The Sacred Lake.

[dadio]

He is sitting by the murky pond with a fishing rod held between his legs like some phallic symbol and the line is immersed in the dark-brown water, looking lifeless. He doesn't notice me standing by the trees some metres back. His body, slim, arched, is alive only to the dark dank pond before him. Making my way down from the trees onto the grass about the pond I am hoping he will turn and take note of me, but he doesn't. It isn't until I am a metre away that he finally turns his head and gives me a quick glance. His eyes, greyish-blue, search me up and down, until eventually they settle on my knees that show beneath my short skirt.

"Sit down if you're staying; I can't bear people standing around me when I'm fishing," he says in a deep voice. I sit down with effort on the grass, my left hand giving me balance. He gives me another quick glance then turns his head once more to the dark water before us. "I’m Sorbus Ash," he says, "my father owns the Ash Stables." He indicates with a toss of his head and I look to where his head seems to indicate.

"I’m Abelia Hardwood," I reply, pulling my skirt down as far as possible over my knees.

"You live in Weststead cottage don't you?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, "we've been there about a three month now." He moves the rod between his hands and settles it again.

"I’ve seen you about with Betula Birch," he states, his eyes firmly focusing on the pond. I watch him for a few minutes; looking at his hands; at his face, pale, and his hair blonde-white brushed back without care or style. He turns and stares at me. "Betula’s mother is a strange woman,” he informs. "She is not one to cross." He then becomes silent and for a few more minutes I sit watching him, his rod and the water alternatively, beginning to feel awkward.

"Do you catch many fish here?” I ask to break the awkward silence.

"Seldom," he replies. Then after five minutes silence he begins to tell me all about Betula and her mother and matters of the past. I listen in silence, watching his lips move, his eyes occasionally settling on me, and wonder what he's thinking. Then he stops and resumes his silence. He raises the rod between his legs again and then settles the line back into the water. I sit up and rest down on my heels giving him a quick glance to see if he is watching me, but he isn't. He seems too focused on the pond to even be aware any longer that I am here. I stand up and prepare to leave.

"I must be going," I say looking at his head now beneath me.

He nods." Careful how you go; it gets quite slippery up there," he says in return, looking at me as I turn to go.

"Hope you get lucky," I say, nodding towards the pond.

"I seldom do," he says looking at me as I walk up the bank. When I look back he is looking once more at the murky waters of the pond and I have now left his consciousness like a passing thought.

Betula Birch sits by the pond with her arms around her legs, her chin resting on her knees. She seems in deep thought. I sit about half a metre away from her looking at her light-brown hair, long and straight, and her face pale-white, her eyes hazel. Something about her captivated me some months back and still does; captivates me in a way I have never been captivated before. She smiles. Her lips fill out as she smiles and turns her head towards me.

"You know what I have decided to call this place, Abelia?" she says, her voice full of mystery.

"No," I reply, moving a little closer to her. "What?” She takes her right hand from her knees and puts it on my arm with the gentlest touch.

"The Sacred Lake," she says excitedly. "Our lake."

"Sacred?” I say.

"Special and magic. At least to you and me," she says clutching my arm tighter. I nod and look out at the muddy pond. Doesn't seem too sacred to me, but I say nothing, only nod more. "We must always come here and renew our friendship...Years to come...Promise?" she looks at me, her eyes almost pleading for my reply.

"Yes," I promise. "Let our friendship never need renewing though," I add putting my hand over hers on my arm. She smiles and leans forward and kisses my cheek.

"Abelia, I hope so too," she says like a converted lost soul. We sit in silence side by side for what seems ages, then she says, “Don’t ever come here with anyone else. Promise me that?”

"I can't promise," I inform quietly. She looks at me momentarily as if I had slapped her.

"Why can't you?" she asks, her voice pained.

"I came here yesterday and met a young man," I say hesitantly. She removes her hand from my arm and folds it against her breast with her other hand like two frightened birds.

"What man?" she asks me, her voice rising, her eyes darkening.

"Said his name was Sorbus Ash," I inform, feeling apprehensive.

"Sorbus was here?" she says. She stares at me, then looks away at the pond. "Bet he was fishing," she says without turning her head.

"Yes, but I didn't know he'd be here," I inform seeking to excuse myself, although not knowing why. She sighs and moves away from me a few centimetres as some kind of gesture. I feel as if someone is turning their hand inside of me wrenching at my intestines. I sense tears in my eyes and a huge lump like an orange in my throat. After a few minutes of complete silence, she turns and looks at me.

