Misfits

10.1 | still cheaper than therapy

❝the man who moves a mountain
begins by carrying away small stones❞
ｃｏｎｆｕｃｉｕｓ

___

ＴＨＥＲＥ is a small tributary that Midas Creek is named after. Not quite grand enough to classify as a river, but big enough to have its own lore surrounding it.

It is said that the year the first settlers arrived in town, a terrible famine broke out. No crops would grow — the earth was as hard as rock, so unyielding that a seedling would die before ever breaking through the soil. The livestock were dying, and soon, they feared, people would to.

At that time, the creek ran with water too, though not enough to counteract the arid conditions that had befallen the land. Out of desperation, the locals ran their hands through its beleaguered waters, prepared to eat the rocks if there was nothing else to fill their stomachs. But as the water drained from their hands, they discovered the pebbles in their palms had transformed into gold.

Astonished and disbelieving, the half-starved settlers tried again. And again. And again! And every time, the earthen rocks they viewed in the creek's waters transformed into golden metal before their eyes. The gold was used as a currency to start trade with neighbouring towns. The crops and the produce they received in return was enough to sustain the entire town until the next harvest, where they reaped three-fold more than in the seasons past, bringing prosperity and good health to the town for decades to come.

There is no way of confirming the story is true, but to this day, people from across town visit the creek to pick up the pebbles in its stream.

Hoping for what? For the pebble to turn to gold? For the stone to siphon the luck of their ancestors and grant them their deepest wishes? I can never tell. I never understood the infatuation with the creek.

But that's how things are in Midas Creek. We've always been a rather superstitious town.

So perhaps it is fitting, that despite years of protestations and denouncing such a silly myth, I find myself walking down the infamous trail, through a deserted backroad until barren ground is slowly replaced with lavish greenery and the sounds of a trickling stream. But instead of stopping at the landmark by the bridge where tourists tend to gather, I keep on walking, another twenty minutes ahead to where the stream diverges to form a watering hole.

It's not as well known, so naturally it's quiet. There is a sort of haunting silence that swells in the late afternoon air. After walking for who knows how long, I finally let myself stop.

I breathe. And try to let out all my pent-up frustrations from the day when I exhale.

Don't think about it right now, Cass. Don't think about any of them.

I try to focus on my surroundings, and try to shake off the empty feeling of being here alone for the first time since...

Don't.

I blink away the tears welling in my eyes, and force myself to start walking again towards the water edge.

A faint wisp of smoke trails into the air, distorting the tranquil skyline of long reeds swaying in the wind. I falter, taking a nervous step backwards. A leaf crunches loudly beneath my shoe.

Alerted by the rustling, a loud cough suddenly erupts from a nearby bush. A figure springs up, stamping away at the ground and brushing dirt over the spot.

"Flo?!" I splutter, calming my racing heart down. It's just Florence Wade. It's just Logan's sister.

At the sound of my voice, the figure noticeably relaxes, turning to me in mutual relief.