A few gondolas dangle from guideropes about the pier. At its end the tour boat in the shape of a swan. It used to ferry people for photo opportunities around the volcanic lake.
A draggle of sepia couples hand in hand all bemoan the same topics. The still declining hours of daylight, and the accumulation of fresh curses, desiccated souls, and the entities summoned by flutes made from human bones. The pier grows quiet once they’re all on board.
I watch the craft daily through an eyeglass in my hidden shack on the shore. Hooded shapes sell tickets to the bottom of the lake from the back of the swan for a negligible fee. The boat rarely returns with the same number of folks with whom it left.