I'm sorry, but I feel too frightened to go to the field again. It's not the darkness nor the rippling waters of the rivulet. It's the fisherman.
Yesterday, I say him glide downstream. His graying beard, tattered pants, and slow but steady keel made him appear harmless. As he spotted me by the shore, he halted his craft to parley, his frayed gloves tinged cerulean from gathering gloomberries at our spot. I asked him if he wasn't scared of falling into the muddy pit that lines the field. The night is dark, and the ground treacherous, after all.
He said "Nay, the gods of the deep bestowed me their good fortune! They'll rise dressed in light, to dance with the mortals a final waltz!", his blue hands shaking violently. I nodded politely.