, and that the woman, having stripped off, was met by someone with a robe and hurried away from the stream. But it was the likeliest explanation.

The dress would eventually be donated to the theater department to be worn by young actresses, perhaps in the part of Hamlet’s Ophelia or The Tempest’s Miranda.

Why me? I often asked myself. Why put in an aging professor’s head the idea, which never faded, that someday he would again meet such a creature, and be hers forever. Forever.

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