Day 452

The water was black enough to be mistaken for tar at a distance.
Even the river's many waterfalls and rapids didn't alter its' hue.
Few people visited, in spite of the unique tone and the surrounding forests remained in silence.

There was no wind by the river, no fish either yet the sounds of splashing echoed all around.
If you were to stand too close to the river, get your feet wet, the sound would follow you.
That sloshing, gurgling sound would gradually seem to dry up to little pitter-patters.

It would never stop of course and only grow louder as you went near any water.
Some even say that it turns the water around you as black as the river.
Others will tell you that all the water in town comes from there.

Perhaps you feel like it explains everything... peculiar about the place.
Like how you've never heard of Bishops Nailside despite it being only an hour from London.
Or how the weather is always grey, the sun never shines and even the flowers are muted.

The people though, they thrive.
Locals swear by the river's inky waters, even going so far as to reject modern medicines for it.
Even going so far as to throw their babies in it (tradition being that if they live they are river-blessed).

Some unfortunate man found the "unblessed" infants at the river's end.
Perhaps the river could have flowed further down, it's near impossible to tell.
Their shrivelled little bodies lie in a fetid pool, clogging the river for good.