It came as no surprise, then, that when Petal reached marriageable age, she found at her
doorstep every young bachelor who was looking for a wife. These fellows would wander by
the front fence, sometimes pretending to be going on a stroll, when they'd “by chance”
notice the young girl gardening in her front yard, and they'd begin chatting with her.
“Why, hello,” they'd say, for instance, “what lovely roses you have.”
Naturally, Petal was very flattered to receive so much attention, and she'd leave her
gardening and go flirt with the young men, which only encouraged them.
Now, Aron, though he had always been the kindest and happiest of fathers when Petal was
growing up, turned stern and dark of expression. He stopped smiling. He grumbled a lot. He
became, in a word, jealous.
True, he tried, at first, to view the situation with pleasure. After all, the attention
she was receiving was that due a young, beautiful, marriageable girl, and he tried to
pretend that he was prepared for it.
But he couldn't help himself. Whenever one of Petal's would-be suitors came calling at the
front fence, offering Aron a wave and a “hello,” Aron Dewweb could only grunt back, or
more likely, ignore the young man and stalk into his cottage.
Several neighbors told him, “Look, Aron, you can't keep nature from taking its course.”
Aron listened politely, but that was because his neighbors were also customers for his
weaving. Really, he didn't give a damn about nature or its course or their opinions. He
just couldn't bear the thought of some swain taking away his only, precious daughter. As
far as he was concerned, no matter how old she got, Petal would always be that little girl
who laughed and squealed when he bounced her lightly on his knee.
So he said, “Dash it all, I don't care what anyone thinks! I don't like what's happening!”
And he took to chasing off the young men with a knobby walking stick he kept handy near
his loom. “Stay away!” he would cry as he came running out of his cottage toward the
fence. The young man of the moment, startled by the attack, would leave Petal standing by
the gate and flee. “And tell your boorish friends to stay clear, too!”
Petal was always very embarrassed by this display. “Daddy, why can't they visit me?” she'd
ask, near tears. “I'm old enough!”
“Because!” answered Aron, his face red, his knuckles white as he clenched his walking
stick. “Just - just because!” And then he'd storm back into the cottage.
Well, “because” wasn't good enough for Petal, and she continued to encourage her suitors.
A wink from her was enough to draw them back like bees to a bright, fragrant flower -
though none of them dared actually enter the gate.
From his loom - which, incidentally, was a clever, if noisy, contraption operated by
various levers and pedals - the stern weaver could look out his window and see the way his
daughter was behaving. And he saw the effect it had on her callers, who were growing ever
bolder, some even venturing to open the gate. Apparently, waving a stick at them was no
longer enough to drive them away (which was just as well since Aron was getting tired of
running out every other moment). So, finally, he decided there was only one thing left to
do: He would have to take Petal away from Gateway.
This he did. He piled his loom and other possessions high on a wagon, put Petal on the
seat next to him, and off they went, pulled by a tired, old ox, which he borrowed from a
neighbor. Petal sighed deeply as she waved farewell to all her would-be lovers, who lined
up along the road in front of their own cottages to see her off. They waved back, their
hearts heavy.
Aron took Petal far away. The road became unpaved and overgrown, and eventually it led to
the Forest of Wayreth. There, Aron had to leave behind most of his possessions for the
time being because there was no path between the trees wide enough to allow the wagon to
pass. He would have to make several trips, but he loaded up his goods on his back, took
Petal by her slender hand, and off they went through the sunless forest.
When he had gone far enough - that is to say, when he became too exhausted to continue -
Aron put down his load and said, “Here! Here is where we shall live!” And right on that bosky spot, he built a
new cottage of sticks and thatch. He included a small room for Petal, a larger one for
himself, and a still bigger one for the cooking hearth, table, chairs, and, of course, his
loom, which he had the ox drag through the forest before he returned the beast to its
owner.
Convinced at last that his daughter was now where no young man would find her, or at least
where she'd be too far away to be worth the bother, Aron resumed his weaving. Such a
location among the reputedly magical woods was inconvenient for him, for he had to make
long trips to his customers in Gateway, but it was worth the peace of mind that came from
knowing that his daughter was safe from anyone who would dare try to take her from him.
