By Bethany Kohler
Early morning mist hangs thick over my lake. I feel a disturbance in the waters along the shoreline.
Concentrating my will, I see them. Men with thick beards and heavy boots are pushing a small boat off the shore. Two of them row while the third holds a bundle. There is darkness and evil like a bad smell all around them.
When the boat reaches the middle, the rowing stops.
The bundle is tossed into my waters. Faster than thought, I dive and reach to rescue it. I can sense the creature’s terror. I extend a bubble of air around the poor thing, and carry it beneath the surface to the furthest bank.
I send a little current to hurry the men on their way back. Despicable monsters.
I examine my treasure: a tiny human, not old enough to be weaned from the breast.
Thinking he may be soothed by something familiar, I take on a humanesque form and pick him up in my arms.
“Who are you, little one?” I croon as I rock him gently. “You must be very important if such men wish you dead.”
I am rewarded. The babe’s tiny body relaxes, and his cries cease.
“You are a clever lad. Now, let us see what we can discover about you.” I smell his breath. “Your mother is a good woman. She is either dead or sick with grief at the loss of you.”
I examine his toes. “Ah. That explains a thing or two. Your father is of a royal bloodline. Someone is threatened by you.”
I gently probe the bones of his shoulders. “Oh. I’m afraid your father is a very bad man. You carry the burden of it. You sweet little bastard.” I kiss the babe’s forehead. “We will look for your mother then.”
This humanesque form is uncomfortable to maintain, but I need more information. I must enlist the help of the pixies. Incorrigible gossips. They spy on humans endlessly for their own amusement. I make my way to the nearest barrow.
The pixies are sent into a tizzy of speculation after I recount the story, and tell them my own insights into the matter. When I can get a word in, I ask them to find out anything they can that might point to the child’s origin, and especially any news of his mother.
Then I return to my lake and wait.
I lull the babe to sleep with the movement of my waters, bathe him, play with him, and feed him nectar when he cries of hunger. But a human babe cannot live forever on nectar, so I anxiously await news from the pixies.
My attachment increases as the days pass. I discover his favorite game is when I disappear into the water and reemerge. I love to hear his laughter. I am convinced I can discern the vague shape of his thought when he babbles to me.
I have to wonder if all human infants are this winsome and intelligent, or if perhaps the nectar is doing something to him.
The sun is nearly setting on a balmy spring evening when Thrimple the pixie finally comes with news.
“Such a story!” Thrimple gesticulates with both arms. “You won’t believe it, but it’s absolutely, certifiably true, confirmed from three sources.” She paces up and down a fallen branch as she talks—pixies are physically incapable of holding still. “Well, the boy’s father is the youngest son of the late King Ardgal. Never expected to come to the throne, being the third son. But as it happens, the humans are having another of their feudal wars, and the court was split on whether to settle with the northerners or keep fighting. When King Ardgal died, the lords in favor of the war assassinated the heir, Prince Gorman, because he was a proponent of peace. Then the second son, Prince Delgan, came to the throne. He was an arrogant fool, hungry for glory. He charged right into battle and got himself killed trying to become a legend by his exploits, or some nonsense. No foresight. Anyway, that left only Prince Tadgan, the child’s father. All the accounts agree that he was a spoiled boy, and grew up taking whatever he wanted, never considering the consequences.”
“And that included the child’s mother,” I interject sadly.
“Exactly. He promised he would marry her, took what he wanted, and then when he learned he was to be king, he threw her over, and married for political alliance. She was only the orphaned daughter of a knight, you see. I doubt he intended to marry her in any case. She tried to appeal to the lords with babe in arms, but—well, you saw the outcome of that.”
“Where is she now? Alive?” I am rippling with anxiety.
“Oh, right!” Thrimple claps her hands. “The happy ending. We found she was imprisoned, slated for execution—defamation of the king’s name or something—and we pixies broke her out. She’s back at the barrow, waiting for her child.”
My mind is whirling the whole way.
By the time I stand face to face with the child’s mother, I have a plan.
“Lanzel!” Weeping, the mother reaches for her son.
Lanzel leans out of my arms toward her. Something in me aches as I let him go.
He is smothered with kisses.
“Lanzel will be king,” I say with certainty.
His mother stares at me in bewilderment. “How can that be?”
“We will spread the rumor that the rightful heir will part the waters of Lake Nyvienn when he steps into them. I trust you will raise him to be noble, strong, and compassionate. And when he is ready, I will make sure the waters part for him.”
Lanzel holds my finger one last time. And I return to my lake.
One day he will come back to me, different, but the same; grown, but still wise.
And I will make him king.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
That ending. 😭
I loved this story, Bethany! Simply beautiful!
Oh, so sweet and creative! The backstory of myths and legends. I hope you write the whole legend someday! ;)