The Moon Princess and the waiting boat – AVAGirl Pearl

Long ago — though not so long that the sea has forgotten — there was a stairway that led down into the water. No one knew who had made it. The stones were smooth and even, and they sank step by step into the tide, as if the shore itself had wished to walk a little farther out and had grown tired halfway. Fishermen sometimes saw it when the night was very clear. By day it was only rock and sea, but when the moon stood low and round behind the horizon, the steps shone faintly, each one holding a pale light of its own.

And on such nights, she came.

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She was called the Moon Princess, though she wore no crown. The moon was enough. She walked down the stairway slowly, as one who knows every stone and trusts it. Her dress was the color of deep water — that quiet green-blue which lies beneath the surface where light has already softened. It wrapped and folded about her, and one long part of it fell behind her like a narrow stream.

When she reached the middle of the stairway, she always paused. There she would lift her hand a little, and the moon would stand just beyond her shoulder, so that her figure lay dark and clear against its glow. It was not a gesture of greeting. It was more as if she wished to feel whether the light was still the same as it had been before. It always was. So she went on.

A small boat waited upon the water. It was old, yet sound, and the tide moved it gently against the stone, though it never drifted away. No rope held it. No oar lay inside. Still it remained, year after year, night after night, as though it had been asked to stay and had obeyed. But the Moon Princess did not step into it at once.

Instead she turned once more toward the stairway and the height from which she had come. And then she moved — not as those who dance for joy, nor as those who dance for show, but softly, as though remembering something that had once been part of her and must not be forgotten. She leaned, and the long fold of her dress slipped over the step like water. She lifted one foot, and the moon slipped higher behind her. She stretched her arms, and the sea caught her shape and trembled with it.

Silence. Yet the stillness itself seemed to listen. When at last she had finished, she stepped down into the boat.

She sat upon its edge, one hand resting behind her, the other upon her knee. The trailing cloth of her dress fell over the side and touched the water. The sea made small rings about it, bright and quiet, and then was smooth again.

She did not sail. The boat did not move. She sat only to look — far out, where the moon’s path lay trembling across the dark surface.

No one knew what she saw there. Yet those who had watched from distant rocks said her face was gentle and sorrowful at once, as though she beheld something dear that could never be held. So she remained until the first paling of the sky. Then she rose. The cloth lifted from the water as light as mist. She stepped again upon the stone, and the stairway received her as faithfully as before. Upward she went — though it seemed less that she climbed than that she grew fainter to the eye.

The moon faded behind her. The sea darkened. The boat lay waiting. By morning, there was nothing upon the shore but water and rock. Yet sometimes, when the tide is very still and the moon stands low and patient, a faint brightness rests upon the lowest step — as if something soft had lain there. And the fishermen say, when they pass in silence: “She has been here again.”

For the Moon Princess still comes, whenever the sea is calm enough to remember the sky.