The Heron-Girl

Fall, for Angela, meant waiting by the lake.

Sometimes in October, when the heavy heat and the rains still lingered, trapping her in the house, forcing her to watch the lake through the windows. Sometimes in November, when it could get unexpectedly cold, leaving her shivering on the boat dock. Sometimes as late as December, which still had its warm days, when she could sit by the lake and pretend to be busy, even as she waited.

Sometimes for nothing.

Sometimes for only a feather.

Sometimes—

don't get your hopes up please come please come please don't get your hopes up please come please come don't get your hopes up please come I can't lose this I can't

—for a great blue heron to touch down on the waters, and shimmer.

It would be pure chaos right after that. The girl never seemed to know how to swim, and always seemed unexpectedly heavy with earth and water until she even more unexpectedly became light as air again, throwing Angela completely off balance. Sometimes, too, she was bleeding, which terrified Angela—what if the nearby gators could smell the blood? This lake was a favorite hideout of theirs: wide and shallow, with few humans or boats. Sometimes she would spot them swimming nearby as she waited, her heart leaping into her throat. Not now not now not now—

And then the chaos of pulling the girl up to the boat dock, and trying to get her up into the house before anyone saw Angela half helping, half dragging, a naked girl into the house. A naked girl shedding feathers.

And then the touch of wind and air on lips and skin.

I can't lose this I can't—

†

And yet here she was, watching the churning waters of the ocean instead of the calm waters of the lake.

Angela could not have said why, exactly, she turned to the east after leaving the airport instead of the west. It was not exactly a longing for the ocean—she had seen a different part of it just a week before, and the heron-girl never objected to a drive to the beach. It was not the knowledge that she had plenty of time—even November was sliding by, and the heron-girl would not come after December, if she came at all. It was not that she had anything to do here, other than watch the waves. Or a lack of desire—even now, after all these years, the mere thought of the heron-girl was enough to make Angela catch her breath, and shiver.

And yet.

I can't—

It was not quite the same desire.

—give this up I can't I can't

Impossible not to recognize that while Angela had changed, the heron-girl hadn't. Impossible not to remember the stranger who had assumed the heron-girl was her daughter; impossible to forget the looks they had gotten when Angela had kissed her last year in the nature reserve. Impossible to forget the questioning glances from the few friends who had met them both, friends who just a few years ago had joked about miraculous moisturizers, and now—

It had been a mistake to introduce the heron-girl to those friends.

Impossible not to recognize the pain she felt whenever she glimpsed a great blue heron.

Impossible not to realize just how little time she spent with the heron-girl each year. Three months, maybe four. Glorious months, always.

Impossible to ignore that even now, after all of these years, she didn't know the heron-girl's name. The heron-girl never spoke, and although she knew how to read—Angela often caught her curled up with a book or tablet, so intent that she did not seem to hear Angela's voice—she did not, or would not, write. Heron-girl, Angela called her, or Sky when she needed to mention her to others, but neither felt right.

Impossible to forget that she knew nothing of the heron-girl's other life, her life of spring and summer. Did she remain a heron? Or did she change into a girl again on a different lake?  Did she have another lover? Angela was not jealous—she wasn't—but it was so frustrating not to know. Not when she spent the winter months telling the heron-girl everything—everything—as they held each other on the couch, or danced on the porch and the grass that ran down to the lake. Not when Angela had never taken another lover, not because of any promises, but because she knew that no one else could compare to the heron-girl.

Impossible to forget that the heron-girl was not, and never had been, a girl.

And yet.

Angela knew what her life was without the heron-girl. Knew that life was why she left every spring, telling the neighbours that she simply could not take the summer heat. It was true in a way—she was always ill after the heron-girl left, always in pain—and yet not why she fled the house. Not why she buried herself in work during the summer months, churning out illustration after illustration, trying to capture just a sliver of what she felt when the heron-girl placed a soft finger on her skin.

Knew that none of her illustrations were as good as the ones she created when the heron-girl was in the same house, watching the sky.

Knew that time did not stop for her, even if it did for the heron-girl.

She listened to the ocean, trying to forget the sound of wings, even as seagulls cried above her.

†

But she did return to the lake, did drag the heron-girl from the water, did spend the next few cold weeks locked in the girl's embrace.

Did follow her back down to the boat dock as the days lengthened, and the heat returned.

"Will you return?"

The heron-girl did not answer, even with a kiss.

And yet as Angela walked back to the house, she clutched a long grey-blue feather in her hand, so tightly she did not even feel it work its way into her skin.

© 2021 Mari Ness

About the Author

Mari Ness has published poetry and fiction in Tor.com, Clarkesworld, Lightspeed, Nightmare, Uncanny, Fireside, Strange Horizons, Diabolical Plots, and elsewhere. Her poetry novella, Through Immortal Shadows Singing, is available from Papaveria Press, and her essay collection, Resistance and Transformation: On Fairy Tales, from Aqueduct Press. She lives in central Florida, where she likes to watch blue herons fly over the lakes.