I’ll steal your soul to the deep.
If you won’t ride with me while the Devil’s free,
I’ll ride with somebody else
-Jethro Tull, “Kelpie”
Kelpie
Her golden hair shimmered in the light of the high-noon sun and the delicate scent of violets wafted about the hem of her skirts as she strolled along the dusty country road. The river Sitir lapped and gurgled happily beside her and, seeing that there was nobody near, she chanced to hum a tune of her own creation. Soon she was lost in her song and began to dance and twirl unconcernedly for she had not a care in the world as it was late April and the festivals were fast approaching. She could see the Maypole being built already and the booths being readied to display their wares.
So carefree was she that she turned down a bend in the path without looking for who might be there. She stopped cold and blushed, a bit embarrassed to find, sitting on a rock, a young man with shaggy blond hair and a muscular build, watching her dance to her own music. He smiled placidly at her, his eyes deep and dark, so dark a blue that they were almost black, like the waters of the Sitir itself.
“Please,” he implored in a cool, soothing voice, “continue. I’ve never heard that song.”
“You wouldn’t have,” she replied, blushing even deeper, “I’ve just made it up.”
“Then continue, if you would,” he paused, “because I’d like to hear it.”
She shook her head and looked away from him, hiding behind the curtain of hair that had fallen across her face.
“Will you dance again then? I quite enjoyed that as well.”
“I cannot dance alone, good sir,” she said quietly after some time, peering around her hair.
He grinned gently at her. “Then hold out thy hand, young beauty.”
She brightened and held out her hand to him. He stood, took her hand in his, wrenched her into a tight embrace and leapt backwards, up over the rock, and into the Sitir.
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This was originally going to be the prologue of a much longer story, but I decided to keep it short. Hope you like it.
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