By Thomas Canfield
The shells were fashioned from silver. They were visible to a depth of perhaps twenty meters. Beyond that, it was impossible to say what lay. Whether there was more silver, whether it existed irrespective of depth, no one knew. No one had ever dived to such depths. To do so, to brave the weight of the water and the icy, debilitating cold, entailed certain death. Some maintained that at thirty meters, or perhaps at forty, the silver gave out. In its place, gold was substituted. Everyone knew that gold provided greater protection and warmth, generated its own internal heat. Elsewise, how could an organism hope to survive at such depths and such temperatures?
Karst did not believe the tales about gold. They were designed, he believed, only to tempt the greedy. The silver, great quantities of it, was tangible but it lay beyond anyone’s reach. It was dangerous diving even to a depth of fifteen meters. To attempt to go deeper was folly.
The clarity of the lake hid the frigidness of its waters. Runoff from the glacial moraine did not warm as it rushed through the narrow channels of the streambeds. If anything, it became colder as the waters gathered in the lake, a type of concentrated cold. Divers had reported that the water leached the warmth from their bodies in a matter of minutes, poleaxing a man, rendering him unable to function or to think. And this, Karst could confirm.
But despite this knowledge, Karst slipped out of his clothes, set them to one side. He wore only a pair of lightweight bathing trunks underneath. He kneaded his flesh with oil from the Camilla nut, thick, fragrant oil. He climbed to a stone ledge which projected out over the water, taking a moment to appreciate the view. This vantage point afforded a glimpse of the distant peaks of the mountains, covered in snow. The water below was a breathtaking shade of turquoise.
The shells were visible in all their splendor too, and with one fluid motion Karst executed a perfect dive, slicing through the surface into the depths below.
Thomas Canfield's phobias run to politicians, lawyers and TV pitchmen. He likes dogs and beer. On a recent camping trip, Canfield spotted his first Eastern Hellbender in a cold mountain stream. Knocked his socks off and made the trip totally worthwhile.
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