Megan and Machiavelli

Megan and Machiavelli

Eight year-old Megan Matheson rowed the ten-foot dingy only a stone's throw off the beach at the family cottage. Mother Leslie and big brother Colin sat in lounge chairs only half watching the little girl as they were satisfied she was safe.

Megan, a bit disgruntled at being the youngest and never allowed to do what grownups do, had decided it was time to change all that. So before she shoved off, she placed her Zebco rod on the floorboard the way her father did. "I'll show them adults and big brothers aren't the only ones who can catch fish!"

While Mother had her back to the water and Colin had his sunburned face in a comic book, the little girl let out her line. She didn't want to cast because the whine of the reel might alert her overseers. The little girl rowed gently in the calm water past the reed-fringed shore freckled by lily pads until she felt she was out of range, then slowly let her half-worm hook sink to the bottom. The poor worm, destined to reach Heaven by being quartered and drowned, followed the BB-shot sinker downward.

Megan had no idea what she would do if she caught a Muskalunge, Northern Pike, or even a big Bass. But her adventurous mind didn't think that far ahead. At the moment she was only concerned with getting away with a grown-up thing.

Presently she felt a tug. Not a two-ton tug, but it was definitely more than the worm scraping the shallow floor.

She jerked the rod slightly to set the hook as she had seen Dad and Colin do: the tug was still there. Thrilled, she shrieked, unconcerned about being found out.

Mother swiveled around, Colin dropped Spider Man.

"Play it, Meg," coached her brother. "Don't horse it in. Your line's too light. That's it, that's it. Do you want a landing net?"

"I don't know, what is it?" shrieked the excited fishergirl.

"I don't know, said Mother. "I can't see. I guess you're going to have to land it to find out."

But take-charge big brother would not allow his little sister the glory. He waded into the two-foot water and stared into the clear water.

But this wasMegan'scatch, so she jerked, and up flew a clam.

"A clam!" laughed Colin. "Now I've seen everything. Who ever heard of catching a clam while trolling?"

Megan was disappointed only a moment. It was hers, the first thing she'd ever caught, so it didn't matter that it wasn't a whale. "I betyou'venever caught a clam!"

Naturally, the little girl wanted to keep it forever. She put it in a mayonnaise jar and filled it with water. Since she didn't know what the biped ate, she fed it goldfish food and very small table scraps. Megan named her pet clam Sheila.

Searching the Internet, Colin did not find the life expectancy of pet clams living in mayonnaise jars filled with tap water and fed stale fish food, crackers, bread crumbs, occasional rice, and thin spaghetti. But he could certainly tell when Sheila died.

After Father had proclaimed that pet souls go on eternal vacation, Colin suggested that before throwing the corpse away, let's cut it open.

"Clam shells are cool," he said. "You wash them out and they're all shiny. And you can put all sorts of things in them, too."

Megan wasn't convinced that she wanted to be reminded of dead pet, but since Colin did all the dirty work she acquiesced. As the shells divided, the dissectors did not hear the plunk-plunk noise. Colin tossed out the putrefied body, washed the shells, and even dried them. "See? Now you have a real decoration. And you caught it."

Megan was pleased. After all, now Sheila would be with her forever.

That evening, the little girl noticed something round on the floor.

"Oh!" she said, "a pearl," and she rolled it in her hand. "But wait, clams don't have pearls, only oysters. Even I know that."

Megan couldn't identify the ball. It didn't look like a stone, didn't feel like a pebble, didn't weigh like a BB. Whatever it was, it became her pearl. "It is Sheila's gift."

The eight year-old shuffled through her left-overs drawer and pulled out a velvet-lined necklace case. Feeling she was performing a mystical ceremony, she placed her gift into the case, closed it gently, and put it by her pillow. She slept soundly.

That is, until midnight. At the strike of twelve she awoke suddenly. She stared into a silver orb that illuminated her bedroom. In the middle of the

luminescence smiled the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

"Sheila," Megan said instinctively, not the least bit frightened.

"Yes, dear. And I thank you for freeing me."

"Freeing you? What do you mean?"

"I am the soul of the pearl. Had you not caught the clam, I might have spent a very long time at the bottom of the lake. But now, I am free to..."

"Oh, Sheila!" interrupted Megan. "I have my own Genie. My very own Fairy God Mother. How exciting! Do I get three wishes?"

"Oh, dear," smiled the shimmering orb. "I'm afraid you've been watching too much TV."

"Then two wishes? One? Whatdoyou do?"

"I will help you grow up."

"That's very nice, Sheila," said Megan as lady-like as she could. "But it's not magic. It's not even exciting." She pouted.

The apparition spoke. "No? Then think about it. At the lake you wished you could do grown-up things. And you were thrilled when you caught me. If you don't think growing up is good enough now, I can roll down the register and let you grow up by yourself. I can do that easily."

