This tale unfolded many years ago. The heroine who shared it with me is now a grandmother raising two lovely granddaughters. She’s a sensible, grown woman, yet she swears every word is true…
A girl dashed through the shadowy park, the glimmer of a lake and a full moon ahead. Squeezing her eyes shut, she leapt from the steep bank into the water. The warmth enveloped her, soothing as a lullaby. Strong hands yanked her out, shaking her roughly. “What on earth were you thinking, lass?! Have you lost your marbles?! Where are your parents?”
Sputtering water, Emily tried to blink through her soaked hair. “Please stop shaking me!” Her voice trembled. Someone set her on the grass, draped a warm coat over her shoulders, and gently brushed the hair from her face. Emily looked up at a short, bearded old man with water lilies and reeds tangled in his beard. “Who are you?”
“The Waterman of this lake. Don’t believe me? Sad days when even children doubt magic. What drove you to such folly?”
The girl burst into tears. “Mum doesn’t love me anymore. She did before Dad left. Now she just shouts… today she hit me.”
The Waterman sighed, patting her head. “Aye, sorrow finds us all. The lad from the next block calls me names, tugs my beard. Even the caretaker swings her broom at me.”
He offered a wistful smile. “Poor little mite. Take this shell—it’s from the North Sea, rare as moonlight. Press it to your ear when hurt. But promise to pass it on when another needs it more. Off home with you now.”
Helping her up, he vanished like mist.
At home, Mum raised her hand, fury in her eyes. Emily clutched the shell. A whisper echoed: *“What am I doing? She’s my darling girl. That wretched man’s ruined everything…”*
Emily hugged her tightly. “Mum, I love you. Dad’ll come back. Just… don’t drink or shout anymore.” They wept together in the quiet dawn.
The next day, Emily skipped outside. Mrs. Thompson, the caretaker, brandished her broom. The shell hummed: *“Why do I snap at children? Oh, where’s my Whiskers? Pray he’s safe…”*
Emily grinned. “Mrs. Thompson, Whiskers is in the next yard—saw him with a tabby yesterday!” The woman blinked, crossing herself as Emily bounded off.
A boy blocked her path. “Crybaby! Fancy a shove?” The shell murmured: *“She’s pretty. How do I say it? Maybe if I tease her…”*
Emily stepped closer. “I’m Emily. Help me swing high? I can’t reach the sky alone…”
On her first school morning, Mum juggled ribbons, pancakes, and tea. Outside, Max shouldered Emily’s backpack, marching proudly beside her. At recess, Emily spotted a boy crying alone.
“I’m Emily. What’s wrong?” He hesitated. “No mum. Dad’s gone. Gran and Grandpa argue. Nobody cares.”
She smiled, pulling out the shell…
Sometimes, all it takes is listening to the heart—and offering a little faith.
