It is my understanding that you’ve come here in search of the lake.
It has been long known among the locals here that the lake is home to a doorway, though no one could tell you for certain how they know such a thing. I do not expect you to believe this, but the stories of a thousand years don’t just come from nothing, do they? It seems to me that we often look at the people of the past as intellectual children, unable to explain the world around them in terms of science and familiar reason. But like children, I do believe that they had a way of seeing which we have lost, in the same way, that toddlers greet an unseen man in the corner of their bedroom or tell tales of themselves in lives previously lived. Our understanding of things has very little to do with the way the world actually is.
But you want to know about the lake. I myself have never seen it, but I will tell you what has been passed down to me. Please do not be disappointed. I think that by the time the story is told I hope you will see why I never had much reason or curiosity enough to go looking for it.
Sit, and I’ll tell you what I know of it.
They say the lake is as smooth and black as the new moon’s night sky. Its face is always silent, undisturbed by wind, rain, or beast. No fish seem to swim beneath her surface and not a mayfly will alight upon her placid face. The bank is barren of the usual weeds and plants that gather life to themselves; all is silent when you make your way through the trees and finally come upon the sight of her. It is a silence unmistakable in a wilderness like the one you will find out here, and it is not easily forgotten.
I do not know anyone foolish enough to have touched this lake, not in the generations that have come and gone since my family settled here back in ‘26, or at least none who found it worth boasting about. But still, they say that if you dip both hands into the lake and cup her waters there, not a drop will spill between your fingers, and the water you carry will remain opaque and flat as a scrying mirror, and warm as a baby’s breath. Some say that the reflection you see there in your palm may drive you mad– whether it is your future or demons or endings you witness before losing yourself to madness I cannot say. We have had our fair share of missing people around here, though if it has been caused by madness or simply losing the path I cannot tell you with any certainty.
No tales of drinking this water have made their way down to me. I would say perhaps that no one has ever been stupid enough to do such a thing, but anyone who has seen their fair share of humanity will likely draw other conclusions. I suggest you not be the one to try it. The lake has a long history, longer than any of our own, and some things are lost while others are buried.
Something that is widely known is that the lake has accepted many sacrifices, though it has never asked for any as far as I know. And yet, maidens, livestock, golden coins, swords, and jewelry cast of fine metals, all have found their way to her banks and disappeared into her awaiting maw with not so much as a splash or ripple.
This is simply the way of people. What cannot be understood must be destroyed, and what cannot be destroyed must be worshiped and placated. So, men, they come, as they have for generations, for millennia, before language and weapons and prayer, they have come here and known fear and offered sacrifice. And the lake has accepted them but remained silent as the doldrums.
In this way, the lake has become a place of waiting. They all wait and watch and yearn. If you ask them what they are waiting for, some may say answers. Others say they wait for the lady, black as pitch from raven-haired head to slim bare feet, who invites those willing into her kingdom of eternal night. And others still say she is white and bright as the evening star, untouched by the murky waters as she rises from the depths to bring promises of another world far from the suffering that mankind has sown. In this way they sacrifice more than they realize. The lake pulls them in and so they stay, make families, build communities– I cannot tell you how many wandering souls have settled in this region, but they come for the lake and they wait, even without knowing it.
My father, who brought us here in search of something he never spoke of, died waiting. So did my mother, though they had lived most of their lives on opposing shores of reason. My story is one of thousands. Heroes, villains, gods, sorcerers, and demons are all said to have made the pilgrimage to the lake’s indifferent shores for glory, conquest, and homecoming. Of which stock do you fancy yourself to be?
I am sure more will come, as they always have.The world is sewing itself together in ways I am unsure were ever intended, and the unexplainable is never allowed to stay that way forever. It’s simply not the way that people operate, especially now, with science knocking on everyone’s door. I am sure this one will be no exception.
I must conclude by saying that you must not be in the business of finding the truth in any of what I have told you. Truth, in memory, is a fickle thing. There is a lake on the northern side of the mountain you see there. It is a long trek from here, but it seems you are prepared for that. There is a path, but there are many paths alongside the mountain. I have never walked it myself, so I can only wish you luck and provide you with a reminder. Many have come and seen the lake, and I do not know if they ever find what they truly came searching for. Many of those people have gone again into their lives, while many have stayed, and some have met with uncertain fates of no particularly enchanted variety. I just remind you that no matter what you believe from these stories, know this is a place of waiting and sacrifice, and not all things are intentionally given but may be taken just the same.
When you knock upon a door, you must be wise enough to determine how long to wait, when to walk away, and when to walk through.
by Ariel Moniz