As for Petal, she cried for days and days. She wanted to go back to Gateway. She wanted to
flirt with her suitors. But Aron said, “You'll get used to it here. Soon, things will be back the way they were before all this foolishness started.”
Petal did, in fact, stop crying, but things never quite went back to the way they were.
Petal was lonely, and she never looked happy.
“What's the matter?” Aron finally snapped one day from his loom while Petal, long-faced,
was sprinkling fragrant pine needles on the floor. “I was good enough company all these
years!”
“Oh, Father,” said Petal, pausing in her work, her eyes watering, “I still love you but as
MY FATHER. Now it's time I loved another, as my husband.”
“Nonsense!” said Aron with a wave of his hand. “There'll be plenty of time for that when
I'm dead!”
“Don't talk that way!” said Petal, stepping toward her father, dropping the rest of the
pine needles.
“What way? One day I'll be gone, and then you'll be able to entertain all the young men
you want!” And, with that, Aron turned his back on his daughter and continued his weaving.
The arguments usually went that way, and they always broke Petal's heart. Finally, she
stopped bringing up the subject, which was what Aron wanted, anyway.
The days settled into a routine. Aron worked methodically and constantly at his loom, and
Petal tended the cottage and the garden. Neither said much to the other. Petal continued
to look sad, and Aron, even way out in the forest, continued to feel uneasy:
What if one of those tom cats should sniff his way to the cottage, after all? What if a whole gang of them should arrive and start wailing at his
door?
Or, worse yet: What if Petal sneaked away?
This last thought truly began to worry Aron. He kept a constant eye on his daughter, which
caused many uneven threads in his weaving. He became so nervous that if Petal were out of
his sight for any length of time - and he did not hear her, either - he'd jump up from his
loom, knocking over his chair, and cry out, “Petal! Come here!”
“What is it, Father?” she'd call, hurrying into the cottage, with, say, a basket of
mushrooms she had been gathering.
Aron never answered. He was just glad to see his daughter, and, relieved, he'd pick up his
chair and resume his weaving.
Nights, though, proved even worse for Aron than the days. It was then he had to sleep, and
so it was then he could keep neither eye nor ear on his daughter. He kept waking at the
slightest sound, thinking Petal might be sneaking away, and he kept checking up on her in
her room. She was always there, curled up beneath her blanket on a mattress filled with
her fragrant pine needles.
But then, on one warm summer night, shortly after midnight, Aron peeked into her room and
found her bed empty.
“Petal!” he bellowed, stepping from her door back into the large room. “Petal!”
She didn't answer.
Aron ran outside into the benighted woods, where only sprinkles of silver moonlight fell
through the canopy and broke up the dark forest floor, the way Petal's pine needles broke
up the cottage floor.
“Petal! Petal!”
There was no answer except for the hoot of a lone, unseen owl.
All the rest of that night, Aron scrambled about the dark woods, calling his daughter's
name and bruising himself as he hit his head on low limbs and banged fully into unseen
tree trunks.
By the time the sun rose, sending its early morning rays to light the misty air and awaken
the birds, who promptly began their warbling, Aron was ready to faint from exhaustion. He
had been searching and calling all night. Defeated and heartbroken, but determined to
march to Gateway to fetch his daughter if need be, he trudged to his cottage to get his
stick.
Yet, when he got there, whom did he find, sleeping curled up in her bed as innocently as a
doe, but Petal.
Aron rubbed his swollen eyes. His heart soared with joy. Was it possible, in his great
concern, that he had missed her sleeping there the night before? Everything was as it was
supposed to be - except, Aron noted, that there were little puddles of water, footprints
really, leading up to Petal's bed. This was curious, but Aron didn't give it much thought.
He was happy to have his daughter back. He told himself he would try to be nicer to her
from then on, for the last thing he wanted was to drive her away.
