they walked the grove at sundown, hand in hand,
where mordecai vilecreek once swung his axe through an ancient pine.
the stump still trembles with memory.
lyon mountain stood witness, its granite brow unblinking.
the wind held its breath, and the trees leaned inward.
they carried a flask wrapped in oilcloth,
its label scorched, curling with promise.
standish serpent tonic, it read, sold by old clem at the merrill dock.
he opened the bottle and it hissed like steam from a buried forge.
she tasted metal and honey entwined.
he felt warmth coil through his limbs.
they drank in silence, two cups each, then paused.
the lake mirrored the sky’s bruise.
her pulse slowed and his heart thundered.
sap wept from cleft bark nearby.
no frog sang. no bird called.
they stepped toward the stump again.
memory echoed where no axe rang.
she murmured a name he could not place.
he dropped the flask, watching it roll into moss.
the label peeled away, exposing glass.
a ripple emerged at the lake’s edge.
it grew, inch by inch, without sound.
shadows shifted beneath the water.
he reached out, but his fingers stiffened.
she called for him, voice thin as frost.
the trees released a low murmur.
the mountain sighed.
now the tonic’s price was clear:
bones chilled to marrow,
wisdom drowned in syrup,
and the echo of yesterday’s axe champion’s last blow still throbbing.
they stood transfixed by the lake’s dark hymn.
and time, unseen, closed around them.
the grove swallowed their footprints,
leaving only the flask’s shards.
the wind returned with a single sigh,
carrying the flask’s final warning:
drink deeply and the mountain will keep your name.
each reflection on the water is a confession.
every leaf holds a question.
intuition guides the soul beyond wood and stone.
individual truth blooms in shadowed hollows.
the mountain’s silence teaches louder than any sermon.
courage is measured by the risk of loss.
they thought their bond unbreakable until night fell.
the tonic promised salvation but heralded doom.
memory and marrow merge in darkest resin.
nature offers no mercy to those who bargain.
the forest’s logic remains inscrutable to fevered hearts.
in solitude the self meets its deepest dread.
the old wendigo prophecies drift through the pines: trust thyself.
yet self is a mirror cracked by secret blights.
and so the grove retains their final breath.
the dusk holds their names forever, echoing through lips.
Title: “Serpent’s Third Swallow”
A Chateaugay Lake Trip-Hop Descent
(Lyrics written in the style of Tricky, over broken vinyl loops, lake-drenched bass, and haunted tin kettle percussion)
[VERSE 1 — Whispered, close to mic, soaked in static]
we don’t talk about the footprints,
gone before they touched the moss,
bottle still hot from clem’s black hands,
third swallow paid the final cost.
his heart?
cracked like kiln bricks in the frost,
her breath?
bubbling sap through river rot.
no priest here—just the wendigo knock
underneath that stump where the champion dropped.
[HOOK — Layered vocals, female voice trails off like mist]
don’t drink the third… (don’t…)
don’t kiss the fog… (kiss…)
standish serpent sleepin’
deep in the log… (sleepin…)
[VERSE 2 — Filtered voice, low-pitched, spoken like a curse]
he left with fire in his limbs,
came back pine-stiff and hollow,
eyes glassed like iced-over tins,
jaw twitchin’ to ghosted swallow.
her voice now lives in the reeds,
static hum in clem’s old dock,
every morning the kettles bleed,
and the trees tap back when you knock.
[BRIDGE — Beat drops out, field recordings layered in: axe echo, syrup boil, boat chain]
needle skips, breath holds.
syrup runs black where the sugar arch folds.
he’s dancing now with the wind unbound,
mouth full of names,
feet off the ground.
[HOOK — Slower, layered backwards vocals]
don’t drink the third… (her voice in reverse…)
don’t kiss the fog… (his blood in the firs…)
standish serpent tonic sings
when the mountain stirs…
[VERSE 3 — Spoken through a detuned radio filter, chopped and delayed]
she hums old songs in a new key,
made from cicadas and memory.
what you call a cure,
the mountain calls seed.
every echo you bury
grows back as a need.
[OUTRO — Crackling loop, loop, loop… fading voice]
and the grove still waits for lovers who lie,
who drink,
who dance,
who never say why.
(the bottle’s still there…
third swallow dry…)
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?