The early morning air was cool and crisp when Ariadne made it to the pond. The sky was the deepest of blues on the horizon, but in the forest she could see only the night above. The water of the lake sat still and black as tar. Tendrils of mist rose up from the surface and rested there, suspended between air and water as the sky was suspended between night and day.
On mornings like those, where the birds had not yet begun to chirp and the land was still and quiet, she felt like an outsider. Who was she, some fumbling stranger, to disturb nature's peace? And so every morning, though she told herself that she was being silly, she would sit cross-legged in front of the water and let the land wash over her until the sun rose higher and the birds began to sing again.
With her hands resting gently in her lap, she let her mind open and wander about the surroundings. Below her she could feel the deep water - unthinkably big, and so far away. She could feel the mist in the air, too, dancing and swirling about her gently. She could feel the thicker mist above the water, clinging to the dark surface but slowly slipping away. And strongest of all she could feel the lake.
With her eyes it stretched before her, as still and black as obsidian. But when she felt it, she knew that it was teeming with life. Below the surface the fish moved the water and blew bubbles from their puckered lips. There was a soft slow current near the lake floor, and missing spaces that were filled by plant life. Though the outside world may sleep, water never did. She knew this as well as she knew own hands.