The Mirrored Side of the Waterfall

By Dorothy Marie

I wrote this a loooooong time ago... all the way back in May of 2000. However, I was just looking back through my old documents, and my eyes faltered upon this one... and I must say, it's my favorite of all of my fictional works. It's not amazing, but, darnit, I like it. So, read, and I hope you enjoy.

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“Jeana, can you tell me what a sacrament is?”

“Yes, Mother Victoria. A sacrament is an outward and visual sign of inner and spiritual grace.”

“Very good, Jeana. Now, can anyone explain what grace is in conjunction with Baptism?”

The class fell silent.

“Anyone? No one? Jeana?”

“Grace in Baptism is the cleansing of sin, and the understanding of Christ who died upon the cross, taking the blame and punishment for our sins. As we are submerged in water, it symbolizes our sin. As we emerge, our sin is washed away and forgiven. This happens three times in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It is usually performed at...”

“Thank you Jeana,” Father George abruptly interrupted, “that is more than enough. The rest of you, I hope you were all taking that down.” Father George glared about the room above his gilded, handcrafted bifocals.

Simultaneously, the class fumbled with their pens, and began to scratch notes in their open folders. The clock tower bell rang three times.

“Well, apparently, class is over,” said Mother Victoria. “I shall see you all next Sunday when we will discuss the other sacrament practiced in the Christian faith: the Holy Eucharist. You are dismissed.”

The children gathered their books, their notes, motioned the sign of the cross across their chests, and with a silent reverence walked to the door. Once they passed through the plainly crafted wooden arc of the double-doors, their once regulated group splintered with a sharp, cracking cheer, and they hurried in the separate directions of their homes. This left the churchyard empty, except for one unnoticed child. Clara held her books close to her heart, and began her journey home.

She started down the sidewalk and walked quickly across the street to the parallel side, still grasping her books. Clara freed her left hand, and ran it along the coarse wall of the brick factory. Then, slowly an unidentified chill crept up her spine. Her pace quickened to eliminate the feeling, but it was no use. She began to run, and run, and run until she was out of breath and collapsed on the cement walkway. She pulled herself up with the aid of the wall, and slowly turned around, her face flushed with exhaustion. Through all of her frantic glances behind her, her eyes could catch nothing to behold, but Clara knew something was coming. Then, all of a sudden, as she turned around to meet whatever was approaching, her foot caught on the gutter by the factory; a sharp pain shot up her back. Everything flashed white, then nothing.

She woke before her eyes opened. A strange aroma filled her nostrils, flowed through her veins; her mind slowly regained control over the rest of her. She opened her eyes to a strange new place, seemingly equal to what one might expect of the Elysian Fields. She lay in a bed of clover, the softest and sweetest she had ever known. It was almost like green velvet. For fear she may crush its delicate fabric, Clara managed to sit up without the use of her hands. As she looked around her, she noticed that she was in the center of what seemed to be an endless plain, interrupted only by the gentle undulations of a small flowing stream. When she stood, it seemed as though she were weightless, and when she walked, she walked on air. Gracefully, she pranced over to the stream, knelt, and cupped her hands right over left as she drank the cool liquid with a silent reverence. When she finished, she looked to her right and there saw the horizon where the stream appeared to end. The water simply flowed off into oblivion. This intrigued her, and when she went over to investigate, she noticed a steep set of steps carved out of the red stone of the cliff. She descended the steps to discover a stagnant lake beckoning to her. The waterfall from over the horizon fed the thin, glistening waters. A dense thicket surrounded the lake, but it was uninhabited. Clara turned from the forest and waded into the lake, approaching the waterfall with great care. There, she saw herself. The same blue eyes, the same thin lips, the same fair brown hair. But, it wasn’t her. The image was a mere backward substitute of Clara. She reached out to the falling water, and her fingertips made contact. Suddenly, as though something within the waterfall has taken hold of those delicate fingers, she was jerked, and the rest of her was dragged through. She struggled to keep dry and away, but the force pulling her in was too great. Soon, she was completely submerged in the water. It burned her skin like fire as the light blue flame flicked its tongue around her body. Words and emotions sliced through her like a sickle.

The water and fire are one together... They purge the soul in the flame, and cool with the waters of faith. Yet, they are fed of the same evil. Only one can destroy the other. Choose...only one. The flame can be extinguished, but the water shall burn...

Clara fought the burning water, trying desperately to escape. Forcing the thoughts out of her mind, yelling at the water, she battled the death disguised as a waterfall. As she felt herself being overcome, she emitted a high piercing scream that shattered the world around her. With this, Clara broke herself free of the waterfall, and fell back upon the banks of the lake. A deep sigh escaped her lips as her body fell limp in the grass.

