With my eyes closed and lying on the surfboard, I strained to listen, my entire being focused on catching a whisper, anything, even the faintest of sounds that could lead me to my goal.

And yet, only eerie silence greeted me, as if my hearing had gotten worse the more I tried. No soft splashes of a duck-bill filtering along the water surface, no honking of geese from above, no buzzing of wings as a dragonfly hunted for a meal. Even the trees on shore with their autumn-kissed orange and yellow crowns stood mute with not a leaf rustling, frozen in shock by the summer-like weather. Or perhaps nature had gone quiet in reverence for the Eve of All Hallows. I shivered despite the heat.

Not even a rumble of waves broke the silence. I barely felt any rocking of my board, as if Lake Balaton had decided to take a nap under the unseasonably hot noon sun. In an impressive demonstration of willpower, I resisted following suit and falling asleep.

I'd been out here since morning. The hope of finding my quarry on my own waned with every tick of the clock. Not only had the sun begun its descending path, but I knew there wouldn’t be another day nice enough to swim this fall.

I dipped a finger in the water, testing the temperature to see if the sun’s rays had warmed up at least the surface level of the lake enough for me to not freeze my butt off. According to the thermometer by the dock, the water was 14 degrees Celsius this morning. Plenty above freezing level.

Then again, I’d wear a jacket if the air was that cool. And I planned on diving into this.

But I didn’t mind. Not really. Nothing compares to the peace of being on the water. Right there in the middle of the emerald lake known as the Hungarian Sea, I felt a contentment so profound that my heart clenched at the thought of the coming winter months when I’d miss this.

I may lack the skill to manipulate water, but my soul hears its call. A useless ability if there ever was, passive elemental magic.

Bemoaning my lack of witchcraft wouldn’t get me anywhere, though. I was out here to take control.

A sound shattered the silence, tearing me away from the never-ending merry-go-round of my thoughts. I held my breath as I concentrated on the rhythmic whoosh coming nearer. Could this be it? The sound I’ve been searching for?

No, this wasn’t a whisper. Just the sound of wings. A series of claps followed as if hands were beating the surf. Except they were caused by a pair of webbed feet slapping onto the lake’s surface.

I opened my eyes, squinting through the brightness to see the swan hitting the lake culminating its descent in the grand crescendo of an epic splash.

I sat up, shaking my head. Just a false alarm then. I wasn’t out here hunting for swans. My prey was of a rarer, mythical variety.

I was searching for the whispering reeds.

The swan at that point was, in fact, paddling off toward the reedy coastline. Toward the exasperatingly uncommunicative reeds. I resisted the urge to shake my fist at them. It didn’t feel conducive to getting them to talk. Whisper. Whatever. The sunshine glittered off the serene lake into my eyes, making me tear up.

Based on a footnote in an unpublished manuscript from the 19th century on the magical flora of the Balaton Uplands, my quarry was supposed to be hiding somewhere along the shore. The author specifically mentioned the bay bordered on the west by the coffin-shaped mountain of Badacsony and on the east by the jotting out point called Bökkorr, or Poke-Nose. To base my search on a long-dead obscure writer’s notes from a time when mythical creatures hid in every bush may have been a long shot.

When I’d told Sarolta about my plans, she noted that having to search the area between Badacsony and Poke-Nose was only fitting if I was going to poke my nose into things that were none of my business. My grandmother can be hilarious. Then again, she’d made it clear she thought me chasing after a thing of legends that hasn’t been seen since the heydays of magic was pointless.

I’d found little information on the whispering reeds besides that one manuscript. Most of it was fairy tales about maidens cursed and turned into reeds. Not surprising, considering how many of the arcane books the censors had destroyed during the magicless days. Nóti, a friend of mine, was the one who had given me hope. She confirmed that I should focus my search on this bay area, and assured me I'd find what I sought by meeting her on October’s last day at the lake.

Except here I was donning my swimsuit and listening. And not a peep either from the reeds or from my friend.

Splash.

“Nóti?” I asked.

I held my hand to shield my vision and looked around. Ripples spread out from a spot in the water further out on the open lake, marked where the two pointed mountains of Fonyód broke the flat shoreline of the southern coast.

I scanned the horizon, but I saw no further disturbance. My doubts arose. Maybe she’d forgotten. Nóti’s idea of time differed greatly from humans'. But she promised to meet me today, and I knew how much weight her kind placed on the given word.

Was the weather too cool for her? This was just my theory, but since I’d never seen her during the colder months, I figured she spent the winter away from Balaton.

Focus on what you can control.

I directed my thoughts back to what I could do.

Trying to find the reeds on my own: check. I had been listening and heard nothing.

Asking for help from a friend: check. I was in the right place for our rendezvous if Nóti did show up.

Meanwhile, I’d been cooped up on this board far too long. While technically an old windsurf, it had lost its mast long before I acquired it. Instead of a mast base, I had rigged it out with bike baskets screwed on top, as well as a variety of hooks and holders for my supplies. Not even having carved “Property of Zalka” into the white surface would have been as efficient at marking the board as my own as all the bolts, hooks, and gadgets all over it.

The running joke in the family was that I’d built a floating hedgehog.

I didn’t mind. I like hedgehogs.

There were even a bunch of magnetic straps attached that held my pride and joy, my long staff, in place. The staff currently had a paddle ending attached. What can I say? I value objects used for multiple tasks. Which is ironic because I can’t multi-task to save my life.

Of course, all the bits and bobs left little space for my body. I was too tall (the story of my life) to stretch out completely, and I was itching to move.

I let one of my fingers brush the surface of the still lake. The water’s caress was nice and cool.

Tempting.

