On Frozen Pond

“The loons! The loons!” shouted Cam.

“Shut up man. Just be quiet. Let the old man sleep.”

“The loons. The loons,” whispered Cam. Gilles slugged him.Approaching from the north, the three jagged mountains poking the sky before them were called Nunatak. Others with more imagination called them Kakivak, an Inuit fishing trident, seeking its mark in the Great Apvik, a spectral whale formed by the aurorae. Or Pingasut. Three.

At sunset, one might catch sight of drummers on the peaks, half-naked. Natives, maybe, or hunched-over hippies and their progeny. No one knew. Below was Mayhough Lake, its older names lost in too many snow falls to score. Its surface went on at least five acres, until it fell at its southwest end a lazy meter and a half into a pond. Caruthers’ Puddle ran far deeper than one might spy on most days. From the Caruthers’ side, the spires were called The Three Nuns. No one knew why.

“I been thinking…” said Cam.


“Ah, geez, no.”

“So we’re going to the Nuns, right. And the side behind is called 'Nun’s attack.' 'Nunatak.' Pretty auspicious, dont’cha think?”

Gilles punched his shoulder again, and he yelped, but got quiet.

Earlier tonight, while Cam and he were unloading the ice cream dots and liquid nitrogen from the trucks, they were approached by Mr. Toussant, holding a handful of papers.

He leaned against the hood. “They changed the law. You can’t just dump nitrogen into the air. Nitrogen? It's everywhere? But the ECCC says it can kill people. Pushes oxygen away and the dumper dies. Why can’t the ECCC just let Darwin do his job, dammit? I’m gonna have to pay for “specialists’ to get rid of this air?”

Cam stepped forward. You know, Mr. Toussant. Gilles and I are specialists.”

“Mr. Toussant squelched out his dart with his heel. ‘They chargin’ me two hunnerd a can.”

“We’ll go one hundred per can of nitrous, fifty for the dots. If they’re sitting all melty, The ECCC will notice and wonder.”

“… Right, Ok. Can you manage all that?”

“Yeh. Got help.”

“A tip, for free,” said Toussant. “Save a few cans. Buy some tequila. Make some Dot-aritis. You don’ get laid, its yer own damn fault."

“Good idea!”

“Okay then. Save the canisters. I get charged for them.”

They wrangled eight men, four trucks and offered them twenty-five bucks a canister to dump them in Caruthers’ Pond. They took it.

When we g0t there, Old Man Caruthers’ fire was out, and the temperature was down to -51ºC.

“‘Course it’s cold. Open that canister, will ya.” Gilles did and threw it far onto the pond. It bounced and danced like a fish on a hook, the nitrogen spewing like unthrottled rocket fuel. Then it belched a few times, shot into the air, gave up and sank

“Stop. Save canisters!”


“Right. Still, that was cool.”

We built an ice tongue from the shore. The mist fell off the Nuns like veils onto the pond. A molting, ghost skins splayed under moonlight, then worm silk. Bar smoke, carrying the ponds heat up the cantle side of the saddle. It crept up the East, onto Caruthers’ shack.

“You don’t feel that? It’s falling hard. Not normal. Heavy.”

“It’s cold. Welcome to Canada. Caruthers’ porch light went on, then off again, so fast Gilles was not sure it happened.

“Hand me them flashlights,” said Cam.

Cam fancied himself an artist. Now he possessed a grander canvas than ever. Water-proof flashlights were in the water, stringed and weighted with rocks, so that they might sink slow. Gilles had to admit, the rainbow threads of dyed ice dots were pretty, likes cat’s eye’s marbles that had been popped and squeezed. The fast chill on the ice pressed out all the gasses and dead vegetation suspended in the pond. We could see deep. Looking down was like looking through glass in some places. Way down to near bottom.

Cam took a step on the ice, fool that he was. The mists parted around his mukluks. The island rocked and cracked, and then fused together again, the seams healed.

“Gilles, you should see this. Koi!”

Without getting out on the ice, Gilles saw giant goldfish, thrown away pets left to their own devices in nature, one half a meter long.

“Hand me another canister. I wanna see more.”

“Cam, you’ll kill ‘em. Remember what Toussant said. The nitrous pushes out the oxy. You’re suffocatin’ ‘em.

“No. I’m not. Mayhough Lake puts air in this puddle. And the cold slows down their metabolism. Suspended animation, Mr. Science.” I scooted a near full canister over the ice. He caught it between his knees, pressed the key into the cap, and cut it loose. Nitrous shot to the sky and rained back down. Something lifted the island out of the water. He lost his footing. I thought Cam was headed for the drink, but it steadied, and he stood and gave a war howl. More war howls echoed across the pond from the other dumpers.

I felt more uneasy. We did something. A whisper you might make that sets an avalanche down on you. A single crystal that locks everything around in place. I’d read stories of temperatures, falling or rising 50ºC in less than a hour, catching revelers and wildlife off guard. Colorless cold fronts hanging over a ledge.

The second nun bowed then, and a barely visible cloud formed. Needles and nail files, the pogonip, perceived only for the atmospheric wobble of the stars behind them. They fell down her chest and bounced high off her belly, and razor sharp things rained into Caruthers’ pond. A ring of fog swept behind, carrying more heat off the pond and out of the valley’s saddle. A crack formed that spread everywhere. It moved the trees, fractured the ice below foot and bounced the trucks. Then it squeezed, and screeched unbearably, and was gone. Sealed tight, its surface smooth and slick as a rink. Cam’s flashlights shone from below in all directions.

