Everything that can be imagined is reality somewhere.
I have never had a real name, but the few who have imagined me have later spoken of having dreamed of a nymph. I am not as storybooks describe tree nymphs or sea nymphs, nor am I 'a' anything; I am the only one like me. Still, a nymph I have been called and a Nymph I call myself. Many years of people I have observed. I can consider myself neither omniscient, nor omnipresent for I only see what God asks me to see. At times desires are granted through me, but I never know which wish or whose until the granting is upon me. Mine is only to watch and remember.
My story would take more volumes than could be read by all the people in the world. This is not my story; it is only mine to tell.
The rain hit the ground that day like so many meteors falling to earth. Cold, wintery winds wrapped cloaks around peoples' legs as they splashed through puddles on their way to whatever business had brought them out on such a day. As had others on similar days, the occasional sufferer stopped just long enough to stare up at the sky, blanketed in grey, and wonder what it would be like if the sun never shown again. Indeed, this was a common muse in these, the winter months, when the western world went for immeasurable periods of time wrapped in gloom. A simple breeze would burn the eyeballs and a person caught standing still for too many seconds could quickly find themselves returning home to leave even the most important errand for another day.
On this day, I watched, as I had so many times before, and watched as in slow motion the pregnant mirroring drops collided with the cobblestone and rebounded in a glimmer of colors - instantly becoming part of whatever it came in contact with. My eyes wandered along the ground, catching glimpses of delicate heels peaking out from under sodden folds of calico. Leather boots, polished and scuffed alike, strode along on their errands. All hurried along on some errand of extreme importance.
But what my eyes finally saw was what I had been sent here to see. These tiny feet, red almost purple with chill, stood still on the wet cobblestones, naked in the street, attached to equally purple legs that shook almost in unison with the cold breeze. Stained grey tatters hung around her calves from a dress that had obviously been made for someone else. Strips hung off her shoulders as if the sleeves had been torn off in the summer with no thought of the winter to come. Her shawl had obviously been taken from the trash for the debris remained and it didn't cover even a bit of her after she had wrapped it around the pale bundle that her pale, thin arms now clenched to her chest. The raindrops ran rivers through her matted brown hair down her face to the already saturated dress where it dripped off the hem.
The girl had all but blended into the greyness of time that surrounded her. For a moment it seemed that she could be a miniature, or painting of one of the real-life giants that passed her. Except that not one of them offered her even a glance. They hurried past, as if she really did fade into the background, snuggling even deeper into their thick coats and silently cursing the cold. And it would have seemed sad to me except that the young girl ignored them right back. She paid no attention to the passersby who ignored her, not the rain that threatened to drown her, not the cold that threatened to take her life.
And for what may have been eons I was stuck on the yellowing teeth fixed into a smile that threatened to call out the long absent sun. She smiled, and she bounced, and she rocked shushing and whispering and pulling close to her the tiny bundle that was wrapped in her shawl.
I had seen her before. Mary's smile had always rivaled the sun, but it had not always come before a body in such despair.
John Archer was a trader and his little, blue-eye princess got every material thing she had ever wanted. Rose oils perfumed her daily bath, goose down padded her sleep, and only delicacies ever passed over her perfect lips. Mary Archer had a charmed life.
What would have made most girls of her station soft and spoiled, made Mary bored. Having lost his wife during Mary's birth, John Archer chose to burry himself in his work rather that answer the painful questions his daughter posed to him. With her father at work most of the time, Mary was left with the housewoman who was under strict orders to raise her as a proper noble woman. The housewoman, having definite prejudices against noble women, instead taught Mary to read and left her with books that portrayed a bohemian lifestyle that she admired very much.
I don't know if I'll ever continue this one, but I like the imagery, so I thought I'd share it with you.
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