Once there was a child who lived close to the water. She would go down there often, and gaze into the stillness of the pool.
There was a girl who lived in the water. Her name was Alexandra. She was a princess, a beautiful princess with hair like a dark river. She would swim close to the surface, and turn her face up to the sunlight, up towards the face of the watching child.
Innocent blue eyes would look into knowing blue eyes. A shy smile would welcome a searching twich of the lips. As the child pushed her fringe back from her eyes, Alexandra would shake her ahir until the whole pond moved in tiny ripples.
"You are beautiful," the child told the princess. But the wind commanded her to be silent.
The child wandered by the water. she listened to the music of those who sang with joy to be near it. The child would sing too. "Alexandra, Alexandra," she would sing. She would spin around as she sang it. Laughting, she would spin until she fell into the cool, wet grass. They say that the dew drops are the tears left unshed by those who die.
"Alexandra, may I touch your hand?" She reaches out, almost to the glossy surface of the water. Alexandra reaches too, her eyes full of hope and pity. But the wind commands them to be silent.
She swims listlessly, like a storm in the depths, like a woman impatient for her beloved. In the night time she replenishes the water with her tears. As she seks to sleep, she cannot forget the desperation with which the child called, nor the ever-so-closeness of the fine, soft fingers.
"Alexandra, Alexandra." She swims towards the sunlight, towards the glowing face of hte child. The sun shines behinde her like a halo. She could almost be an angel.
The child is conscious of a great, black mark across her face. She is a sinner. She is soiled, stained. She has committed a great wrong. Alexandra knows how to make the mark go away. But first they must touch hands. They reach, and reach. She stretches to the very limit of her physical being. She cries out in the pain of her reaching.
But the wind commands her to be silent.
She dreams of being Alexandra. She hates the way she is. She hates her body, and her mind, and she hates the great black stain across her face. She hates the way people look at her, knowing the stain is there.
To the water she runs, and she plunges herself into it. She cannot stop at the water's edge. She must keep going, keep running until she stands waist deep in it. She calls forlornly, calling a single name.
But the wind commands her to be silent.
Alexandra is forbidden from entering the shallows. Her place is in the deeptest parts, the aprts that nobody can touch. She cannot be called forth from there, but only swim up and down, ever turning her face to the sunlight.
And when the child comes, her heart is filled with joy. She smiles, but the heart of the child has turned to stone. Stony eyes rebuke her, and the hand no longer attempts to grasp her hand.
"Reach for me!" cries Alexandra. But the wind commands her to be silent.
Day after day the child grows harder and colder, and the sun no longer lights her hair and face. She envies Alexandra, who stays so beautiful and graceful when she herself grows uglier by the day. Soon she can no longer bear to see that upturned face, mocking her ugliness.
But the wind commands her to go there. So heavy, she is, so heavy. She throws rocks so that they tangle in Alexandra's hair. The princess cries. Gulping sobs echo throughout the stillness, and nobody sings any more.
They say that if your heart feels the hurting enough, there is no pain when the nails bite your wrists.
"Alexandra," she sobs one day, "I have lost all hope of you." Alexandra holds out her arms, but they remain empty, for the child is too afraid that she can never reach the reflection. And the wind binds them in silence.
Alexandra swims back and forth, up and down. The time is nearby. It will be soon, and each time she looks into the face of the child she knows it will be sooner. She holds out her arms.
The child's face has fallen into hollowness. There are no more questions. She remembers the lapping of the water at her waist. She feels it as though it were the arms of her beloved.
She cries out. She hates the woman in the water, almost as much as she hates herself. "I will shatter you," she cries.
And so a single tear falls on its journey, tumbling through an endless nothingness, until nothing reaches an end.
They place flowers on her grave, flowers that dry and rot and die like her.
Nobody knows where to search for the corpse of a mermaid. Her hair no longer flows like the water, but lies still and stagnant against the sandy floor.
Whose upturned face will gaze at the sun? Whose hand will touch another? Whose arms will embrace her?
My beloved, she cries in her sleep, and the wind commands them to be silent.
