Bluveil
By Ray L. Pendleton
Bluveil was always the kind of town that would make the most of very little.
On the warmest days the sheet of ice covering the lake was still many inches thick, and the population had outgrown the fishing supply years ago. Not that anyone fished anymore anyways. Not for food, at least. But it wasn’t just for survival’s sake that the town had perfected its efficiency with minimal material goods.
Residing so far north, the isolation provided very little news, so, naturally talk was a valuable commodity. And Bluveil mined Blythe’s circumstances for all she was worth, and then some; the gossipers cutting their supply of hearsay with the ripe fruits of their own imagination.
The townsfolk talked, but Blythe didn’t care. What else were they to do? She had chosen this judgement for herself. Who was she to judge the gossipers getting their fix? Still, she wondered how her father would be taking the attention. Not well, she guessed.
Day after day, she lugged a saw, a bucket, and a homemade fishing pole across the frozen lake. Fishing poles were no longer sold in Bluveil. Not since Petri encountered the Mercy Snake.
When the townsfolk first talked about Petri, the gossipers insisted the man was crazy, fantasizing frostbitten hallucinations of all sorts upon his testimony. To test Petri’s story, the townsfolk finally decided to unjail a convicted thief and force the poor soul out onto the ice. The gossipers still talk about how the man was dragged below, never to be seen again.
Fishing on the ice, which had already declined, ceased for good, and judgement by the Mercy Snake became an alternative to Bluveil’s traditional justice system.
Once Blythe made it to the middle of the lake she got to work carving a new hole. Working the saw on the thick skin of the lake had taken her a few days to figure out, but after two weeks she was now comfortable with the routine.
After reintroducing the buried water to the frigid air, she sat on the bucket, shivering while waiting for the telltale tug from the creature of the deep.
A shard of a broken mirror with a hole punched through it had been given to her to use as bait. The former fishermen seemed pretty certain that something small and shiny looked more like a fish than any piece of meat, and would therefore catch the creature’s attention faster. As the sun soared across the sky and Blythe clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering, she seriously doubted their claims.
The mirror was a joke.
Its reflection reminded her every day that it was in fact she who was the bait.
This torturous task wasn’t for the fairer sex, but what choice did she have? A regular trial? The gossipers would have her either way, and she’d be damned faster than a winter’s day if she allowed her innocence to be debated so publicly. She thought her father would’ve understood.
“You’ve faced the Mercy Snake, and it proved you innocent,” she had said to him. “It will prove me innocent, too.”
She remembered the way he looked at her with silent concern.
“I’m innocent.”
He had opened his mouth to say something.
“Papa?”
The way he turned away in her mind hurt more than the cold wind that scraped across her cheeks.
Blythe hardly blamed the guilty men who had marched to almost certain death. A ‘guilty’ verdict in Bluveil meant a lifetime of humiliation. Even a ‘not guilty’ verdict could leave enough room for doubt, and the gossipers loved doubt.
A verdict on the ice, though, meant an end. Either she would die, or the gossip would die.
Blythe watched as clouds and a north wind rolled in from the mountains. Summer was coming to an end. She couldn’t believe it, but she was starting to hope the creature would come soon. She didn’t want to be caught out on the lake during fall’s numbing freeze.
She noticed the two little boys at the edge of the lake again, shouting and pointing as if the creature they hoped to see had somehow surfaced and was sneaking up behind her. “Blythe! Blythe!” they shouted. “Look out!” Her morning’s witnesses. The ice carried their cries clearly.
They meant to mock, but Blythe didn’t mind. Their shouts were a welcome distraction from what waited for her in the silence.
Their distraction worked.
There had been no tug on the fishing pole, and when Blythe looked back at the hole she nearly slipped in as she leapt from her bucket and landed with a cruel smack on the ice.
There were no eyes to look into. Just the thin, black slit that seemed to carve the creature’s murky, blue face into two. Water poured from the mouth as it slowly opened, emptying itself to reveal the yellow-bladed gums and purple tongue. What followed the flow of water was a putrid exhalation as the creature spoke.
“Do you need mercy?”
Holding her breath from the warm, rotting air, Blythe could imagine the hundreds of men who had let their pride get the better of them. The echo of their answers in the creature’s breathing. “No,” they had said. And then their cries as they received none.
The grave encompassed her, filled her as she gasped for breath, and pulled tears from her eyes that threatened to freeze in the nook of her nose.
“Yes,” she confessed, and then closed her eyes.
The cold air returned to her like a warm blanket, comforting her skin when it expected to be torn apart. She opened her eyes to see that the Mercy Snake was gone.
The little boys at the edge of the lake were gone, too.
She was free. But she was not innocent. The townsfolk would say she was, but her father would know.
