Once upon a time…

We were four, river-tough and hungry for coin, when we heard of the Iron Singing: once each winter, ice on the long black lake hummed like a harp, and whatever lay trapped beneath rose for air. Old fishers said a bronze drum from far islands slept there, stolen long ago by raiders who never returned. We packed axes, oars, and rice cakes pressed with salt, like my grandmother made.

The fjord-mouth wind froze our words. When the moon grew thin, the ice began to sing. Not pretty. A low, steady note that buzzed in our teeth. We cut a square and dropped a line. The water glowed green, as if lit from a deep hearth. A shape moved, scaly and smooth. We thought serpent, but it was a boat, all ribs and copper skin, carved with hornbills and sun spirals.

We hauled it up bit by bit, singing back to the ice to match the tone. The humming softened. The drum sat in its belly, dry as dust. We carried both to shore. The next thaw, the lake sighed but did not sing. Our pockets grew heavy. Our nights grew quiet.