As he journeyed to the beech, he chose the path less traveled. He knew she would be standing there, patiently waiting in the soft bed she made each day. He chose to follow the water, and to find the edges of things; to cross over from the realm of men, the old beaten roads and familiar lanes of travel. This, he knew, was the best way to find her - the way the water finds her.
He got off the road and journeyed by foot through the forest, across the alluvial plain. He stopped to admire the wonders on the path: the purple-flowering red-laced shamrocks, the fiddle heads festooning the shady places, asking the ferns how to grow.
He followed the stream between worlds, light to the south and dark to the north. He followed the water until, suddenly, he noticed the stream had somehow vanished beneath the earth and there was no more division between the worlds. In its place, a fresh carpet of new growth. And what’s this, a pokeweed? NO, not a weed, a pitcher plant! A goddamn carnivorous beauty at your feet!
He found the stream again. (Actually he hadn’t, this was a different one. He still puzzled over how that last one had disappeared beneath the loam) He followed this new stream north, knowing it would lead him to her. He followed it to the bridge, the bridge he remembered crossing a dozen times. He found the bridge broken, smashed by the power of some unseen force with designs to keep them apart. Unperturbed, he climbed down into the hollow, took off his shoes and waded through. Cleansed by the chilly waters, somehow it felt more right to enter in this way.
There she stood, patient, welcoming, offering him her bed. He entered softly, caressing her feet as he found just the right spot to lay beneath her. As she towered over him she dripped a little on his face... then he climbed on her and she wrapped her arms around him and they were there together, there in the spring-swept grove. Sharing for a moment that time at the Beech.
