Mama’s Water Lily
Kaylyn Hall
I knew when Mama’s skin turned yellow that she would die. We didn’t ask for a ceremony with the shaman to confirm what we already knew. Her life was to be measured in days, hours, minutes.
The river was quiet this morning, but the surrounding rainforest was loud—screaming as always. I held the paddle and let the canoe drift, moving along with the green water’s current.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, the river had started to narrow. I was close, now.
I paddled the canoe further down the river and then brought it to the bank. After tying the boat to a large tree, I carefully studied the cluster of plants and the canoe’s location: two kapok trees surrounded by figs.
The journey from the edge of the river to the lake was not long or winding. It would be much shorter than my time on the water.
The river had been calm, almost asleep, but the rainforest was alive. Howler monkeys swung from tree branches and birds shouted at each other. Insects buzzed loudly, a unified chorus, even though it was daytime. The trees grew so close together that the sunlight was filtered through a canopy of green, and the scent of damp soil and foliage filled the air.
My footsteps were near-silent on the spongy forest floor. I kept my eyes to the ground ahead of me, careful to step over tree roots and colorful frogs.
When I reached the lake, I knelt by the shore.
I could almost hear Papa’s laugh rumbling in my ear as he threw me into the water. Mama had been smiling even though it was raining. She was completely drenched even without going into the shallow water.
“These,” she had said, pointing out at the lake, “are my very favorite.”
A deep breath. “My papa used to bring them to me when I was a child. He said I was even more beautiful than a giant water lily.”
Just like they had then, the lily pads had taken over the lake, each spreading wide. Now, I waded into the water and plucked a white flower. Mama’s favorite. She would see one more before the fever took her.
Mama couldn’t afford for me to waste time, so I made my way out of the water and back into the jungle quickly. The rainforest still sang, screamed, and breathed—one living being.
I was almost back to the canoe when I realized the wild around me had gone almost completely quiet. No monkeys screeching or birds shouting. Nothing at all. I froze, scanning the space around me. How close was I to the canoe? Could I make it back?
Holding my breath, I slowly, carefully, scanned the forest. Ahead, nothing. To my left, nothing. To my right, nothing. Behind—
My lungs froze. I would recognize the yellow-tan spotted fur anywhere. A jaguar.
Calm. Big. That’s what I needed to show, needed to be.
I kept my eyes away from the jaguar’s face, resisting the intense urge to check if it was looking at me. My hands shot in the air. It was an effort to keep my feet planted, to not turn around and run to the canoe. Papa talked about this, taught me what to do, but all the words were too far away, too buried in grief. But one thing I did remember—do. Not. Run.
Keeping my eyes on the jaguar, I took a slow step backward. No movement. Another step. No movement. Another st–
A branch snapped under my foot, and I whipped my head up to see the jaguar staring at me.
A rumble filled the air—not a roar, but a warning. I stared at the ground, my body trembling, fingers tight around the lily’s stem. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. I had seconds of life dangling in front of me. I counted them with raspy breaths. One, two, three— The jaguar launched itself toward its prey, leaping into the air.
Right past me.
I turned to see it had landed on a capybara, killing it with a single bite. Barely breathing, I walked a wide circle around the jaguar in the direction of the canoe.
When I reached my boat, I untied it with shaky fingers and pushed it into the water before climbing in and quickly paddling away.
The sun was close to halfway down, nearing sunset. I paddled the entire way home, returning to the wider, open stretch of waterway.
When I reached the other canoes with sore and tired arms, I tied up my boat and climbed up the bank and toward the village, giant water lily in hand. It dangled, limp now. As I climbed the stairs and neared the entryway, I bumped straight into someone—the shaman. He shook his head at me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I quickly entered the home to find Mama, but she was already gone.
In the morning, the shaman returned for the ritual. It was definite, unchanging. I buried her with the water lily.
Kaylyn Hall is a writer based in Ohio. She spends her days teaching Language Arts and her free time writing. Kaylyn is currently working on her second novel.
Art: Elaine Chu and Marina Perez-Wong: Click here for more information