"You can't trust men,” she says. "Always the same lies, always the same wants." She shakes her head and sighs again. "Thought you were different," she says," but you're just the same as all those others enthralled by men and their lies."

"Don’t say that, Betula," I cry,” I'm not hiding anything from you; Sorbus Ash means nothing to me." She sniffs the air and then breathes out heavily as if casting out demons.

"What’d he say, then?" she asks.

I tell her all I can remember about what Sorbus had told me the day before. She sighs, then looks away at the pond. Silence fills the air. I feel momentarily like one in exile or in that place called Limbo I've heard about. Then she turns to me and smiles.

"I was too quick to judge you," she says. "Sorry, am I forgiven?”

"Nothing to forgive," I say. She leans towards me and kisses my cheek again. We sit in silence gazing out at the waters of our Sacred Lake as the sunlight breaks through the branches of the trees above as if to bless us like two children unaware of our innocence.
*
As we leave the Sacred Lake it begins to rain and we run hand in hand laughing and screaming as our hair and clothes cling to us like damp second skins.

"Come on, Abelia," she says," let's get to the woods before we drown." I nod as we rush side by side, laughing even louder, and the rain coming down faster and harder. "Isn’t it beautiful," she says excitedly, as we look up at the darkening sky and nearing the fence that separates the field from the woods.

"You’re mad," I say. "You’re like a drowned cat." She laughs and her eyes appear almost green like emeralds.

*

We clamber over the fence and into the woods where we run along the narrow path still laughing, but quietly now, a sense of calmness entering our minds. After a few minutes, Betula stops suddenly and taking my hands she leans forward and kisses me on the lips. We part and stare at each other; at damp hair; at faces flushed with running; into eyes that seem deep as oceans.

"Wish this moment could last for ever," Betula says quietly, her lips a few centimetres away.

"So do I," I say, searching her hazel eyes, seemingly green.

"Seldom have I felt so alive," she says in a whisper, clutching my hands tightly in hers. I think I see tears in her eyes and want to touch them, but don't. We stand for what seems ages, but is possibly only minutes, and then walk on along the path towards my parent's cottage in a tense silence.

*

I sit by the Sacred Lake alone looking at the murky water, wondering if Betula will be able to come or not. It looks like rain as it did seven days ago when Betula and I were here last. Maybe she won't be able to come, I think, lifting my eyes to the sky between the branches of the trees over head. If her mother knew what her fourteen-year-old daughter and I got up to last Sunday she'd never let her out again, that's if she hadn't killed her, I muse, watching the branches swaying above me. My mother too, I tell myself, closing my eyes for a few seconds, to capture Betula's face, but fail.

We had arrived at the cottage like drenched kittens. My mother said we had better go up to my room and change into something dry while she prepared tea and our clothes dried in the airing cupboard. So we went upstairs to my bedroom and peeled off our second skins. And it was then, while we stood momentarily naked, that we looked at each other and a sense of strangeness came over me. Betula stood, her hands over her breasts, gazing at me with her eyes now hazel, not green. She moved her hands away from her breasts and took my right hand in hers and drew me close to her.

A movement to my side causes me to turn and Sorbus Ash stands by the trees above the pond. He looks at me for a few moments in silence, then comes down through the undergrowth towards me slowly.

"All alone?" he asks, brushing his fishing rod around him like a lance.

"I’m waiting for Betula," I reply, feeling disturbed. "She said she'd meet me here."

"Bet she doesn’t," he says sitting on the ground a metre away, placing his rod beside him. "Her mother seldom let's her out, except for school and church," he adds. I watch him undo his rod and prepare it for fishing, feeling uneasy, wishing Betula would come and prove him wrong. And as I watch him, I wonder what he would think if he knew what Betula and I did last Sunday, then dismiss the thought as it makes me feel... Well...best not go into that now. He casts out and the line hits the water causing a series of ripples to flow out from the place where the hook and worm enter. Ripples, yes, ripples, I muse, sitting back, folding my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees, ripples would certainly flow out if anyone knew what we did last Sunday. I smile briefly to myself and stare at the centre of the ripples.

"You were here with her last Sunday weren't you?” Sorbus says suddenly, breaking the silence.

"How do you know?” I say, caught off guard and blushing mildly.

"Saw you," he mutters. I look at him as he sighs. "Strange pair, you two," he says. I look away and stare at the water again.

