The Lake's Belly Gloomed

Verne tightened his grip on the spellbook.

“So how exactly am I supposed to reach this chapel without accepting your cursed little legal boat ride?”

The ferryman shrugged.

“You don’t.”

Verne stared at him.

The ferryman stared back.

They stared back at each other for a solid minute.

But before anyone thought it could turn into an eye staring contest Verne interupted.

“That cannot possibly be your entire answer.”

“It is.”

“There is no bridge?”

“No.”

“Causeway?”

“No.”

“Tunnel?”

“No.”

“Secret path through the reeds?”

“No.”

“Extremely convenient magical stepping stones?”

“No.”

Verne narrowed his eyes.

“You are enjoying this.”

“Possibly.”

There it was again. Every. Single. Time.

Verne was beginning to believe throwing him into the lake would qualify as community service.

The ferryman rested both hands on his pole.

“My skiff is the crossing,” he said. “Always has been. The chapel sits beyond the boundary. You want to reach it, you cross.”

“And then the lake gets to decide what kind of thing I am.”

“Possibly.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Possibly.”

Verne’s glove hands clenched.

The ferryman looked way too entertained to remain dry.

The ferryman continued before the situation could become appropriately violent.

“There is another problem.”

“Oh, wonderful. I was worried this was becoming manageable.”

The ferryman looked toward the lake.

“If you go, you need to be back before too much time passes.”

Verne blinked.

“That is generally how returning works.”

“No.”

For once, the ferryman did not sound amused.

“The chapel does not keep time correctly.”

That got Verne’s attention.

BONG.

The bells rang again beneath the water.

The ferryman watched the ripples spreading across the lake.

“People have gone down there for what felt like twenty minutes and returned the following morning. Others spent hours inside and came back before the candle they left on shore had burned an inch.”

Verne’s expression tightened.

“That feels extremely inconvenient.”

“It becomes worse the deeper you go.”

“How much worse?”

The ferryman thought about it.

“That depends.”

Verne pointed at him.

“Do not say possibly.”

The ferryman closed his mouth.

Good.

Progress.

“The chapel has its own rhythm,” he continued. “The bells seem to measure something, but not hours. If you lose track of the outside world long enough, you might come back late.”

“How late?”

“A night.”

Verne frowned.

“A week.”

His frown deepened.

“A year.”

Verne went very still.

“That seems like an important detail you should have mentioned before offering me the haunted contract boat.”

“You hadn’t asked.”

Verne hated him.

Deeply.

The ferryman looked toward the fading light beyond the marsh.

“If you mean to go tonight, you should know where the day stands before entering. Once you are beneath the chapel, sunrise and sunset may not mean anything.”

Verne looked toward the fog.

Which was not helpful.

The entire basin had apparently decided that horizons were optional.

“How am I supposed to know when sunset is in this?”

As if answering him—

a soft golden buzz sounded beside his ear.

Verne froze.

The ferryman looked up.

From somewhere within the mist came a single golden bee.

It glowed faintly against the gray marsh like a tiny lantern.

Verne recognized it instantly.

The same golden bee.

The one that occasionally appeared since Tallbarrow.

It drifted toward him, circled his hat once...

then twice...

then settled briefly on the brim.

Warm gold reflected across the green band.

Verne smiled despite himself.

“Well.”

The bee lifted off again.

It circled him one final time before flying toward the western fog.

For half a heartbeat, the mist there turned gold.

Sunset.

Then the little bee vanished into the haze.

Verne watched where it had gone.

The ferryman watched Verne.

Neither spoke for several seconds.

Finally, Verne adjusted his hat.

“Sunset.”

The ferryman raised an eyebrow.

“So it would seem.”

Verne tried very hard not to look pleased that the universe itself had just provided him with a convenient timekeeping bee.

He failed.

The ferryman looked back toward the lake.

“You have until the next true sunrise.”

Verne frowned.

“True sunrise?”

“The one outside.”

“Oh, good. Glad we clarified that.”

Another sound came from the water.

Not a bell this time.

A soft—

plop.

Then another.

plop.

Something bright rose through the black surface of the lake.

Verne stared.

A bucket hat.

Pink.

Bright pink.

Not faded.

Not swamp-colored.

Not haunted gray.

Pink.

It bobbed gently on the water.

Then, several feet away, another hat surfaced.

Purple.

Also a bucket hat.

The two floated side by side in the middle of the impossibly dark lake, their cheerful colors so violently out of place that Verne did not know what to make of them.

He stared.

Something about them made him feel strangely warm.

Not magically warm.

Just...

warm.

Like seeing something familiar in a place where absolutely nothing should be familiar.

The ferryman removed his reed hat.

Verne glanced at him.

“What are you doing?”

The ferryman bowed his head.

“Two more.”

Verne looked back at the hats.

“Two more what?”

“Victims.”

Verne’s expression changed immediately.

“Oh.”

The pink hat bobbed.

The purple one bumped gently into it.

The ferryman sighed.

“The lake returns belongings sometimes.”

Verne stared at them a little longer.

He could not explain why...

but he did not think the ferryman was right.

Not about those two.

He had absolutely no evidence for this.

None.

But the colors were too bright.

Too warm.

Too ridiculous.

Something about them felt less like death and more like two people had somehow wandered into the wrong story for half a second.

Verne decided not to mention that.

Especially because he had no idea what it meant.

The hats slowly drifted back into the fog.

The ferryman replaced his reed hat.

Verne cleared his throat.

“Right.”

He looked toward the lake.

“Haunted chapel. Temporal nonsense. Possibly getting lost for a decade.”

The ferryman nodded.

“Possibly.”

Verne whipped around.

“I specifically told you—”

BONG.

The bell cut him off.

This one was louder.

