The Lily-Marsh Bargain

Arjun had always loved the festival season. Not for the rituals or the crowds, but for the escape it offered. At sixteen, he was already tired of the small, dusty village and its endless cycle of temple bells and chanted prayers. The festival at the distant Temple of the Crimson Flame was his chance to see something new, to breathe air that didn’t smell of incense and old stone. He returned home with a pocket full of coins and a head full of strange tales, but something was different about him. He was quieter, and often stared at the water of the pond as if it held a secret.

His father, old Raghunath, was the temple’s caretaker, a role passed down through generations. Every morning, they would walk together through the pre-dawn mist to the pond, a dark, still body of water fringed with white lilies. It was said the lilies never wilted, and the water was so clear you could see the bottom, yet no one ever dared to swim to the center. Arjun, however, had always been fearless. He would dive in, splashing and shouting, while Raghunath performed his ablutions with quiet reverence, then hurry to the temple to prepare for the morning rituals.

That morning, as the first rays of sun painted the sky, Raghunath felt a familiar worry. Arjun had not arrived. An hour passed, then two. Agitated, Raghunath hurried back to the pond. The lilies were in full bloom, their white petals almost glowing in the early light. There was no sign of Arjun. Raghunath called his name, his voice echoing over the water. No answer, only the lazy ripple of a fish. He scanned the surface, and for a moment, he thought he saw something large and pale move just beneath the lilies, but it vanished before he could be sure.

Desperate, Raghunath found a young fisherman from the village, a boy named Ketan, and pleaded with him to search the pond. Ketan, though wary of the pond’s reputation, agreed. He rowed a small boat into the center, peering into the depths. He leaned over the side, and a sudden silence fell. The birds stopped singing. The water was so still it looked like black glass. Then, from the deep, a soft, almost seductive hum began to rise, a sound that seemed to wrap around his thoughts. Ketan tried to row away, but his arms felt heavy. The hum grew louder, and the water began to churn. He felt a cold, slimy grip around his ankle, pulling him down. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a string of air bubbles escaped.

Raghunath watched from the shore, horror-struck, as Ketan’s boat capsized. The water swirled, and then was calm again, as if nothing had happened. A new lily bud, tinged with a reddish pink, floated where the boat had been. Raghunath ran to the village, his cries echoing through the streets. The elders, hearing his tale, turned pale. They told him of an old legend, a story whispered only in the dark. The pond was not a pond, but a doorway. A creature, a shape-shifter, lived within, luring young men with promises of pleasure or power, only to drag them down and keep them beneath the lilies for a hundred years.

Raghunath was frantic. He knew he had to go back. At night, armed with a lantern and a small vessel of holy water, he returned to the pond. The lilies had turned a deep, pulsing red, like a wound. He called Arjun’s name, and this time, he heard a faint, gurgling reply from the center of the pond. A pale hand broke the surface, then a face — Arjun’s face, but with sunken, black eyes and a slack jaw. A voice that was not entirely Arjun’s spoke, layered over with a watery, whispering chorus, ‘I have found a much better place, Father. Let me go.’

Raghunath felt his heart crack. He opened the vessel of holy water and began to recite the old prayers, his voice thick with tears. The creature in Arjun’s body hissed and recoiled. The water began to boil, and from the depths, a monstrous form rose — a slick, scaled thing with too many limbs and a gaping mouth lined with needle teeth. It lunged for Raghunath, but he splashed the holy water onto its surface. It screamed, a sound like grinding stone, and retreated, sinking back down. The red lilies withered and turned black, and the air was silent once more.

Raghunath stood at the edge, his lantern flickering in the stillness. The pond was now a grave, not just for his son, but for the foolish fisherman. He knew he could not bring Arjun back, but he also knew the bargain he had made that night. He had seen the creature’s true form, and it had seen his. They were bound now, he and the thing in the deep. He would have to return every night, armed with holy water and prayers, to keep it from rising again. And in return, it would never take another soul from his village.

Years passed. Raghunath grew old, and his hair turned white. Every night, he went to the pond, and every morning, he returned with a haggard face. The villagers avoided him, whispering that he was mad. But the pond was never disturbed again. No one dared to swim in it, and the lilies, now a sickly grey, never bloomed red again. And on the day Raghunath died, they found him kneeling at the edge of the pond, his hands clenched around an empty vessel, a smile on his face. The pond was still, and the lilies were white, and the bargain was done. But in the deepest part of the pond, where the sun never reaches, Arjun still waits, bound to the creature, dreaming of the day his father’s vigilance would end and he could rise again.