The Fisherman's Tale

The pond had frozen over.

Villagers emerged from their huts, ready to escape the scalding summer heat with a cool dip in the body of water, to only find it a block of ice. Women shouted in fear, men grabbed their hatchets and children were in blissful ignorance.

The chief of the village heard the commotion and exited their hut, the ceremonial stick aiding their walking down the slope and to the pond. As their advisors had informed, the pool of water was indeed ice, steam rising from it due to evaporation, but it didn't seem to help in melting the ice. The men had tried cutting through with their tools to no avail. It was almost like the ice was...repairing itself.

Villagers opted to return to their homes, since the pond was not an option for relieving the summer heat, the shade was their next best choice. Everyone stayed indoors, with the exception of one person.

An old fisherman came out of his hut in the mid afternoon, when the sun was at its hottest. Wearing a weathered bucket hat, galoshes and carrying his rod, he meandered to the pond, unaware of the predicament. He lived alone, his wife having passed away last year from drowning in the pond, and they never had kids. Villagers tended to leave him to his own devices, and he returned the favor.

Facing the icicle of a water surface, he hummed. This was one of the wildest phenomena he has witnessed during the six decades of his life, and he had seen many things come from the water. But nothing as terrifying as a frozen pond during the peak of summer weather.

Sitting at his favorite stump under an elderly willow tree, he took time to survey the water. A misty layer formed over top, giving it a foggy effect as water vapors evaporated into the wet, humid air. The ice didn't seem thicker than a coin from what he could see, but even that was a pure hypothesis.

Finally wanting to do a test of his own merit, he pulled out his ice cutter, a fishing tool he only used during the winter seasons to ice fish within the pond. Keeping his two feet on land, he leaned forward, placing the cutter onto the ice and started drilling, using the leftover muscle strength in his arms to try and break the ice. He grunted, sweat percolating on his forehead within the first 30 seconds. It felt like he didn't make a crack into the ice. What a strange predicament this was.

After contemplating giving up several times, a ear splitting crack emerged from the drill. Startled, the fisherman fell backward and off his stump, taking a minute or two to recover. His frail body was not like it used to be, when he could take a major fall and bounce back within moments. His chest ached as he peered down over the small slope of dirt at the ice to see a hole about the size of a fist, the pond water showing through. He could now confirm the ice was about six inches thick, an unusual size given the weather conditions.

With a smirk, the fisherman readied his gear, putting fresh bait onto his hook, reasoning to himself that 'Yes, it is odd to be ice fishing in July, but I must do what I gotta do to feed myself.' A glance back at the hole stated otherwise.

The ice had filled in. No view of the murky pond water below remained. Baffled, the fisherman poked the area with a nearby stick, and nothing budged. It was rock solid, just as he found it. He scratched his gray hair, gazing out over the pond. The vapor seemed to be getting thicker, but that could've been the heat playing tricks on him. Humming, he wanted to try his normal ice fishing spot - perhaps it would provide him with more luck. He was rather superstitious about these types of things.

He tested the edge of the ice by slowly putting a foot down, shifting his weight from one to the other. The ice didn't budge, or even crack, and he glided across the ice to the center of the pond, where his spot was calling to him. The fog around him made it feel like it was a cold winter's day, despite the heat forcing itself in. Using his fishing bucket as a seat, he sat down and began the whole process all over again.

The drill took longer to cut through the ice, and this time, the fisherman didn't dare take his eyes off the newly made hole. And slowly, he dropped the bait into the water.

A crack rippled through the air.

The fisherman jumped, however, it being ice and him not having the proper shoes, he went flying, landing face down on the ice. He scrambled to return to his feet as more ear shattering noises thudded around him, but the ice made it difficult to get any sort of grip to stand. A rumble came from beneath as the ice caved, dropping the fisherman into the murky water of the pond.

He screamed for help, his old, tired voice giving it everything he got.

Villagers peeked out of their homes and turned to the pond, some running to where the sounds of despair were created.

The fisherman was gone, and the pond had frozen over.