Sprite

At first it was pure torture living among the humans. Neistah was allowed access to the swimming hole but he was always watched. He made sure that these people would never have any real idea as to what he could do. He stayed under the water only as long as a human would. He dove clumsily and swam noisily. Yet they watched him with fascination, for his webbing was very apparent in the wet, and for all his clumsiness he was still the most graceful being they had ever beheld.

Gradually he adjusted, or they adjusted, or time made inevitable adjustments. They left him alone for longer stretches. Apparently the old man had no clear idea what to do with him now that he had him.

There were better things to do than brood about his situation. That’s what distinguished Neistah from the others of his kind. His people tended to languish in captivity. Neistah found other activities.

Neistah played his tricks on all of them. It was only a shame that they never noticed. All his thoughts bounced back as if from a blank wall. They could not hear him, and their thoughts were as sluggish as muddy water. Still, if he caught them with his eyes and held them, the men would suddenly feel compelled to sit, or to stand, or to run, whatever Neistah wished, and he wished quite often for quite extraordinary behavior.

Two of his captors, Bill and Dave, often watched Neistah with such shrewd, calculating looks that Neistah trusted them least of all. Those two found themselves tripping over invisible objects, half the time landing in the water where muck and mud and sometimes the slimy strands of pond plants wrapped around their bodies, dragging them down . . . down . . . .

Of course Neistah always stopped before they were in any real danger of drowning. He would not have them think he was capable of harm. It was amazing to him that they never guessed it was Neistah’s hands that pulled at them, Neistah’s weight carrying them deeper into the slime. But then again, these humans were blind as well as stupid.

After that, the old man had ordered a fence to be erected around the pond to separate the observers from their slippery subject. He was not concerned that the Sprite could escape; chain-link fencing encircled his entire property. But this way, he could be contained to a smaller area where Jim could concentrate on his study of the creature.

John Hanan III stared down at the pond from the wide porch where he had his desk and his chair in the hot weather. From here he could see without being seen, and indeed he had spied on the Sprite as the others watched him openly, and none had been the wiser.

It was all true, the old legends, all of it. John Hanan held an open book on his knees and compared the ancient drawing to the boy at the pond. The picture showed a green youth lounging by an oak tree on the edge of a dark lake. One foot trailed in the black water and the other, webbed, rested on a great root that extended down into the water. This youth’s hair was uncut, as green as his skin, and he was naked. John Hanan glanced at the boy far below. Well, his Sprite wore clothing at least.

Neistah lounged by the pond, trailing a hand and a foot in the water. He was aware of the old man and, had he been aware of what the old man was reading, would have accommodated him even further to become the Sprite in the picture. As it was, his natural stance was close enough to the image in the book to convince the old man that he had, after all, captured a Sprite.

John Hanan decided that it was time he paid a visit to his unwilling guest. He stood up slowly, waving away servants who would have helped him, and, grabbing his cane, made his way back through the house and across the walk to the pond where Jim had set up a makeshift observation post.

“Jim, will you leave us?” The old man motioned for Jim to pick up his papers and pencil, which he did with reluctance. Neistah was glad. He was tired of being recorded, every splash, every move.

“Can you understand me?” The old man spoke almost sadly. It was his greatest wish that the Sprite could communicate. It never occurred to him that the Sprite, able, would not want to communicate with him.

Neistah eyed him and the old man drew back a pace. What did he see in those eyes? Not an animal’s intelligence, and not a human’s, either. Neistah’s hair, as green and as long as the boy’s in the picture, was pulled back from skin that wasn’t—quite—green, revealing, as he’d meant to do of course, the almost transparent neck webbing. Neistah smiled and the old man saw sharp teeth. Neistah stood, and it was as if he flowed upward from the ground. Hanan’s eyes widened but he did not retreat again. “Can you understand me?” he repeated.

Neistah laughed, and there was no sound.

This time the old man did back up. But he did not call out to his men. Instead, he addressed Neistah again. “I believe you are what the old books call a Sprite. My own grandfather built this place because his grandfather before him believed this forest,” he gestured outward with a sweep of his arm, “is sacred to Sprites. It is said that if one can capture a Sprite and befriend it, then its vitality will stay with that person forever.”

Neistah’s eyebrows rose. So that is what it was about. A stupid legend. He laughed, again the soundless laugh that tended to frighten these humans so. It wasn’t even a true legend.

“I have a child,” the old man continued, “my granddaughter. When I die she will be all alone in the world. It’s a harsh world out there. That’s why I have built my little empire so far away from all the rest. To protect her. I know Bill and Dave don’t believe in you. They think you are another mutant, but I know better. My family has seen your kind for centuries, even before the war that ended all the world. Don’t worry about Bill and Dave. Their loyalty is to me above all else. They will not betray you.”

