Ice Fishing

Anders was hungry with a craving for fish. Not dried but fresh. Not smoked but pink and plump. Saliva welled in his mouth as he thought of it. Spurred on by the prospect of his potential dinner, he threw some more logs onto the fire, not too high and not too many; just enough to smoulder. He moved the chair he'd crafted a little further away. Wood burnt well and fire didn't care in what form it found wood.

Furs on, he pulled on boots, mittens and grabbed his shovel. He toyed with bringing his sled and decided he would. He could sit on it, while he fished. He untied Asta, his dog and headed off to the lake. His line was made from animal sinew, and he had guts for bait, the bits he didn't eat.

"Come on, girl," he called to Asta who was gambolling round his feet, yipping excitedly. "Let's go!"

Asta leading, they reached the lake's edge and were soon in the middle.

Anders loved the wilderness. He was a simple man of simple tastes. He liked the isolation. He thought this as he looked for a spot to stop and chip into the ice. Using his foot to shift the snow, he cleared powder to uncover blue glass and set to work. Asta scampered about on the surface, leaving tracks alongside others.

The clash of metal on ice reverberated in the valley, reflected back by the steep rock slopes barely covered in snow. Anders was sweating. This was tough.

No water yet but he caught a flash of pink. Pink? Strange. He'd expect silver, maybe a mottled brown. You wouldn't have fish this close to the surface. Not in this cold.

He stopped.

Pink.

He looked for Asta. She was running around but he called her to him. He wanted her close.

He looked again.

A shape. Pink. Under the ice.

Suddenly, Anders was glad that the ice was intact. With some urgency, he stumbled across the lake and prayed that whatever he'd seen couldn't break the ice. He didn't stop until he reached the warmth of his cabin with Asta.

He relished his dried fish.

But he dreaded the thaw.

***

366 words