She had been screaming in pain for hours. But no one heard her agonizing cries. She was alone. Completely alone. It was very cold. Yet she was drenched in sweat. She didn’t know where she was. The pain was unbearable. As if someone was pulling her insides out of her body. At some point, she started trembling all over. She struggled to open her eyes. She managed. The only thing she saw were the branches of a large tree. They looked like skeletal hands. Hands that were getting closer and closer, demanding something. As if they were about to grab her and choke her. “Come to us, come to us,” they screamed, or so it seemed to her. Incomprehensible whispers reached her ears. As if they were inviting her. The dead? She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to. Not now, not when… She tried to breathe deeply. She clenched as tightly as she could. She felt as if she was being slaughtered. “No! No!” she screamed. Suddenly the pain stopped. Something slipped between her legs. Was it her baby? She struggled to lift herself up but failed. She took a deep, very deep breath. Everything went black around her. She lost consciousness. And then a whiny cry was heard.
The tall, skinny priest always went to the lake early Sunday afternoon. Winter or summer. When he wasn’t supposed to be at church, of course. It was a gift he gave himself. Like a vow. He wasn’t afraid of being seen. But he detested gossip. No matter how much he emphasized to his parishioners that discretion is a supreme virtue, that untimely and persistent meddling in others’ affairs is a sin, they didn’t listen. They continued to judge their neighbors, but never themselves. That’s why he left his house cautiously. He started his ancient little truck, the one he mainly used for his parish needs, and drove carefully. It didn’t take long to arrive. About twenty minutes away, maybe less. He left the car in a field, grabbed his towel and flashlight, and hurriedly walked to the place made from the materials of a dream: the most beautiful lake in the world. The Blue Lake.
