Second Canto 3

 

Canto III: The Three Who Waited

After the Queen’s reign faded into story, the lake grew quiet again. Seasons turned like pages, and the world forgot the sound of its voice. Only the mists remembered. They curled over the water at dawn, whispering to those who listened: She will return when the need is great.

So three souls came to wait by the shore.

The first was a hermit, old and bent, who had once been a scholar. He brought scrolls and star-charts, believing the Lady could be summoned by knowledge. Each morning, he marked the constellations in the lake’s reflection, hoping the pattern might reveal her name.

The second was a pilgrim, young and silent, whose heart had broken under the weight of grief. She brought flowers every day, though the waves carried them away. “Take these,” she whispered. “Remember those we’ve lost.”

The third was a child, whose parents had told her tales of the Lady’s mercy. She brought no offerings, only questions—endless and bright. “If she’s kind,” the child asked, “why doesn’t she come?”

The hermit answered, “Because her secrets are too deep.”
The pilgrim said, “Because she grieves as we do.”
But the child only watched the ripples and said nothing more.

Years passed. The hermit’s hands grew too weak to write. The pilgrim’s flowers withered before they reached the water. The child grew into a woman and built a small hut near the reeds, where she waited still.

One winter, the lake froze clear as glass. Beneath the ice, a pale light moved slowly—like a hand waving farewell. The woman knelt and pressed her palm against the frozen surface.

“Lady,” she said, “we have waited long enough.”

The ice melted in the spring, but no one saw the woman again. Only her footprints remained in the mud by the shore, leading partway into the lake before stopping.

And yet, on nights when the wind is soft, villagers say they hear three voices in the mist—one old, one weary, one young—all speaking as one:

“Faith that waits forever becomes stone.
Faith that moves becomes water.”