The Mermaid of Boiling Lake
Reading time: 6 min
About this story: The Mermaid of Boiling Lake is a Legend from Dominica set in the Contemporary. This Descriptive tale explores themes of Courage and is suitable for Adults. It offers Entertaining insights. A tale of fire and water, of lost souls and restless spirits—dare you uncover the secret of Boiling Lake?.
High in the misty mountains of Dominica, nestled within the rugged terrain of Morne Trois Pitons National Park, lies a place of fire and water—a place where the earth breathes. The Boiling Lake, an eerie cauldron of churning, bubbling gray-blue waters, sits like an ancient secret among the steaming fumaroles and jagged cliffs. Few dare to venture close, and those who do speak in hushed tones of the lake’s eerie energy, its restless spirit.
But the people of Laudat, the small village at the foot of the mountains, tell another story. A story whispered around fires at night, in voices barely above a breath.
They speak of Lamara.
The mermaid of Boiling Lake.
Some say she is a guardian, bound to the lake by forces older than time itself. Others claim she is cursed—once human, now trapped between two worlds, neither belonging to the land nor the depths. But all agree on one thing: those who seek her must beware.
For the lake is not kind to the curious. And Lamara does not forgive trespassers.
The Forbidden Journey
The warnings had always been clear.
"Do not go to Boiling Lake alone."
"If you hear singing, turn back."
"If you see her, run."
Jovan had grown up hearing the stories. They had been told to him as a child, recited like a prayer by the elders of Laudat. Tales meant to keep the curious and the foolish away from the boiling depths.
But Jovan was no longer a child.
At twenty-three, he was a man of adventure. He had climbed the island’s tallest peaks, swum in its hidden pools, and trekked deep into its rainforests. But the Boiling Lake remained unconquered, its legend unexplored.
And so, before dawn, he set out alone, slipping away from the village while the morning mist still clung to the hills.
The path was treacherous. Mud sucked at his boots, and the steep inclines left his muscles burning. The rainforest around him was alive with the sounds of the wild—birds calling from the canopy, the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. As he climbed higher, the air thickened with the scent of sulfur, and the ground beneath him grew hot.
Hours passed before he reached the final ascent. The trees thinned, replaced by jagged rock and steaming vents. Then, at last, the Boiling Lake came into view.
A massive cauldron, its surface roiling, sending up thick clouds of steam that obscured the sky. The heat was suffocating, the air dense with moisture. Jovan stood at the edge, breathless.
He had made it.
But as he stood there, something strange happened.
A sound.
Soft at first. Barely audible over the churning water.
Then, clearer.
A voice.
Singing.
The Song of the Deep
Jovan’s heart pounded. He turned sharply, searching the mist.
The voice was unlike anything he had ever heard—haunting, melodic, laced with something almost… mournful. It wasn’t in English. It wasn’t in Creole. It was something older, something that curled around the steam like whispered magic.
And then, through the shifting mist, he saw her.
She sat upon a jagged rock at the lake’s edge, her back to him, her long, dark hair cascading down her shoulders in damp waves.
Jovan couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The stories were true.
She turned slowly, and he saw her face—elegant, unearthly. Her silver eyes locked onto his, filled with something he couldn’t decipher.
Fear?
Curiosity?
Recognition?
"Who are you?" Jovan finally managed to whisper.
The woman tilted her head slightly, considering him. "Lamara," she said, her voice as fluid as the water below.
Jovan swallowed hard. "You’re real."
She gave the smallest hint of a smile. "So are you."
Her tail—a long, iridescent thing that shimmered like moonlight on the ocean—curled beneath her. Drops of water slid off its surface, hissing into steam as they met the boiling ground.
Jovan took a cautious step closer. "What are you?"
She blinked, as if the question surprised her. "I am what the lake made me."
Secrets Beneath the Surface
Jovan’s head spun.
A part of him wanted to run—to turn back, to pretend he had never seen her. But another part, a deeper part, needed to understand.
"You were human once," he said. It wasn’t a question.
Lamara nodded, her gaze drifting toward the lake. "A long time ago."
"How?"
She sighed, the sound barely audible over the bubbling water. "I was young. Foolish. I came here, just as you have. I wanted to see the lake’s power for myself. But I strayed too close. The spirits that dwell here… they do not forgive trespassers."
Jovan felt a chill despite the heat. "The spirits?"
Lamara’s silver eyes darkened. "They are old. Older than this island. Older than time. They do not like to be disturbed."
A sudden gust of wind swept through the canyon, stirring the mist. The lake’s surface churned more violently, as if in warning.
"You should leave," Lamara said abruptly. "Now."
The Guardian’s Warning
Jovan hesitated. "I—"
A low rumble cut him off.
The ground beneath his feet trembled. The mist thickened. And then—whispers.
Soft, insidious.
Not from Lamara.
From the lake.
The voices were low, guttural, speaking in a language Jovan didn’t understand. But their meaning was clear.
You do not belong here.
Jovan staggered back, his heart racing. "What—"
Lamara’s eyes were urgent now. "They are angry. You need to go."
He didn’t argue.
Turning, he sprinted back the way he had come, his breath ragged, his legs aching. Behind him, the whispers rose into a deafening roar, the mist curling like grasping hands.
He didn’t stop running until the heat faded, until the air cleared, until the trees closed in around him.
Only then did he collapse to his knees, gasping for breath.
When he finally dared to look back, the mist had settled. The lake was calm.
Lamara was gone.
Epilogue: The Watcher in the Mist
Jovan never spoke of what he had seen.
The elders knew. They saw it in his eyes—the weight of knowledge, the burden of truth.
He never returned to the Boiling Lake.
But sometimes, on quiet nights, when the wind carried the scent of sulfur down from the mountains, he swore he could hear her song.
And he knew—she was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