"Oh, no," said Megan. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Please stay with me and help me act like a grown-up and do adult things."

"Of course, Dear. But only if you keep me near you and listen to me."

And so Megan Matheson began carrying her private pearl with her constantly. Which was not always easy. Once, in the Fourth Grade, when she was at Camp, she was going to the beach and left the pearl on her bunk. The voice of the talisman scolded her soundly. And no one had to tell her that the headache she experienced after forgetting to take the pearl to the bonfire wasn't a punishment. So at Crafts, Megan wove a very small satchel. From that moment the charm dangled from her neck constantly.

And Megan did grow up. She matured. Everyone saw that she carried herself with considerable dignity. She was known as responsible, reliable, and respected enough to be elected Senior Class President. And each summer she reenacted her first meeting with the pearl that she was convinced had changed and guided her life.

But Megan never saw the silver orb again. Nor the phantasmagorical face of beautiful Sheila. And that bothered her. True, she felt a presence inside her, but she was disappointed that she never saw the face again.

Still, Sheila spoke to the presence through her inner thoughts. And

though she missed the beautiful orb, Megan really was content knowing that her closest friend had kept her side of the vow: the feeling remained with the girl as long as the she kept the pearl near and she listened.

When Megan went to college and wore T-shirts during the day and party dresses at night, the satchel became conspicuous and a burden.

"Well, Sheila," said Megan one day in the dorm, "I think I've outgrown you. Oh, I'll keep you under my pillow at night, but people are asking questions, and you really don't go with every outfit." So the coed stuffed the satchel under the pillow and went her date.

Had Ms Matheson graphed her life from that moment she would have seen that everything went downhill during the day and leveled out at night. And had she studied the pattern, she would also have found a direct relationship between the proximity of the pearl and Megan's success. It would have convinced even a non-believer.

When Megan returned from the late party on graduation night, she did not notice that the satchel was gone. But she did when she packed.

"Sheila?" Megan asked. But the query was not convincing. She had functioned long enough without the pearl that she had come to believe that the sphere no longer helped her. Still, Megan looked under the bed and ruffled the sheets: it was the least she could do for an old friend. Not finding the pearl, she shrugged her shoulders, packed her bags, and headed for the family cottage.

The first morning, Megan tried to recover from her after-party blues. She launched the rowboat, leaned the Zebco against the gunwale, and rowed beyond the shallow reeds. This time she did not catch a clam. Instead, an eighteen-pound Muskellunge yanked viciously at the line.

Those who know Muskellunge know that they are survivors par excellence. They know how to jump, flip, wrap line around their muscular bodies, race toward the boat, dive deep, dart shallow, bite through wire leaders, crunch lures, and snap lines. And if the battling angler happens to net the marine gladiator, he should expect him to put up an equally powerful fight in the bottom of the boat: many a tackle box has flown to the four corners of the compass, oar handles broken, and hooks imbedded in the fisherman not wearing protective clothing. Those who know the Muskie go prepared.

Megan was not prepared. But she was smart. So she stepped into the shallow water and horsed the fish onto the sandy beach.

"Ha!" she said, "I got you! Do you see that, Colin, I caught a Muskie!"

A nearby fisherman noticed that her exclamation was not very lady-like.

The fish snapped and thrashed on shore, obviously uncomfortable.

"Damn you, girl, who do you think you are?"

Wide-eyed, Megan stared at the fish.

"You heard me, girl, put me back in the lake!"

Megan recovered. Speaking to the Muskie, she said, "So, you're part of the fairy life of my childhood, eh? Only you're uglier. So tell me, Machiavelli, you have any pearls of wisdom to bestow on me so I can grow up and be a good little girl? That is, before I chop your head off and eat you for supper."

"Ha!" barked the fish. "You're way passed good little girl. But I will make a deal with you: a covenant. You let me go and..."

"Let you go?" laughed Megan. "Not on your life!" The girl raised a piece of driftwood menacingly.

"You didn't let me finish," said the fish.

"Becauseyou'refinished. You and your Fairy God Mothers and small voices within. Here, take this!" and she slammed the wood down.

So proud was Megan of her catch that she had the head mounted by the local Taxidermist. And to this day, thirty-seven years later, Machiavelli glares his sharp teeth at everyone who enters the cottage. What they don't know is that he is not focusing on them but her murderer.

It is most unfortunate that Megan, once charmed by the pearl lady, didn't listen to the plea-bargaining Muskie. For he was also from the school of magic and he had a very appealing offer. But Megan did not listen. She gave up listening to her inner voice when she saw herself independent and grown up. And because she didn't listen, andespeciallybecause she had the head mounted and over her bed, the girl spent the last thirty-seven years of her life in the cabin a very bitter old woman.

She never fished again. Had she dared, who is to say what she would have caught? A magical clam? A ferocious Muskie with an unrevealed message? Or maybe just a little piece and quiet.