I went to the truck took my parka and zippered it up. More was coming. I tightened my mukluks. The external thermometer read. -41ºC. I’d never seen such a number. My keys were in the ignition. I turned them. The starter rattled. I turned it again, with a little kick of gas. Nothing, I went to the back locker in the bed and popped the lock. I had half a gallon of gasoline, thick but still liquid. I poured some into the carburetor. I pulled out the first aid kit and emptied my eight Kairo heat packs, set them on my battery, and cracked them. Warm battery, yes. I pulled all the unnecessary fuses, just in case. I looked in the cap hole of the radiator, and saw there was room for more antifreeze. The liquid below looked slushy. I capped it off. The fire extinguisher was at the ready on a parka leg hook. I left the door open to jump or get blown out. I knew the starter would heat on repeated turns. After the fifth turn, the gas around the jets in the carburetor went Krakatoa on me, and spit fire I could see over the raised hood. I got out, extinguisher at the ready, but there was no need. My old, low-tech Dodge was putting on some heat. I pulled the heaters off the battery, reseated the air filter, fuses, and made sure we might go forward and back.

“Where you been?, asked Cam.

“Saving our lives. Where you been?”

“Making sure we ate good tonight. Looka wha’ I noodled? I looked down, His lower arm was gone, replaced by some flipping prehistoric appendage.

“Who’s yer cat-daddy now, Gilles?”

“How big is that thing?”

“Hell, I dunno. Do I look like a Toledo to you? Help me get him off. Lower set of teeth got my palms and I can't uncurl my fingers. It’s like being bit by sand paper. I think they froze, man. My finger’s are froze.”

“Damn. It’s like Jurassic Park got hold of yer arm. You should keep it. Looks good on you.” I dropped the gate and we slid the slimy thing onto the bed.

“Shut up, Gee. I think he’s dead.” He shook his arm. “Here. Hold onto him while I pull. The fish was slippery. I could not get a grip. “Still won’t come off. Some kinda rigor mortis?”

“Hold on.” I got the hot packs, which were still working, and shoved them into the monster’s mouth.

“Just be still, let the heat work." Eventually the frozen innards of the fish let Cam go.

“Aw, man. That’s great!” His shook his arm, bloodied from a thousand little scratches, but he was fine.

“You're an idiot. Always putting your hand where it don’t belong.”

“C’mon, man, you gotta see this.”

“No! We got four canisters left, two for each. Let’s toss ‘em and go.”

“It’ll take a sec. Believe me. Bring your camera.”

“Dammit, Cam.” The hires raced passed us, yelling. “Rich for a day," and waving fifty and twenty dollar bills out their windows. I flipped them off and we walked to the point where the ice began cracking underfoot. It was a window, and I could see clear to the bottom of Caruther’s Puddle. There were cascading crevasses all the way down. One held a tractor. Another cradled a car with an open gull wing door, and a moonlight canopy, and jet tail fins capped with taillights shaped like 50’s nipples. Our few lost canisters were suspended, occasionally hitting one another with a ‘ping.’

‘Oh, my…’

“Told'ja.”

People were surfacing and sinking, their garb ranging in style from Native Canadian to 18th century parlor dresses to Capris and gogo boots. Some were naked. Cold, cold water on the bottom. Warmer on the top. It formed a current that cycled them up and down, a thermal escalator. They were perfect. No sign of decay. As if they dropped in yesterday.

“Gonna put your hand in one?”

“No! You sick? Time to go.”

“Freeze!” someone yelled.

“We are,” said Cam and laughed.


“I am auk tunngutak qilak ataani. You stand on my home!”

The man was naked, but for his mukluks. He held a garden nozzle. It was attached to a long hose that ran into the house. It’s tip was steaming.

“Cam. Run.”

“What? Just a naked guy with a hose ––“

“I am the Father of the Sapphire Pond. The Agnak are mine.”

He shot Cam. The physics of hot water makes it do things you might not guess when it’s cold. It makes hail, snow, needles smaller than the smallest spaces in your lungs that pop them like bubble wrap and leave you gasping for air. Right now, Mr. Caruthers, wizard of the Puddle, was brandishing a freeze ray. He shot Cam again, and glued him to the surface of the ice. He changed the nozzle settings and started coating him. Cam could still move, but the Father packed on more, to the point the casing would not crack. Gilles skittered to the back of the truck, and hurled the catfish at the man’s knees. He skipped off like fine stone. The hose bounced loose. Gilles picked it up and iced down Caruthers’ feet. He screamed. Gilles pulled out his pocket knife, and chipped Cam out of his casing.

“Can you walk?”

“I can crawl.”

“Good enough. Get to the truck.”

“Wha–– What are going to do to him.”

“Just get to the truck.”

Gilles walked over to the hose and cut it up, grabbed the useful catfish and ran. He tossed it in the back and raced the truck up the cutaway.

“Still got four tanks.”

“Tequila?”

“Yes.”

“Fried catfish.”

“Reading my mind, friend.”

“Garage party?"

“Caruthers?”

“Loose by now. Cut the hose. I’m guessing he can’t reach us from that far.

“You sure?”

We were both quiet for a bit.