Clay followed the path as it snaked among the girls' cabins toward the river. The boys' cabins were on the other side of camp. So it was a bit of a trek to get to the river from ClayNation, the name his current batch of campers had given to their cabin in his honor. Still, despite the distance and his occasional stumbles, the walk had been good for him-he could already feel his dream receding. The moon played hide and seek in the clouds, turning the path into a shifting ribbon of light and shadow whose rough patches surprised his feet. It didn't help that he'd forgotten his glasses.

As he left the girls' cabins behind, he began to hear the gurgling and rushing of the river ahead. He stopped. His heart beat faster with the memory of his dream and his unreasoning fear of water. The river sounds stoked his fear and he closed his eyes to better feel his heart pound and the sweat return to his forehead. It was a familiar fear and he welcomed it like an old friend, even though he hoped someday to conquer and be rid of it. If nothing else, the fear made him feel very alive.

He opened his eyes and continued on, pausing at the boathouse to grab a life jacket from its hook. He half smiled as he snapped it shut around his bare chest and pulled the side straps tight. That was him all right-Clayton Aiken, YMCA camp counselor, scared to death of water and never seen within a stone's throw of the river without a life jacket. It was pathetic, really, and he wondered what kind of role model that part of himself was for the groups of boys who were his summer responsibility. Certainly, he'd come a long way from four years ago, when he was first a junior counselor in training, like K.C. Back then he'd barely been able to go within sight of the river. But now he could-with a life jacket. He shrugged. That was just who he was, and the boys in his cabin always seemed to like him despite this weakness. The girls' counselors found his fear endearing, much to the dismay of a few of the more rough and tumble male counselors. Why should they care, anyway-with their brawny good looks, they had a head start on him in any competition for female attention. He knew he wasn't much to look at, with his bright red hair, freckles, skinny frame, and big ears. But he liked to think he had other redeeming features. Like his jokes and pranks. Hadn't he made everyone laugh last night as MC at the end-of-summer camp talent show? And his singing. He had a voice that some people said sounded pure as an angel's when he sang.

Halfway across the bridge Clay stopped and leaned on the railing. He gazed upstream at the narrow river, really more of a stream this late in the summer. He could just make out the still, deep section where the river widened into a swimming hole. In the blue moonlight, he looked down and saw the gently rushing water beneath him and the twigs and leaves tumbling playfully on their journey toward the far off ocean. They weren't afraid of the water. Why was he?

He was too far away from the girls' cabins for anyone to hear, so he closed his eyes and began softly at first to sing one of his favorite gospel songs, Peace in the Valley. For in the soft moonlight that colored the trees and river in white and black and shades of blue, it did seem that there was a heavenly presence, that God might indeed be there. And besides, his voice loved to curl around the slow, broad tones of the hymn and build to a crescendo with a power that filled his entire body with pleasure. When he finished, he opened his eyes and smiled, all fear momentarily chased away.

Joanna froze as she floated on her back, then pulled her head out of the water. Treading water slowly, she strained to hear. A man's voice. Just one. Singing.

I'm tired and so weary
But I muh-ust go alone

She shook the water out of her ears and held herself as still as she could, paddling just enough to stay afloat. Great. Caught here in the bright moonlight on her solo swim. With no clothes on. Who would have thought she'd run into some guy out serenading the moon at 2 am in the morning? She continued to listen.

And the night, night is as bla-ack as the sea, oh-oh-oh yeah
There will be peace in the valley for me-ee-ee, some day

The voice gathered strength and swelled through the night. Its rich tones washed over her. Whoever was singing was really getting into it.

There'll be no sadness, no sorrow
No trouble, trouble I see

And suddenly she felt a chill run through her, the chill of being in the majestic presence of a king among voices. Wow! This guy could sing. She continued to listen until the last line, like a deer caught in the shining lights of a car that had appeared out of nowhere.

There will be peace in the valley for me, for me

Silence. Save for the water sounds and the wind in the trees. Where was he now? Released from the singer's spell, she glided toward the river bank, to the spare safety of a shadow at the river's edge. She stepped out of the swimming hole and climbed the shallow bank toward where she'd left her clothes. She tugged at her hair and let it tumble down in front to cover her breasts. With the water dripping from her body, she crept through the bushes toward the boulder where she'd left her clothes. And froze again as the voice returned, this time much nearer.

Clay shook his head with a smile and bit his lower lip. That had felt amazing. He glanced around, self conscious for just an instant, then turned, headed back down the bridge and followed the river bank upstream toward the grassy clearing opposite the swimming hole where his campers sometimes liked to eat lunch. The perfect place to sit, enjoy the moonlit night, and offer up a few more songs. Then back to bed. Now he was feeling almost happy he'd had the dream because it had brought him here. The night was fine.

He reached the clearing, lowered himself to the ground, and leaned back against a stump, the life jacket providing a padded cushion for his back. He'd come here before to sing, although not often. Once a trembling deer with dark, dark eyes had come to listen. And then run away when he had stopped. He sang Blue Moon of Kentucky in honor of tonight's moon and because its bluegrass rhythms matched his now playful mood. And then the old Hank Williams song, Your Cheating Heart. He felt relaxed now and allowed a twang to creep into his normally mellow voice.

Your cheatin' heart will make you weep
You'll cry and cry and try to sleep
But sleep won't come the whole night through
Your cheatin' heart will tell on you

To finish up, he segued into his favorite sort of song, a ballad. This one was old but perfect for tonight. He threw up the haunting melody into the sky.

Blue moon, you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own

Crack. Clay heard the snap of a breaking twig. A deer? He didn't miss a beat or move from where he sat but kept singing and tried to make his voice as gentle and encouraging as possible. He heard another snap and a rustling in the bushes upstream. Although the song was done, he began another chorus. Slowly he stood up and turned around, still singing, and peered ahead to look for the deer.

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this story was written in April 2003; copyright Elena Felsig

this page was last updated 5/16/03