whisperings

Wherever slowly moving rivers wind their ways, banks bound by ancient willow roots, wherever the ribbon weed waves idly on the surface, in time to the river’s flow, and deceitful of the depth of the black water, the water kelpie thrives. Sit on the rushy bank; admire the gold and the blue iris at the edge – almost within reach of your hand as you lean out ( such beauty must be grasped ), and before the fragile flowers are broken from their stems, a horror arises. The great black head of a noble horse, yet with hanging maw and white-filmed eye, mane streams with slimy weeds. It utters a bellow of equine distress – no misty pony this – reaches forward its snake-like neck with darting speed, and teeth green with algae, seizes you. It is happening too fast for you to comprehend as you are jerked into the roiling black water. The shock of cold and wet makes you gasp and one more glimpse of the land above – the bruised iris crushed at the water’s edge; and you are pulled down below. The water closes over your head like a fisheye lense, above your sinking gaze a wavering rim of sunlight becomes dim and green until all is black….

Tags: archetype, horror, kelpie, myth