"We like it here," I say. I almost tell him that it's our Sacred Lake, but hold my tongue. He'll think we're mad, I tell myself, closing my eyes, wanting to capture Betula's face, but again failing.

"Like mother, like daughter," he says in a drone. Then he says nothing letting a silence settle about us. I remember the kiss Betula gave me last Sunday as we lay on my bed, my eyes still closed, wishing she was here now, kissing, knowing she won't come, not now.

Betula never came yesterday. And I could tell from the way Sorbus looked and acted that he was pleased for some damned reason. Now as I sit here by our Lake again, I hope she comes and sits here with me and relieves me of this pent up feeling inside. A week ago we were here and apart from the time we spend together at school, I’ve not seen her alone since. I recall last Sunday afternoon and feel a great need for Betula to be here now. How, while my mother prepared tea, Betula and I lay naked on my bed doing the kind of things I'd never knew you could do.

"Did you think I wasn't going to come?” Sorbus says, disturbing my thoughts, carrying his rod and bag.

"Wasn’t waiting for you," I retort. "I’m waiting for Betula."

"She’ll not come;" he says coolly," her mother won't let her out."

"Why not?” I say feeling anger rise in me. He shrugs his shoulders and unpacks his rod. He pulls it from the long bag and begins to look for bait. "Why the hell won't she let her come?” I ask louder, disturbing the silence about us.

"Strange woman, her mother," he says, pushing a worm on to the hook.

He says nothing more, but casts out and the hook plops into the murky water of our Lake. I sense an ache in my stomach and wish Betula would come and prove Sorbus wrong. I sit forward my head against my knees and close my eyes. How can I go on like this? Where is she? The thoughts race round my head like frightened mice. In addition, all I can hear is Sorbus a few metres away murmuring to himself and birds up in the branches making their sounds; all I want to hear is Betula's voice saying something into my ear or just the sound of her breathing beside me.

But nothing of her comes and I open my eyes and see Sorbus standing, pulling and winding in his line. His face is paler than usual and he has a determined look about his features as if he had caught something far larger than he had ever anticipated. I watch him for some seconds, then turn to where his line is dragging against the dark waters. Ripples rush away from his catch as he winds in frantically, his face becoming paler and paler, his breathing strained. Then we both see it; large, dark, like some huge drowned cat moving against the water's skin.

"What is it?" he says anxiously, as the dark thing moves closer to us. The darkness becomes suddenly lighter and light-brown hair, matted, damp, clings across a white mask as it moves ever closer to the edge of the pond. Sorbus stops winding and drops the rod. He turns and vomits into some bushes behind him, the sounds haunting.

"It’s a body," I exclaim disbelievingly, clutching my hands together in a gesture of praying. The face, pale, lifeless, drifts and then thuds noiselessly against the edge of the pond. Sorbus, arching over the bushes, is senseless to my words. " It's Betula," I whisper, "Betula." But the words seem senseless to me too. I remember last Sunday and that kiss she gave as we lay upon my bed and the look in her hazel eyes... The eyes are now closed, but there lurks about her lips, bluish like a bruise, a promise of a kiss, not delivered, but promised like one blown from a hand from some far off place at some later date, when the lips once again become moist and crimson.

*

Sorbus will never fish here again, or so he says.

Betula's body rests elsewhere now, her bloated flesh fished from the pond some weeks back. But to me sitting quietly at the edge of our Sacred Lake, she's here by my side, noiseless, restful.

It's very tempting to join her as she beckons me with her pale-white finger and whisperings. I remember that kiss some Sunday back as we lay naked on my bed...But it seems ages ago... And the water seems so cold like kissing the lips of one who has died... But the embrace, so wanted, so needed, calms and I drift, noiseless, like a leaf to where Betula whispers and beckons to me from within our Sacred Lake.

[dadio]

Story written between 2003-4.

[Atehequa]

Superb writing and excellent story.

"Sorbus stops winding and drops the rod. He turns and vomits into some bushes behind him, the sounds haunting"

Great !

[dadio]

Thank you for reading and comments, Atehequa.

[the mingo]

[SadLuckDame]

This was extreme fishing. Very good writing and story line.

[dadio]

Thank you, both.

[Steve Plonk]

Dadio, Great gothic tale...Like to see more of these.
Nice to see a tale without some faux illustrations... This tale
stands on its own.

[dadio]

Thank you, Steve.

[creativesoul]

beautiful

[dadio]

Thank you, creativesoul.