The old man stopped talking and stopped looking so desperately at Neistah. Neistah grinned, deliberately showing off his pointed teeth, then turned and melted into the pond just below the surface. He would show the old man what he wanted to know, if the old man was smart enough to realize it. Neistah did not come up out of the water for a long time. When he did, the old man was gone.

A child? Neistah was intrigued in spite of himself. Perhaps he would stay for a while and look upon this child of the old man’s. He laughed. Old legends, indeed. It was the sort of thing he himself might have started had someone glimpsed him all those years ago, just to see what might happen. Why not play the game then?

The next time the old man visited the pond, book in hand, Neistah floated gracefully in the shallows and regarded him solemnly. It seemed as if he understood every word the old man uttered, although he still did not make a sound.

“I shall bring my granddaughter to you. Please don’t frighten her.” The old man glanced back towards the house, where Jim was helping someone climb down from the horse-drawn carriage which had just pulled up in front. As soon as she emerged, the carriage driver clicked, and the carriage moved around to the back of the building.

Jim led the young girl down the path to the pond. As she came within sight of Neistah, she gasped.

“Miriam, here is the Sprite, exactly as I told you.”

Neistah regarded the girl Miriam with a more than detached intensity. Child? She was fair, and a lot older than either she or her grandfather wanted to believe. She wore a frilly, girlish dress designed to hide her blossoming figure, and her red hair was done up in tiny braids. Despite that, she was no child.

Her grandfather brought her right to the fence which separated Neistah from them, and Neistah scrambled quickly out of the water, pressing his body up against the fence just inches away from the three humans, ignoring the slight tingling wherever his skin touched metal. He stretched his hand through the metal links to touch the girl’s hair, and was rewarded with a look of horror in her green eyes.

Both John Hanan and Jim grabbed one of her arms and pulled her back from the fence. Neistah blinked.

“We don’t know yet how dangerous he is,” said Jim, “so don’t get too close to him.”

Her gaze went out to where Neistah now sat at the edge of the water, seemingly disinterested once more. “What is he? What will you do with him?”

“Do?” Her grandfather looked at her, slightly confused. “He’s a Sprite, a magical creature who will bring us good luck. I will keep him, and you will keep him, and your children will keep him, and our family will prosper.”

“Do you expect him to live forever?”

“Yes!”

Jim looked embarrassed, and Miriam laughed merrily. Neistah’s interest picked up again. “Papa, I never believed in that! I’m here because you believe in it—and I must admit, if I hadn’t seen your Sprite I wouldn’t have believed in him, either.”

Miriam stepped forward, now that Neistah was no longer right by the fence. She curled her fingers around the chain links and peered through them at the creature her grandfather called a Sprite. Neistah watched her watch him, saw the distaste fade from her eyes and curiosity fill them. He grinned at her and, in a flurry of movement, once more approached the fence and reached again for her braided hair. Miriam was not the little girl she pretended to be. Slap went her hand on his. Neistah was so startled that for a moment he just stared at her. The two men with her had noticed nothing.

Jim looked up at the sound. “Miriam!” he said with alarm when he realized Neistah was back at the fence. “Move away!” He took out a wooden prod and stuck it through the fence, forcing Neistah to take a step backwards.

“You see, Miriam,” the old man said. “he is not human. I can’t let anyone find out that something like that exists. And I can’t let him go.”

At that, Neistah abruptly turned around and dove beneath the surface. He didn’t bother to resurface until he was out of their sight around the other side of the tree whose roots extended under water. He hung there, out of sight, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation above. Up until now, Neistah hadn’t really tried to escape. It was his own foolish fault that he had been caught in the first place, but no real harm had been done. The old man was delusional. The others were easily handled. All Neistah had to do was find a way out of this metal cage.

“Oh, Papa, did it ever occur to you that this boy is smarter than he looks? Let me have him, then.”

Neistah stilled, listening with all his senses.

“It’s much too dangerous. He will remain here at the pond. But if you wish, you may visit him. In fact, I would like you to do just that. He belongs to our family now. To me. To you.”

From the other side of the pond, Neistah grimaced. Belonged. He would see exactly who belonged to whom before this little adventure was through. Even if he could live forever as the old man believed, he would not waste a lifetime in this place. He peered through foliage at the child Miriam. A while longer, perhaps.

And perhaps because he wished it, or because she wished it, the girl Miriam came down to the pond every day bringing bits of fruit or sometimes hard sweets to the Sprite. Under Jim’s careful supervision, she was eventually allowed to spend time inside the fence and dangle her legs in the cool water. Neistah prudently kept his distance. Sometimes Neistah walked upon the shore, a feat that at first had surprised her until she discovered the circumstances of his capture and realized he was not totally a water creature after all.

“I see no reason that you cannot accompany me into the house,” she remarked one day. “I shall have to chain you, of course.” Had she glanced back over her shoulder, she would have seen the rage on Neistah’s face.