Daughters of the Lake

by Wendy Webb

It was finally time for the lake to give her up. And so, one morning in late summer, her body washed gently into the shallows, as though it, she, had simply been floating in a peaceful, watery slumber.

But some stories, especially peculiar, hidden ones involving murder and mystery, have a way of bubbling to the surface, especially when wrongs need to be righted. They make themselves heard despite efforts to keep them silent. All in the proper time. And now was the proper time.

There were the rocks, of course, stones that had been polished by the sand and the water until they shone like glass. They adorned the beach like seashells, gifts from this inland sea.

Folks here wouldn’t readily admit it, but most thought these small stones somehow carried the spirit of the lake within them.

Of course, modern-day folk weren’t given to such superstitions. They had a way of forgetting the past, so intent were they on the future. Legends and lore became nothing more than stories that might entertain guests sitting around the fireplace after a nice dinner.

This is what true peace feels like, she thought. This is what it is to be where one’s soul resides.

He was always antsy for the thrill, the conquest, the adventure. He wanted to learn intimate things about somebody new. He longed to hear someone else’s important stories, their life scripts. To Kate, their relationship deepened with every passing day. To Kevin, it eroded.

“Ma petite fille chérie. Le danger vient.”

From the moment of his death until the moment of hers, she could never take a full breath in,