The Water’s Edge
Best friends get answers to a question that’s haunted them since they were young. But what consequences come with answers?
Every night at dusk like clockwork, we would see him come out from the hidden interior of his island. He would leave the shelter of the ancient trees to stand by the water’s edge. Seemingly waiting for something. Sometimes, his eyes even met mine, even for just a second before he looked away again. His mouth was always moving, like he was yelling, or trying to tell us something, but no sound ever reached our ears. We thought he was crazy. For years this continued, we would stand on the shoreline and wait for him to step into the light of the setting sun, like a ritual. And for years we had no idea who he was or what he did until one fateful night when we came across a faded red canoe, docked near the sandy shore of the beach where we grew up. The paint was chipped in several places and the wood itself was rotting away. A cool autumn breeze swept across the field that we have always called home. The setting sun was blocked by an overcast sky well, that and the trees planted on the island that reached for the heavens. Small waves lapped up on the shore, our bare feet just out of reach from its icy grip, the waves extending like glass fingers reaching out for us. We had never seen this boat before. Our two families were the only ones who lived on this side of the lake. Our two little houses stood side by side, barely a few feet away from each other, like they were as good of friends as the families that lived inside them. There were no other houses, let alone any buildings, for miles and neither of us owned any sort of boat.
You see, our parents never let us go in or even near the water, leaving us completely in the dark about something so familiar to others. But that doesn’t stop us from sitting by the water’s edge at night when they can’t see us, just far enough so it can’t touch us, and we can’t touch it.
According to them, not too long before we were born, there was a third house just down the shoreline, inhabited by an old man. He never visited, never spoke, and rarely left his house. He had been alone ever since our families moved here; in fact, we weren’t sure if he had ever had anybody. On his porch there was one lonely rocking chair gathering dust, and if you glanced through his window, a dining room table with one chair, and a living room, with one chair. The only time the man ever left his house was to walk along the water’s edge every night as the sun would set below the trees. But one night, when the four of them were sitting on the porch, drinking tea and laughing, the old man walked up to the water’s edge like he did every night. But that time was much, much different. He stood there, facing right out into the vast expanse of blue, for one minute, two minutes before he stepped ever so lightly into the frigid lake. The last thing they heard was an ear splitting scream before the poor old man was pulled in by a force invisible to their eyes. They never saw him again.
Thinking nothing of the situation, we climbed carefully into the deep hull of the rocking boat, me and my best friend. My only friend. The paddles were stowed away underneath the still damp seats, which appeared to be woven with straps of some sort of wood. Some of the straps, however, were missing, leaving holes in the seats, making them very uncomfortable to sit on.
Here we are, getting into a mysterious boat, and neither of us knew how to swim. Or manoeuvre the canoe, for that matter. I had always been so drawn the deep blue that I wasn’t allowed to touch, which only made me want it even more. We used our paddles to push off the shore, drifting farther and farther away from the homes that had always kept us safe, drifting farther and farther into the unknown. The island wasn’t very far out, but the trip took much longer than expected. The boat would sail this way and that because we didn’t know how to steer it. But at one point, we seemed to row in a straight line, dead set for the island. I reached one hand over the edge of the boat, extending my arm down towards the sea, and there it waited for one minute, two minutes before I finally grazed the cold water with the tips of my slender fingers. A rush of adrenaline filled my whole body and I plunged the rest of my hand down into the great blue expanse that was completely surrounding us. The sensation of water rushing between fingers was one that I would never forget, or at least, I didn’t think I would.
We finally reached the pebbled shore of the island that was so familiar, yet so strange. We were afraid to get out of the boat, but dreaded staying near the water. We reluctantly stepped out onto the uneven ground, nearly tipping our rickety canoe in the process. But that’s when we heard it, the crunching of rocks, twigs, and fall leaves, getting closer and closer. A silhouette appeared in the distance, deep within the forested area, growing constantly, coming indefinitely nearer to where we stood, by the water’s edge.
I tried to hide but I knew that he had already seen us. He was walking faster now, almost running. He was so close I could make out the grey of his hair, the wrinkles by his eyes and mouth, and his pale blue eyes, which met mine for just a second before he looked to my friend, standing next to me.
“You shouldn’t be here!” he yelled with unexpected volume, his eyes darting between the two of us. “Get out!”
Birds fled from the trees in a huge flock at the sound of his booming voice, which was now echoing across the unsettled lake. Yet all seemed silent for just a moment before he started towards us again, his previously empty eyes now filled with rage.
We turned around to find the canoe that brought us here, drifting ever so slowly away from the place where we stood, just far enough that we could no longer reach it. My stomach dropped, fear building in my gut, I was shaking. I dared look over my shoulder at the man stalking behind us, he was only inches away from me. I could feel his hot breath against my face. I let out a scream but his rough, calloused hand quickly covered my mouth, muffling any sound that tried to escape.
“Quiet,” he growled, his voice deep and gruff, like he didn’t use it much. He moved his hand slowly off my face, like he was expecting me to scream again. With increasing volume, he snarled, “You can’t get back now. Every night I stand here, hoping, praying that you might hear me yelling. It’s worthless.” He whispered, “No one else dared get close to the water after I was pulled in. That was 15 years ago!”
I ran towards the water, but just as I was about to set foot into the icy lake, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a force invisible to my eye. I lunged at the wall keeping me trapped inside, putting all my force into my right side as I slammed against it, only to bounce off, landing flat on my back. I got up with a start and began pounding on what was now holding me captive, screaming for anybody that might hear me. But I may as well have been yelling at a wall because nobody could hear me anyways. With tears flowing like rivers down my red face, I stared at the mainland and the field where we once played. The green grass dancing in the wind, our two families who had always loved us and protected us oblivious to the fact that they may never hold their only children again, and the two houses that had always kept us safe, stood side by side, glowing with lights that we would never stand under again.
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