Monday, February 4, 2019

The Whisper of Water - El susurro del agua


The whisper of water

The water was freezing. Thirty degrees below zero. Completely naked, I plunged into the hole I had previously made in the ice that had formed on the surface of the lake. What I least expected was to find myself in those waters, under the thick layer of ice, a wooden chest attached to a chain that reached to the bottom, or so I supposed, because the chain was lost in the icy waters when I tried to follow it with my eyes. The chest was the size of a shoebox, and it was luxuriously carved and hermetically sealed. I tried to help myself with the chain, but soon discovered that I couldn't get to the other end. I had to go upstairs to breathe. I ascended to the surface, and as I entered those waters again, there was no trace of the chest or the chain. Annoyed, I tried to descend through vertical in which I supposed the copper had been and... I did! At the bottom, in the distance, you could see the chest that was descending quickly. I assumed that it was the chain that was making it move away at that speed. I knew that the lake was a sacred place for the Indians who inhabited that region. I remembered that one of the stories told of an Indian chief whose ashes were enclosed in chest and thrown into the lake.
The water was  whispering through my skin. He told me to come to the surface, he pushed me, but that chest kept calling me. The chest won. And I couldn't go back to the surface.



El susurro del agua

El agua estaba helada. Treinta grados bajo cero. Completamente desnudo, me zambullí en el agujero que había practicado previamente en el hielo que se había formado en la superficie del lago. Lo que menos me esperaba era encontrarme en aquellas aguas, debajo de la espesa capa de hielo, un cofre de madera sujeto a una cadena que llegaba hasta el fondo, o eso suponía yo, pues la cadena se perdía en las aguas gélidas cuando intentaba seguirla con la vista. El cofre era del tamaño de una caja de zapatos, y estaba lujosamente tallado y herméticamente cerrado. Traté de bajar ayudándome de la cadena pero pronto descubrí que no podría llegar al otro extremo. Tenía que subir a respirar. Ascendí a la superficie, y al entrar de nuevo en aquellas aguas, no había ni rastro del cofre ni de la cadena. Contrariado, intenté descender en la vertical en la que suponía que había estado el cofre y… ¡acerté! Abajo, a lo lejos, se veía el cofre que descendía rápidamente. Supuse que era la cadena la que hacía que éste se alejara a aquella velocidad. Yo sabía que el lago era un lugar sagrado para los indios que habitaban aquella región. Recordé que una de las historias hablaba de un jefe indio cuyas cenizas fueron encerradas en un cofre y arrojadas al lago.
El agua me susurraba a través de la piel. Me decía que saliera a la superficie, me empujaba, pero aquel cofre me seguía llamando. Ganó el cofre. Y ya no pude volver a la superficie.

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