The puddles throughout Mire’s End trembled.

Something beneath the black water shifted.

Verne looked from the lake...

to the ferryman...

to the skiff.

No.

He was not getting into that boat.

The ferryman seemed to read the answer on his face.

“There is no other route.”

Verne’s eyes narrowed.

“You are very confident about that.”

“I have lived beside this lake longer than you have been alive.”

“That does not answer the question.”

“It does rather strongly.”

Verne pulled out his spellbook.

The ferryman sighed.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.”

Rain tapped against the pages as they flipped.

Bee holding an umbrella.

Bee wearing boots.

Bee rowing a boat while another bee looked seasick.

Bee staring into a pond while something much larger stared back.

Verne stopped.

“Perfect.”

“That word concerns me when you say it.”

Verne floated higher.

His robe lifted away from the mud.

Both glove hands spread over the lake.

The ferryman took one careful step away from him.

Probably wise.

Verne pointed dramatically toward the water.

“LACORUM UNVEILIA!”

The lake went still.

“SPLISHETH NO FALSEHOOD!”

The rain stopped sinking.

Every droplet striking the lake froze on its surface like a bead of silver.

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.

Verne grinned.

“GLOOMBELLY...”

Pale green light gathered around his fingers.

“SHOW THYSELF!”

Nothing happened.

"Your spells probably only work some of the time huh?"

The ferryman crossed his arms.

Verne did not look at him.

Then the lakes belly gloomed... if that's how you wanna say it.

The entire black surface became smooth as polished glass.

Silver raindrops hung motionless across it.

Then bright green lines appeared beneath the water stemming out from Verne.

At first they looked random.

Veins of green light.

Fragments.

Broken shapes.

Then they connected.

Walls.

Arches.

Collapsed roofs.

Rows of stone benches buried under water and mud.

Far beneath them all sat the drowned chapel, tilted into a vast hollow in the lakebed like something that had fallen asleep in the wrong direction.

Verne’s smile disappeared.

“Oh.”

The ferryman stepped closer.

For once, he actually looked impressed.

“That is... useful.”

“Obviously.”

The spell continued.

Because naturally it did.

One pale line stretched from the shore.

Not into the deepest water.

Along it.

A sequence of old stones appeared beneath the surface.

Flat.

Narrow.

Almost completely buried under mud and reeds.

They ran away from Mire’s End in a crooked line before disappearing into the fog.

The ferryman went completely still.

Verne noticed.

“What?”

“That should not be there.”

Verne immediately looked delighted.

“Oh, this day improves.”

The pale route brightened.

Stone after stone.

A forgotten pilgrim road.

Not a bridge.

Not a boat crossing.

A path.

Most of it sat only inches beneath the surface.

Some sections sank deeper.

Others had broken apart completely.

But it was there.

The ferryman stepped closer to the water.

“I have never seen that.”

Verne folded his glove hands smugly.

“And yet somehow your boat was the only way.”

“It was.”

“Clearly not.”

“It was yesterday.”

Verne paused.

That was an unpleasant answer.

The ferryman crouched near the shoreline and studied the glowing stones.

“The lake changes.”

“Of course it does.”

“I mean more than usual.”

“Of course you do.”

The path continued to reveal itself.

It wound through the reeds...

around submerged ruins...

past several circles of pale standing stones...

and eventually toward the shadow of the chapel.

Not directly to it.

But close.

Close enough.

Then Verne noticed something else.

Beneath the chapel—

something moved.

Not the building.

Something inside the hollow.

Long.

Draped.

Ringed in faint bell-light.

It shifted slowly through the darkness as though it were wearing the sound of the bells instead of hearing them.

Verne’s spellbook slammed shut.

Every suspended raindrop plunged into the lake at once.

The world went black again.

Verne remained perfectly still.

The ferryman looked at him.

“See enough?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I disliked almost all of it.”

“Reasonable.”

Verne looked toward where the hidden path had disappeared beneath the water.

Then toward the skiff.

Then at the ferryman.

The ferryman already knew.

“You are taking the road.”

“I am taking the road.”

“It may not remain where you saw it.”

“That sounds like a problem for future Verne.”

“It is also underwater.”

“Barely.”

“It passes through old boundary stones.”

“I have passed through worse.”

“There are things in the reeds.”

Verne smiled thinly.

“There are things everywhere.”

The ferryman stared at him.

Verne adjusted his hat.

“And most importantly...”

He pointed toward the skiff.

“I am not accepting your cursed legal boat ride.”

The ferryman sighed.

Deeply.

Painfully.

Like a man watching someone intentionally choose the stupid option.

“Fine.”

Verne brightened.

“Fine?”

“Take the pilgrim road.”

“Oh.”

He had expected more resistance.

The ferryman pointed one long finger toward him.

“But listen carefully.”

Verne’s smile faded.

“The stones may lead you to the chapel.”

“May?”

“The lake revealed them to your spell. That does not mean the lake intends to keep them there.”

That was concerning.

“And when the bells ring inside,” the ferryman continued, “do not trust how long it has been.”

Verne glanced toward the fog where the golden bee had vanished.

Sunset.

He had an anchor.

One real moment outside the lake.

That would have to be enough.

The ferryman stepped back toward his boat.

“You have until sunrise.”

Verne looked at the dark water.

At the invisible path beneath it.

At the distant place where something had moved below the chapel.

Then he looked at his spellbook.

It had opened itself again.

A bee stood on a tiny stone in the middle of a pond.

Below it, written in Verne’s handwriting, were two words:

MOVE QUICKLY.

Verne stared at the page.

“Well.”

He tucked the book away.

“That seems unnecessarily ominous.”

BONG.

The bell answered.

And somewhere beneath the water...

the hidden road began to glow.