By Ray L. Pendleton
Bluveil was always the kind of town that would make the most of very little.
On the warmest days the sheet of ice covering the lake was still many inches thick, and the population had outgrown the fishing supply years ago. Not that anyone fished anymore anyways. Not for food, at least. But it wasn’t just for survival’s sake that the town had perfected its efficiency with minimal material goods.
Residing so far north, the isolation provided very little news, so, naturally talk was a valuable commodity. And Bluveil mined Blythe’s circumstances for all she was worth, and then some; the gossipers cutting their supply of hearsay with the ripe fruits of their own imagination.
The townsfolk talked, but Blythe didn’t care. What else were they to do? She had chosen this judgement for herself. Who was she to judge the gossipers getting their fix? Still, she wondered how her father would be taking the attention. Not well, she guessed.
Day after day, she lugged a saw, a bucket, and a homemade fishing pole across the frozen lake. Fishing poles were no longer sold in Bluveil. Not since Petri encountered the Mercy Snake.
When the townsfolk first talked about Petri, the gossipers insisted the man was crazy, fantasizing frostbitten hallucinations of all sorts upon his testimony. To test Petri’s story, the townsfolk finally decided to unjail a convicted thief and force the poor soul out onto the ice. The gossipers still talk about how the man was dragged below, never to be seen again.
Fishing on the ice, which had already declined, ceased for good, and judgement by the Mercy Snake became an alternative to Bluveil’s traditional justice system.
Once Blythe made it to the middle of the lake she got to work carving a new hole. Working the saw on the thick skin of the lake had taken her a few days to figure out, but after two weeks she was now comfortable with the routine.
After reintroducing the buried water to the frigid air, she sat on the bucket, shivering while waiting for the telltale tug from the creature of the deep.
A shard of a broken mirror with a hole punched through it had been given to her to use as bait. The former fishermen seemed pretty certain that something small and shiny looked more like a fish than any piece of meat, and would therefore catch the creature’s attention faster. As the sun soared across the sky and Blythe clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering, she seriously doubted their claims.
The mirror was a joke.
Its reflection reminded her every day that it was in fact she who was the bait.
This torturous task wasn’t for the fairer sex, but what choice did she have? A regular trial? The gossipers would have her either way, and she’d be damned faster than a winter’s day if she allowed her innocence to be debated so publicly. She thought her father would’ve understood.
“You’ve faced the Mercy Snake, and it proved you innocent,” she had said to him. “It will prove me innocent, too.”
She remembered the way he looked at her with silent concern.
“I’m innocent.”
He had opened his mouth to say something.
“Papa?”
The way he turned away in her mind hurt more than the cold wind that scraped across her cheeks.
Blythe hardly blamed the guilty men who had marched to almost certain death. A ‘guilty’ verdict in Bluveil meant a lifetime of humiliation. Even a ‘not guilty’ verdict could leave enough room for doubt, and the gossipers loved doubt.
A verdict on the ice, though, meant an end. Either she would die, or the gossip would die.
Blythe watched as clouds and a north wind rolled in from the mountains. Summer was coming to an end. She couldn’t believe it, but she was starting to hope the creature would come soon. She didn’t want to be caught out on the lake during fall’s numbing freeze.
She noticed the two little boys at the edge of the lake again, shouting and pointing as if the creature they hoped to see had somehow surfaced and was sneaking up behind her. “Blythe! Blythe!” they shouted. “Look out!” Her morning’s witnesses. The ice carried their cries clearly.
They meant to mock, but Blythe didn’t mind. Their shouts were a welcome distraction from what waited for her in the silence.
Their distraction worked.
There had been no tug on the fishing pole, and when Blythe looked back at the hole she nearly slipped in as she leapt from her bucket and landed with a cruel smack on the ice.
There were no eyes to look into. Just the thin, black slit that seemed to carve the creature’s murky, blue face into two. Water poured from the mouth as it slowly opened, emptying itself to reveal the yellow-bladed gums and purple tongue. What followed the flow of water was a putrid exhalation as the creature spoke.
“Do you need mercy?”
Holding her breath from the warm, rotting air, Blythe could imagine the hundreds of men who had let their pride get the better of them. The echo of their answers in the creature’s breathing. “No,” they had said. And then their cries as they received none.
The grave encompassed her, filled her as she gasped for breath, and pulled tears from her eyes that threatened to freeze in the nook of her nose.
“Yes,” she confessed, and then closed her eyes.
The cold air returned to her like a warm blanket, comforting her skin when it expected to be torn apart. She opened her eyes to see that the Mercy Snake was gone.
The little boys at the edge of the lake were gone, too.
She was free. But she was not innocent. The townsfolk would say she was, but her father would know.