The Frozen Pond

Winter took its time this year, and settled in light, comfortable layers instead of a heavy, weighted blanket. The gentle slopes of the valley, once green and vibrant in the peak of summertime, were swathed in white like a freshly frosted cake. The pond at the heart of the valley froze solid, glinting in the winter sunlight. Once teeming with leaping frogs and fluttering dragonflies, it too snuggled into the soft embrace of winter.

The pond was a hotspot among locals. It was a constant source of fun and adventure in fairer seasons, but winter claimed the pond for itself every year. A solid barrier of ice on top preserved the ecosystem below, granting a season of rest and reprieve from the constant prodding of fishing poles and splashing children.

Despite its unassuming features, there was something captivating about the pond. Fish yanked from its murky waters squirmed and wriggled just as any fish did, but their eyes were bigger, alert, perceptive. Their scales shimmered with an iridescence uncharacteristic of a pond fish. Cattails and blue irises sprouting from the bank were more beautiful than they should’ve been.

Just like the fish and foliage, the ice on top was unique. It was reminiscent of cobalt blue glass; the type that beer bottles were made of. It was sturdy ice that didn’t shatter under sharp ice skates. Ice that rumbled like rolling thunder below, spooking away inquisitive fish that hadn’t yet hibernated.

Children played and challenged each other, their giggles accompanying the boom of their skates. Sometimes their parents skated too, their blades more precise and less hurried, like they’d lost the enthusiasm to carve shapes into the frozen canvas.

That’s what it was—a canvas. A canvas of ice carved into kaleidoscopic patterns. It was a view reserved only for those who could truly appreciate it. Only those that looked down, who obsessively studied their fumbling feet, noticed the designs they’d created. Others turned their red nosed, apple cheeked faces at the glow of sunlight, too preoccupied to pay attention.

I knew that to be true because I always paid attention. I always observed from below, studied mannerisms and habits, and made sense of patterns in unaware passersby.

The icy barrier people skated upon was like a one-way mirror. I felt greedy, intrusive almost, watching them play for nothing more than curiosity and amusement. Perhaps it was much like them greedily, intrusively observing my life in the other seasons; invading my home for their curiosity and amusement.

I was separate from their world, lost like a piece of jewelry that fell too deep to be found. I looked up to people who flitted as freely as the tassel end of their scarves in the cold winter wind. So unencumbered.

I wondered if the people above thought about my world. Did they appreciate it and the magic it fostered? Did they think nothing more of it than a beautiful oasis to exploit? Were they so self-absorbed that they didn’t realize the life and energy it sustained?

Would they feel so careless and free if they knew who I was? Would they turn their winter-kissed faces to the sun and ignore me?

I did not hail from a mighty lake or rushing river. There were no stories told around campfires about me, no folklore or fables, no headlines in newspapers. I was created in a small, unassuming pond, written off as a harmless amphibian. A frog, perhaps.

That was until last summer.

An old man in a frayed fishing vest let his speckled hound cool off in my modest pond. It splashed and wiggled, promptly catching my eye. I don’t prefer dogs, never acquired a taste for them, but this one was loud and disruptive and such a poor swimmer. The pond was hungry and so was I. It was too easy.

The old man hollered and jumped in after his beloved pet, but I had already dove too deep with the mutt to be recovered.

People didn’t frequent the pond as much after the incident. I waited and waited for another victim, one as easy as the dog. The old man must’ve gotten a good look at me, though, and informed the town that a monster was lurking in the pond. I wish I knew what he said, how he described me, or heard the tremble in his voice as he recalled the incident.

Time passed without people to watch. I grew bored, disheartened.

Then autumn brought in crisp air and littered the wilting earth with orange and red leaves. People visited the pond again, brought fishing poles and bait worms and six-packs of cheap beer. They muttered amongst themselves about a delusional old man who told silly stories about a fishman lurking in the pond. The fishman, they said, had bulging yellow eyes and murky green skin; he looked like a humanoid frog, they said, and he’d snatch anyone who swam too deep.

Their stories brought a grin to my lips. They were right; I was that hideous creature they laughed about. Their disbelief in the old man, in my existence, was my favorite detail.

I wanted nothing more than to wrap a webbed hand around the ankle of an oblivious swimmer and plunge to the bottom of the pond. I wanted to bring them to the wicked, oozing core and offer them as a sacrifice so that I may be released from my duty.

Then I would be free to walk as a human man once more. I’d be free of my curse and relieved of my servitude to the pond’s ravenous supernatural power.

In the wintertime I was powerless, so I fantasized about my prey as I watched them skate across the blue ice. I could only wait, but my patience thinned each passing day.

But so did the ice…