It’s faint. So faint, and eerie, like … hissing. No, not hissing.
Whispering.
Is somebody here? Or something? I whip my head around, searching for the source of the sound. It grows louder, filling the room. I can’t distinguish the words. They blend into one another, a sweeping wave of indistinct voices. My instincts tell me that I am alone, but if that’s true, then who, orwhat, is making that sound?
Then it hits me. It’s coming from the water.
I think back to those long hours I spent sitting by the pool in the Keep, straining my ears to catch the slightest whisper. I understand now why River was so adamant that we learn the art of water whispering – because he knew we would need it. Before, I’d barely heard anything, but now I’m listening like my life depends on it, which maybe it does.
All of a sudden, the last candle sputters out. The room is lit only by my brandmark, glowing softly amid the gloom. I close my eyes, concentrating hard. But the surface is still several metres below. Perhaps I’m too high up to hear.
Steeling myself, I drop down into the water.
I hit the surface and allow myself to sink, drifting through the whispers. The words caress my skin, breathing themselves into my ears.
I am something that is given, but can’t be taken.
I am often borrowed, at times forsaken.
I am easily remembered, I am easily forgot.
Perhaps you may know me, perhaps you may not.
Some say I’m a gift, some say I’m a curse.
Sometimes I’m for better, sometimes for worse.
My sound can bring joy, or heartbreak, or dread.
I live on your lips, I live in your head.
Tell me, Storm Weaver, what am I?
It’s a riddle. I listen again and again, then swim up for air, my mind racing at a million miles a minute.
I am something that is given, but can’t be taken.
I am often borrowed, at times forsaken.
My thoughts wander to the Golden Library. Perhaps … perhaps a book? Books can be given. They can be borrowed, too. No. No, that’s not it. A book can be taken away. Grandmother’s confiscated plenty of mine over the years. I wouldn’t call them a curse, either.
I am easily remembered, I am easily forgot.
A dream? Dreams can stick in your mind, or slip away, unbidden. Dreams live in your head. Or at least they do in mine. But it doesn’t all fit.
The water is rising steadily.
Perhaps you may know me, perhaps you may not.
I think of the Keep, about how I pressed my hand to the door and let it know me, surrendering myself to the enchantments within. My heart clenches.Enchantments.An enchantment can be remembered, forgotten, forsaken … but not borrowed.
The last line tugs at me.
I live on your lips.
A kiss? A kiss can be given. It can be for better, or for worse …
My sound can bring joy, or heartbreak, or dread.
