The Waterfall

The Waterfall came from nowhere. Easily a hundred feet tall and ten feet in diameter, it produced an enormous volume of water that disappeared before it hit the ground. It came from nowhere and went to who knows where, but it was real-- you could hold a bucket under it and collect as much as you wanted. People came from everywhere to fill their buckets with the “Miracle Water” even though chemically it was identical to ordinary H20.

“It is a gift from God,” my spiritual sister Purity stated.

“It is a message from another world,” said George Fawcette, the UFO researcher.

“It is beautiful,” I said when it first appeared above our farm one morning in July.

Our cat, Pandapuss, had gotten in the habit of waking me up before dawn. I grumbled and stumbled up to let him out, even though he could let himself out the cat door. He insisted that I leave my bed and open the front door for him. He would sit and stare at me before eventually going out. Then one day it occurred to me: he wanted me to go out with him.

Pandapuss is unusual. He is huge. He has a white body and head, but his bushy tail is black. He has big black ovals over his ears which make him look like a Panda, hence his name.

Anyway, he and I went out together that morning. There in the middle of our field was a waterfall coming straight out of the sky. Pandapuss looked at me as if to say, “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks something was going to happen.”

Pandapuss sniffed the waterfall. Then he ran around behind it and pretended to hide so he could pounce on me. At that point, I decided it was not an aggressive waterfall. I felt the happy little negative air ions from a few feet away. As I got closer, I felt the cool mist. I stuck a finger in it and then I just dabbled in it like a child for about twenty minutes, spraying water on Pandapuss, and splashing water into the air.

Finally, I realized I should call my husband, Terrence, who was already up and tending to the ginseng and mushrooms we grow on our farm. I asked him to come home for lunch because I had a big surprise. Then I went into the kitchen and cooked a meatloaf in case the waterfall was gone by the time he came home. I didn't want him to be disappointed.

“It’s a waterfall, Maybelle. From ... nowhere,” he pronounced and then he started playing with it. I knew he would do that.

We didn’t call anybody. We didn’t want people crowding around until we had time to think. But unfortunately, the men who came to pick up the garbage saw it. I guess they thought it was a broken water main. In no time, we were flooded with men in trucks and uniforms. By sunset, it was on the national news. We didn’t sleep that night.

The scientists arrived the next day. Terrence especially enjoyed listening to the professor of hydrology from the university, who seemed to know everything about the behavior of water. He admitted he had never seen or heard of anything quite like it. But The Waterfall affected him in the same way it had affected us. He stopped pontificating, tossed his hat in the air, and filled both hands with the magical water. Even the most skeptical old geezers would end up giggling and playing in it like a bunch of drunken otters.

We decided to open The Waterfall three days a week: one day to the public, one day to the scientists, and one day to the media. The county brought port-a-johns, which we hid behind the chicken house. We made arrangements with the Veterans of Foreign Wars club down the road to use their parking lot. They charged a little and used the money to erect a monument with all their members’ names.

Everybody wanted to commercialize The Waterfall. God knows how many times we were offered multiple millions of dollars to buy our three acres of rocky, infertile land. The only things that grow well here are mushrooms and ginseng.

After the first shock wave, things settled down. I am not sure if it was the negative ions the waterfall put out or what, but visitors have been very polite and respectful; you might even say reverent. Never any pushing or shoving, no rudeness or impatience that I’ve seen.

Within three months, it became clear that the arrival of The Waterfall had changed our town in subtle ways. It brought prosperity and all the marginally desirable things that go along with a massive influx of curious people.

But, more than just the money, The Waterfall brought freedom from fear. Our little town was part of a miracle. People relaxed. They stopped looking over their shoulders for the police to arrest them, or the banker to foreclose on their house, or the mortician to embalm them with those nasty chemicals. Sure, people have died, and have suffered illness and loss and the usual hardships that accompany mortal life, but there’s peacefulness in the way we go about living now. We smile more at each other, and we speak to strangers.

We love the waterfall, and we love each other. Maybe we always loved each other but didn’t realize it, or were afraid to show it. The Waterfall-from-Nowhere proved that there is mystery in this universe, and it is good-natured.

Then, as suddenly as it came, it went. Or rather, it transformed.

The day started as usual: Pandapuss waking me up at dawn, wanting me to go out with him. Terrence was still asleep. It was our “day off” from visitors and nobody was around.

The Waterfall had changed to a pillar of fire.