A drop of sweat slid from the nape of my neck down my back. Here was something I could fix.

I’d been here listening for hours. Surely, I deserved a break.

Having made up my mind, I spun on the board, letting my feet dangle down, sliding them slowly into the water.

I hissed.

The cold, ironically, gave me the sensation of being scorched.

But I knew it’d pass soon.

I braided my hair in a tight French braid. Experience had taught me that if I failed to weave it snugly enough, I’d soon find a curtain of bronze, copper, and golden locks in my face. Which did not improve the already terrible visibility of the murky depths of the lake. So I painstakingly pulled every little curl into the braid.

Eventually, they’d find a way to escape. My hair’s motto was “wild and free.”

Once the braid was done, I started cupping water in my hands to pour over myself, inching my way up until I acclimated to the temperature.

Then I stood up, took a deep breath, and dived headfirst.

Entering the lake was like coming home and being slapped in the face simultaneously. My sense of comfort from being surrounded by water was still there, the cold though … I could feel its sting from my little toes to my eardrums.

I swam as far as I could, exhilarating in the power of my limbs pushing me forward at great speeds, after all that time spent idle.

I broke the surface, took a great gulp of breath, and giggled. I lay on my back for a second, allowing the lake to cradle me. There’s something reassuring about floating, leaving the burdens of body and mind behind you for a bit. Unfortunately, the cold discouraged me from staying still for long. I began my way back to my board, which the force of my jump had pushed toward the west.

But then I sensed something odd. An itch between my shoulder blades, an insistent feeling, my instincts screaming at me to stop. Had there been a sound?

Treading water, I turned in place to get a view of my environment. Nothing disturbed the surface. In the distance, a handful of sails drooped sadly in the windless afternoon. Most clustered around the harbor of Badacsony, not having made much progress since morning, while some looked like tiny white triangles near the southern shore.

As I rotated farther, I glanced at the northern shore where Mt. Örs served as a backdrop. I glimpsed the cliffs below the forest-covered top which marked my home. While I loved living on the edge of the woods, far from prying eyes, climbing the mountain every day was a bit of a hassle. My gaze traveled down the curving road amid vineyards, then returned to the shoreline following along the reed-stands.

From the corner of my eyes, I sensed movement. I squinted towards the little beach that broke the endless rows of yellow reeds. Red sandstones divided land from water there, bringing back fond memories of jumping from one to the next as a child.

No children played there now. But was that the silhouette of a man, standing motionless on the rocks?

Yup, wide shoulders, dark cloak, might as well have worn a sign saying “trouble.” I mean, who’d wear dark in this heat? A pity there was no wind to make the cloak billow for heightened effect. Even though I couldn’t discern his features well from this far away, I could tell just from his height that he wasn’t from around here. And there was something predatory about his stand. A hunter looking for his prey.

A droplet fell from my lashes into my eye, and I blinked rapidly to clear my vision. The next second, the spot where the stranger had stood was empty. He was gone.

I stared at the bay for a couple of more seconds before shrugging. Strangers were less frequent around here this time of year, but he could have been a traveler taking a break by the lake. Though I had a hunch, this guy wasn’t just out here sightseeing. Sane tourists would have removed the dark cloak for starters. I mean, I love my cloak too - a lovely waterproof one with a hood that can cover me and my backpack when on the road. But not in this weather.

Either way, not my problem. Even if I struggled to squash the urge to analyze and investigate.

Focus. Whispering reeds. Eyes, or, um, ears on the goal.

I continued swimming back to my surfboard.

Only, I couldn’t completely shrug off the sense of being watched.

I pulled myself onto the board as all the bits and bobs jiggled. Everything did stay in their designated place, I noted with satisfaction.

I stood up, finding my balance. The only sound came from the water droplets falling from my body. I could almost sense them as they detached themselves and fell to their fate on the board, only to start their arduous journey sliding back to the lake. Alas, only a select few could hope to make it before evaporating in the heat. Though it was going to start cooling soon. The sun was already sinking towards the west, inching its way behind Mt. Badacsony.

And still, not a whisper, a murmur, or chatter from the reeds. Frankly, I’d have settled for a cackle, at this point.

I kneeled and pulled out my water bottle from the rear basket. My grandmother thinks it’s hilarious how thirsty I can get from swimming. In my defense, swimming involves me moving in water, not swallowing it. That’d be called drowning.

I dangled my feet into the lake and debated drying myself, but that would wet the towel, which I wanted to keep dry for later. I also checked my jar filled with my homemade stoneflower sunscreen. There wasn’t enough for my whole body, but once I dried, I’d apply it to my shoulders and face, at least.

Movement in the murky emerald water broke me from the immense quandaries of life. I glanced down and a woman stared back at me.

I froze, only to realize that she turned the way I did. A sigh escaped me. For a second there, I had hoped Nóti finally arrived, but it was only my reflection.

I grinned at the strangeness of my distorted face. My skin appeared to be as green as the water instead of my true freckled complexion still holding a hint of my summer tan. And instead of its usual hue, my curls seemed to be a dark shade of emerald green floating around my head.

Except my hair was tightly braided and dripping wet.

I swore.

Strong clammy fingers wrapped around my ankles. I scrambled for purchase. My hands grabbed whatever was nearest and held on for dear life.

The only issue was that my lifelines felt a lot like the familiar round shape of a jar of DIY sunscreen and a soft, fluffy towel.

I slipped off the board into the lake. Waves closed over my head.

As I sank toward the dark depths, I realized three things:

One, my friend did show up after all.

Two, she was pulling me down into the abyss.

Three, I wasn’t sure I could hold my breath long enough to find out why.