The Price of Deceit: How a Filter Salesman Became a Water Spirit
The door to the cramped little flat in a quiet corner of Manchester swung open almost instantly—as if the old woman inside had been expecting company. There she stood, a wiry eighty-something with sharp, twinkling eyes.
“Hello,” the young man said politely, offering a practiced smile.
“And to you, love,” the old woman replied with a nod. “Come in, then, don’t let the draft in. Social services sent you, did they?”
“No, Gran,” he said. “I’m from a company that specialises in water purification. We install state-of-the-art systems—turn tap water into something you’d swear came straight from a spring. Pure, like the old days when you could drink from the river without a second thought.”
“Oho!” The old woman raised her eyebrows. “So you’re a water spirit, then? Cleaning up the rivers? Fine work, that. Come on through.”
The young man wiped his shoes on the worn-out doormat a little too carefully and stepped inside.
“Mind if I keep my shoes on?” he asked, eyeing the scuffed lino in the hallway.
“Course not, love. My daughter does the mopping. She’s young, I’m old—too knackered for housework now.”
“Oh, come off it, Gran!” He flashed his most charming grin. “You’re still full of life! Look at those rosy cheeks! So, where’s the kitchen? Fancy seeing our magic in action?”
“Flatterer,” she chuckled. “Haven’t seen myself in a mirror for years—my daughter’s hung them all too high. Wouldn’t know if I’d sprouted antlers. Come on, then, let’s see this miracle of yours.”
The kitchen was tiny but spotless—a gleaming kettle, a pair of geraniums on the windowsill, and a saucer of mint leaves. The old woman settled into her chair while the salesman got to work, fiddling with pipes, pouring water into jars, and waxing lyrical about the difference between “filthy” tap water and his “pristine” filtered version.
“I’ll take one,” the old woman announced suddenly. “But first, let’s have a cuppa. No fun drinking alone, is it? With company, tea tastes like honey. Five minutes, that’s all.”
The man hesitated but nodded. She boiled the filtered water with surprising speed and brewed the tea—rich, fragrant, with an odd, almost magical depth to it.
“Got a family, love?” she asked as she poured.
“Nah, single.”
“Good. Too young for kids yet. Tea nice?”
“Lovely. Where’d you get this? I’d buy some myself.”
“Fairies bring it for my birthday,” she said with a wink.
He snorted and played along: “And here you are, opening your door to strangers! These days, you’ve got con artists coming out your ears.”
“What’ve I got to fear, duck? I’ve had my fill of scares. At my age, it’s me who ought to be giving folks the heebie-jeebies. Especially ones like you.”
Just then, the man felt a peculiar lightness in his head—and before he knew it, the truth came spilling out:
“Who even needs this stuff? I buy these filters for a tenner, flog ’em for fifty. Sometimes I ‘enhance’ the water a bit—makes the suckers pay more. Just trawl round old dears like you, spin a yarn, and bam—profit!”
He clamped a hand over his mouth. How had that slipped out?
“Ah, that’s better,” the old woman nodded. “Told you—fairy tea. Can’t lie after a sip.”
The man shot to his feet. “What the—what did you do?!”
“Nothing much. You said you were a water spirit, didn’t you? Well, now you really are one. Our local sprite’s been run ragged—needs a hand keeping the rivers clean. Fish to feed, algae to sort. Ten years of service, and you might get your old shape back. Till then—welcome to the water.”
Before he could even yelp, he melted—first into a droplet, then mist, then a wispy cloud that swirled into the copper basin with a plop.
“There we go,” the old woman mused, tipping the water down the sink. “Got him sorted. Dreams do come true. That bloke who came selling ‘smart meters’? He’s directing lightning now. Air’s his domain. You—water. You’ll meet.”
Humming to herself, she rinsed the mugs and glanced at her reflection in the tarnished sideboard glass.
“Why don’t I show up, why don’t I show up…” she mimicked him under her breath.
“Because I’m older than every mirror in this house. Three hundred if I’m a day. My daughter knows—that’s why she hung ’em high. Some truths aren’t for breakfast. Me? I carry on. Keep things tidy. The elements hate a mess.”
She wandered to the window, gazed at the sky, and smirked again.
“Justice has to happen. Even if you’ve got to brew it in a teapot.”
