Grofo shrugged and dipped his hand into the water, yanking it out instantly as it felt truly icy.
.. Not exactly a casual swim. My grandpa has diving gear- I don't know where he got it, but he keeps it safely in the storage closet. We could dash back, grab the gear, come back fully equipped. Plus, I'm starving. Might as well eat too. - He rubbed his growling belly and cast a resentful glance at Roman, clearly still bitter about the salmon sandwich.
Oh yeah? And do you know how to put it on? Let alone swim with it- and in flippers? - Roman snarked, his voice full of smug disbelief. I'll figure it out! - Grofo replied with typical
At that moment, a nimble figure detached itself from one of the nearby boulders- of which there were plenty- and darted toward them. It sprinted past and leapt into the lake in one fluid motion.
The guys froze in stunned silence, until Grofo finally asked:
Was that Drury the Murky? Did I see that right, or am I completely losing it?
Seemed like - Roman scratched the back of his head uncertainly.
Ripples spread across the lake where the human body had met the surface, and Suzy stared at them thoughtfully before murmuring:
He wants to solve the riddle for us- and with Let's wait for him.
Calm as ever, she stepped away from the edge and walked to the stone where Drury had been hiding all this time, judged by many as nothing more than a nutty old man.
From her backpack, she pulled out a finely carved flute, decorated with sharp - beaked orioles bearing fanned tails that looked like peacocks'. The flute wasn't exactly new, but it didn't bear too many marks of age either- aside from a greasy food stain Suzy had neglected to wipe off.
Paying no mind to such trivialities, the girl placed her backpack down, squirmed around until she found a comfy position, and sat still with the instrument in her hands. Then, she began to play a strange, haunting tune that echoed across the snowy valley. The melody blended with the sound of coarse snow trickling down from the sky. It all enhanced the sense of emptiness and doom in the music, even though the lyrics in Suzy's head were quite different. It's just… that's how she felt it. Not joyful:
Vegl þat í Valhǫll, ok ek dansa með Ásum ok Vǫnum. Fenrir er kallr mikill, þó hann sé úlfr, ok hann gnísta beinum ok drekka braga. (A party in Valhalla, and I dance with Aesir and Vanir. Fenrir is one hell of a dude, even if he's a wolf, he gnaws on bones and drinks mead).
The song, just like Suzy - and the valley too- knew how to wait.
Only the two brothers couldn't manage that. One after the other, they stared anxiously into the waters, now veiled in a snowy curtain. Hoping, perhaps, to catch a glimpse of that bizarre seeker of mysteries down in the depths.
Ice and Beard.
It's all about fire! It brings heat and - That's what they all say.
And they're wrong! Frozen cubes from a freezer tray - now they could give him extra limbs if the current ones just fell off. Could fire do that? Hell no. It would just burn him to ash. End of story.
Someone born inside an iceberg can't lounge in the Santa Monica sun, as a frozen dewdrop once whispered to him from the stem of a Venus flytrap. Fire, like that same trap, keeps trying - and failing - to catch him, to scorch him, to turn him into a bronzed hunk from some forgotten '80s TV drama. But just having a mane like those sad and long - lost heroes of the past doesn't mean fire wins.
He's got a response to all that: it's not just about the hair. He's got a mustache too - and its tips aren't sun - singed, they're beaded with ice. Suck it, Sun of the Living.
To tear apart the flesh of water with your bare hands - now that's beyond words. This sponge compresses and smears into something like a liquid powder, soft and delicious. Each sweeping stroke through the lake water aches in his tired joints, but oh, what sweet poetry it is! Free verse, no rhyme - pure lyrical ecstasy. He thinks he hears music from the outside world. If he could, he'd set lyrics to it - words about something long lost in the dark fog of time.
Yesterday feels like today, and tomorrow's already here - he fast - forwarded to it the moment he dove into these vast depths, places he hadn't visited in ages. Some weird cicadas up above wanted someone to do this for them, and he figured - well, if there's only one candidate, it's got to be him.
Wait… is that the bottom already? That long - ignored silt, finally brushing his limbs. Tiny fish dart around his face, puffing out their gills, gasping for oxygen. They live all year in the algae and tree debris, never coming ashore anymore, not like they did eons ago. Now, he's their guest.
Good day to you, fine folk! - He gurgled underwater and gave the creatures a respectful bow. There was barely any air left in his lungs, and neither the fish nor the bugs crawling over the clay seemed interested in sharing their So he turned his gaze to what interested him least - yet fascinated children the most. After all, that's what they'd silently sent him here to find.
So, what was down there? Easy to describe, no goose - feather quill required - a stone figure. Something between an idol and a bench, the kind Slavic people might call a Stone Bench - Roughly assembled from stones, jammed together to form something vaguely human.
But why? Who gives a damn about people when there are moths? Or better - the Mothman?