Up North on the frozen tip of the land is the Lake of Souls; it is all white and frozen and yet there are icy patches where the souls dwell in a stillness that pauses purpose. The pink eyes of the swans and the pale yellow of their beaks are the only dashes of colour to the otherwise white canvass. The light shines like a blast of blessing and everything is crystal clear. Here, there never is something called time, no place to go to or see one thing from the other, it is the lake of nothing and there swim the swans.
They swim about in an unorganised fashion; there are five scores of them, probably. There is no leader to the clutch and they may all well be sexless. In uneven arrangement, they dip their heads into the water, not particularly to hunt but more likely to sink in their own reflection. Sometimes all are buried in the lake at the same time, as if the other side does not exist. Stillness is the only motion several ages may pass but the stillness does not change, there is a streak of lightning here and then when one of them comes back. There is a good deal of flapping of wings in welcome and all raise their heads into the air as much as their stretched necks let them.
There are little sounds of gurgles, as the swan that has just flown in runs lightly on the water with its back shaking daintily, then settles into the water by slowly lowering one paddled foot along the run and then the other. The lightning flickers a little bit once more and then the stillness envelopes the atmosphere again.
They all come back and nothing much is said about the journey, even when they leave it, there is silence. The others turn away from the one that takes flight. It may not be the best for the traveller, but it is taken as it is.
It is the journey that is much sought. None talk about it when they are back. Obsessions carried on that journey are all left back. They do not belong in the Lake of Souls The Lake is about the present here nothing else matters.
The circle slowly widens, and as one wounds a clack, immediately another takes flight. It has been great it will leave. It has a choice. All of them always have a choice. It may travel backwards or forward depending on what it is to be. It flaps it wings gracefully thrice, dips its wings lightly and then lifts off with one forceful thrust into a misty sky, there is a spray of a drizzle that comes down on the lake.
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