Dowsers
by Barbara Neu
With crooked fingers Grandmother pointed out the site of the old well, now only an earthy crease full of May-apples; a village of little umbrellas. I was like a May-apple myself, with bobbing ripe fruit hidden in a crotch of branches.
The dowsers are in town, she said, who can smell moisture miles away. Useful fellows but they can't be trusted.Alone, I grabbed a handful of willow branches and swung my light body out over the creek. Swinging back I saw a shadow move at the edge of the forest. A man walked across the clearing, holding out a forked stick, which quivered when he saw me.
Can you help me find something?
Yes.
Hot diggety, he said.
Only ten minutes for him to find the hidden river inside me, and then bucking me up against the willow tree, holding my wrists so tight he gave me Indian burn. Beside us his forked stick writhed in the grass. The dowser grunted and sat down, looked up at me as I struggled with my dress and said: Nothing worse than when a girl gets into trouble. Your grandma should know.
I snuck into the house to wash, squatting in the bathtub. Grass blades mixed with blood on the white porcelain. Afterwards, at the big dining room window Grandmother stood looking out, watching the dowser, tapping-tapping on the glass with her fingernail, as if in code, as if to say, "I know you."
At dinner she gave me Little Smokies and Miracle Whip, but I had suddenly outgrown them. She took my plate, specially polished, and chucked it onto the draining board. I escaped to the front-yard swing, pumping my legs up and down to gain altitude, and felt the man's juice flow out onto the rubber seat.
Barbara Neu was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio where she earned a degree in painting. Since then, she has spent most of her time living overseas. She currently lives in Japan with her family.