The Scarf

The woman at the bus stop had told him about the water dragons. That they could bring back the dead. On the river, at night. Just for a brief moment, mind you. She was clutching a number of plastic bags, filled with Godknowswhat, plastic bottles maybe, clothes, paper. ‘And you have to bring a gift. Something that belonged to the dead person. And when you drop it into the water, you say:

‘As I lose what was given,
I gain back what was lost.’

Although he buried his head deep in his pillow that evening, sleep evaded him. He missed her so. Ten years. Her gravestone, with its rounded top and carved suggestion of an angel’s wing resting on it, had turned from sandy yellow to grey. Before too long, it would be black. Just as she had wanted.

He reached into his bedside table and took out the scarf. It was light and soft. Silk. With turquoise flowers and peacocks. For a while, it had retained her scent. Now there was barely a trace left. Just as he wasn’t sure anymore what exactly her voice had sounded like. Or her steps on the stairs. Her hands he did remember, though: small, the skin a little rough from frequent washing. As doctors did.

It was cold by the riverbank, and dark. The water flowed past with a quiet gurgle here and there. There was little in the way of wind, and the black silhouettes of the trees opposite looked expectant. He took the scarf out of his pocket.

‘As I lose what was given,
I gain back what was lost.’

He let it slip from his hand. As it sank into the water, the peacocks started to move, displaying their plumage. He blinked. It was gone.

The Scarf

At first, nothing happened. Then it began to smell of pancakes. With blueberries. She had loved making them, and they had loved eating them together. The river in front of him erupted with a loud splash and from its midst rose a huge white face, lion-like with a wild mane and sparkling eyes – a water dragon. Its snake-like body was thrashing the water. Behind it, on the opposite bank, sprites the size of children, semi-transparent and glowing green flitted back and forth.

He didn’t know where to look first, whether to be afraid or exhilarated. Then he saw her: riding on the back of the dragon, her short dark hair, green eyes – and she was waving at him. She wore the scarf around her neck. She laughed. And it felt, as if she had never died. As if everything was back to normal.

It was already light outside when he woke up. He sighed. He was still holding the scarf in his hand. He held it up to his face. In amongst one of the peacocks’ feathers, almost invisible to the naked eye, swam a tiny white water dragon, with the face of a lion and the body of a snake.