Children play along its banks
with happy laughter. By summer day they swim in its depths. Here
by night lovers sit 'neath honey moon and whisper soft words of
adoration.
And there are ponds of rougher nature where the fisherman plies
his trade. Ponds where flowering plants hide snakes that glide
upon the waters and feed on the creatures swimming below. Where
turtles wait for unsuspecting geese or ducks and drag them to
their death in waters deep. Here young men come to gig frogs, to
seine for bait for tomorrow's fishing, to joke and carouse and
wrestle man to man.
There, too, are tarns hidden in dark recesses and grottoes.
Tarns deep and still where legends grow and strange stories are
whispered. Here in the eventide one sees the will of the wisp.
At times the call of the loon breaks the evening air. Stories
better left untold are found here. Of strange sights in the dark
of night. Of spirits of those gone. Of evil incarnate, and hate
incessant.
Such a one was the tarn that lay below. Tales were told of
blood mingling with the murky waters. Tales of bands of evil
note frequenting its shores. Tales of bodies weighted with
stone, resting forever on the bottom.
The escarpment extended outward from the mountain, formed a
lookout overlooking the dark waters. The escarpment, of solid
rock, attracted those despondent, invited them to end their woes
with a plunge into the waiting waters. Too many responded to
that fatal invitation.
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