By Catt Foy
Originally published, 1980, Images Magazine
The golden girl slid in and out among the trees with the grace of a serpent. Her amber eyes glowed softly in the surrounding darkness of the fores night.
He knew she was there. As he sat staring into his fire, he sensed her presence. She was always out there, watching. She followed him as if he were her prey. He conjured an image of her delicate face, this creature of the forest. Though he had but glimpsed her twice, he knew every line of her features. She had etched herself indelibly upon his memory.
He wondered if she grew cold at night, this creature so like himself, yet not like him at all. She did not make fire; she merely spent the nights somewhere nestled in the forest, forever watching him with those amber eyes.
He did not recall when she first appeared. Then, she had been merely another creature of the forest. Being accepting of nature, he had questioned no further and her mostly unseen presence had simply become a part of his daily existence.
She tagged him closely, just enough to arouse a sort of curiosity in the man, but never close enough to satisfy it.
Until now.
As the first rays of dawn filtered through the foliage, she drew near to a pool of water and, fascinated by her own softly rippling image, bent closer to examine it. Suddenly, the water rose to meet her and a splashing chill surrounded her. She rose to the surface and gasped for air.
In the early morning stillness, he heard the splash; the small cry brought him to the water's edge. He paused one brief moment, and realized his opportunity. If only somehow he could capture this vital thing for his own.
He grasped beneath her arms and drew her from the water.
She lay, submissive in his arms, her eyes now green and frightened, her breath elusive. She started, but his grip was sure. He would not lose her now.
He formed a question in his mind and found language on his tongue.
"What are you?"
Her face lit with perplexity and she answered, "I . . . am I."
"Are there others like you?"
The language felt strange in his mouth.
"None save you and I."
A sense of isolation came to him but fleetingly; fulfillment followed close behind. He released his grip; she would not run from him now.
"What shall I call you?"
"Call me what you will, for I am what you seek."
She drew from him slightly and knelt in the grass.
"We are one, then?" he asked.
"Yes, we are one," she paused, her voice a silver whisper on the morning breeze. "And we are only."
A wind blew gently from across the water and the world's first lovers lay together in the sand.