That morning, when his daughter awoke, Aron acted more chipper at the breakfast table.
Petal was surprised by his new demeanor, but she welcomed it. She, too, was happier.
“You see?” said Aron as he sipped his tea. “Do you see how easy it is for us to be
friends?”
“Yes, Father,” said Petal as she nibbled at a muffin. “Forgive me for my pouting.”
“No, no, it is I who must ask for forgiveness. I've been an ogre.”
“Only because you love me. I know that, now.”
Aron reached over and patted his daughter's soft, fair hair, which felt, strangely, a
little damp. Again, he gave this little thought. For the rest of the day, he whistled at
his loom while Petal hummed in her front garden - which, actually, wasn't growing as well
in the constant shade of the woods as it had in Gateway.
In any case, for all his outward pleasantness, Aron, that very night, tossed and turned
uncomfortably in his bed, certain once more that his daughter had indeed disappeared the
previous night. And those puddles popped into his mind, perplexing him.
It was no use. Aron jumped out of bed. He had to check up on his daughter. But he didn't
want her to know, for then she'd be truly angry at him. So he tiptoed ever so quietly to
her room.
She was gone.
Aron grew frantic. He bolted out of the cottage. But before he could call his daughter's
name, he saw in the moonlight that sprinkled through the tree cover Petal herself, dressed
in her flowing white gown, just disappearing silently between two enormous tulip trees.
Again, Aron was about to call to her, but he stopped himself. Was she meeting someone? He
had to know. He decided to follow and catch her in the act. He rushed back into his cottage, grabbed his stick, and hurried out to catch up to his daughter.
He passed between the two tulip trees and found himself on a path, one that he had not
even known existed. It was narrow, virtually covered with fern fronds, but it was
illuminated clearly by the full moon, for there was a slit in the tree canopy that
followed the path exactly.
Aron failed to see his daughter, but he walked along the bending path, confident it would
take him to her. Using his walking stick for its intended purpose, he proceeded as quickly
as he could without making too much noise. All around him, just a step away to his right
or left, was the gloomy forest. Only those trees nearest the path were partly lit, their
dark and gray trunks marking his way. Behind them, the trees were cast in shadow. And
farther from the path still, the trees were in total blackness.
The croaking of frogs grew louder, and soon he came to a small glade, in the middle of
which was a pond. Petal was standing on its bank near an old beaver dam, her long white
gown bathed in the sky's ghostly light. For several moments she did nothing but gaze at
the black water, upon whose surface floated many lily pads, their white blossoms open to
the moonshine.
Then she softly called, “My love, my love, take me to your home.”
At that, some of the lily pads were jostled from beneath. Petal then slipped off her gown
and stepped into the water. She waded toward the center of the pond, pressing past some
lily pads. The water rose steadily up her slender legs, reaching her narrow waist, and
continued to rise as she went forward.
Aron was confused as to what was happening. But when he saw his daughter in the pond up to
her delicate neck, her fair hair floating behind her, he burst from his hiding place.
It was too late. Petal's head dipped below the surface, her hair floating momentarily,
then it, too, vanished below. “Petal! What are you doing?” cried Aron. “Petal!” He ran back and forth along the shore as he squinted and tried to peer into the inky water. But
he saw only the round, white moon above and his own dark silhouette gazing up at him.
Finally, he jumped in.
The water was cold and black, and he couldn't see a thing. He came up for air, then dove
even deeper, grabbing blindly at the water, ripping at lily pad stems and smacking a few
startled fish. But after becoming so tired that he nearly drowned, Aron finally pulled himself onto the bank and collapsed. There he slept,
his legs and arms twitching as if he were still diving, until he was awakened by the
morning sun and the warbling of birds.
Convinced that his daughter had drowned, Aron mulled over the idea of taking his own life
as he returned to his cottage. But, lo and behold, who did he find there, once more curled
up in her bed as if nothing had happened, but Petal!
Aron shook his head. He was almost ready to believe he had dreamed the whole adventure,
except that, once more, he saw puddles on the floor leading to his daughter's bed.