When she awoke, Clara was back on the sidewalk near the factory. She sat up and looked around to find that the autumn leaves were falling. She shook her head in disbelief, and as she brought her hands to her head, she noticed a feather lay in her palm. It was a perfect white feather. On the quill, a single, red, spherical bead of blood stained the tip. She traced the blood back to her open palm. It now trickled down her right hand, her wrist as well, but she did not recall ever piercing them. Staring at the deep red stain, something was aroused something deep within the folds of her mind, but she could not grasp what. Despite her efforts of reminiscence, the memory tickling her mind soon left.

She attempted to stand, but could not. Every time she tried, a pain splintered up her shins, shattering her nerves. She looked at them. They appeared to be fine. There were no broken bones, no bruises, and no blood. She thought about this for a second, and tried, once again, to stand. This time she was successful, and the pain had completely diminished. Clara instinctively began to walk home.

It was strangely quiet. In this silence, she felt like an outcast sneaking about town, trying not to break the peace. It was very disturbing to her. As she approached the walkway to her house, the blood from her palms began to drip from her fingertips, then down her wrists as she detachedly reached for the doorknob. She watched the blood flow down her forearm, and trickle off her elbows. It stained the light gray cement of the steps only for an instant, then vanished. She tried to wipe the blood from her arm with her shirt, but her efforts were in vain. The attempts only seemed to make the blood flow faster, darker, thinning out. She began to panic. Clara looked around frantically, desperately trying to find something to stop the bleeding, to save her. Her itinerant eyes then faltered upon a dark, shrouded figure. It was encased in a blinding nothingness that consumed all it touched. Slowly, it approached her. Clara stood in awe of the great figure. Her eyes glazed over as though she were in a hypnotic trance. The figure continued toward her. As it drew near, Clara tried to peer into the hood of the cape that hid the awful face of the creature. Yet, in the darkness, she saw no other face than her own, her eyes staring bright into her very own. All the same features, the same face, but a completely different soul. This soul she did not know, and had never known before. She reached out to it and touched the skin. It rippled, almost, almost like… water. As she retrieved her hand from the hood, she noticed this “surface skin” was thick and red. Her fingertips, now coated with blood, dried and caked, curled up and pulled away as the rest of her withdrew in fear. This fear was her fear of the evil within herself. She collided with her door, and her hand instinctively fumbled on the knob behind her. The creature continued to advance, slowly, darkly, swallowing all its surrounding nothingness touched. Clara could not open the door. The knob would not turn. The creature advanced. Her blue eyes froze in fear of the mirrored steely blue eyes approaching her. She looked down at her palms, which were now completely coated in thick, red blood. As she tried desperately to wipe it off, to remove the stain, the blood pulled forth a memory from far back in her mind. Her muscles went into convulsions as she fell down to the walkway, trying hard to remember. Quick flashes of images passed through her mind. She could now determine the setting sun on the desert. Another flash, and there is a great dust storm brewing in the open, dry air, swirling about the limp body of a man—a great man—dripping with blood and perspiration. He lifts his head from his chest with great difficulty and opens his eyes, only to meet those of Clara. For a split second, her entire being is affirmed. True bliss satisfies the hunger of her soul, and she no longer wants. But, too soon does the man drop his glance as his head falls limp as the rest of him. Still filled with content, Clara moves her focus to the rest of the picture. She sees there before her a great construction of a pair of beams, carved out of olive trees. Clara’s eyes open wide, and begin to tear with the awesome realization of what she is witnessing. Her feet dislodge themselves from the deep sand as she races toward the man at a snail’s pace. The sand swallows her legs at every stride. She falls, face down in the sand, and as she lifts herself, she is no longer in the desert. Clara lay helpless on the rough walkway of her house. The shrouded creature came to her and enveloped her in its nothingness.

Clara would have screamed, but in nothing, sound does not exist. She did not exist. She fought the darkness until she could fight no more. Then, a passage opened, like a door. Through it poured light, slowly extending and reaching out through the oblivion. A single light pierced through her—a perpetual ray the width of a strand of silk, but there were more. They multiplied, forever remaining fine and fragile. She let herself be overwhelmed by a million fragments of light. They pierced the creature’s eyes, those steely blue eyes, and melted them from ice to water. The water dripped from the creature like tears of crystal blood, and left it destroyed. Clara became an eternity of nothing, filled by an endless light. The two existed, and did not exist, in harmony. Side by side, a ring of eternal completeness.

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