Cold Eyes

The pond froze over fifty-seven moons ago. Every night, I watch a blur of pale light creep over its surface, until it glows like another moon embedded in the earth. The shifting glows and shadows are the only thing I can see clearly. I know that there are trees around the edges of the water, but in the dark they seem like eyelashes, blurs at the corner of my vision. I imagine that later in the year, they will grow thicker and wider with leaves. I am looking forward to seeing them more full.

Occasionally, rats and chipmunks skitter over the pond. Twenty-three moons ago, I saw a deer in the very center of the frozen pool, trotting just a little bit too fast. Suddenly, its back hoof plunged through a thin patch in the ice. It bucked and stamped, trying to free itself, but its movements cracked more and more fissures into the ice until it shattered, and the animal plunged into the water. I launched myself towards the hole, but by the time I reached it, the surface had already frozen over. The deer is still in the pond. Its open eyes reflect the light as well, forming more moons in my clearing. I hoped that more deer might follow the first, or other big animals; elk, bears, or even people. But nothing else has ever come. Although I am disappointed, I am not surprised. I was brought out here precisely because it was deserted. I will not be found until spring.

I think that they believed I could not survive the winter. At first, I was afraid I could not either. Numbness spread from the tips of my body to its center, until I could only move in short, heavy jerks. My skin grew dark and thin, like ink-stained paper. My vision was so cloudy that I barely noticed the changing light as the moon rose and fell. On the worst night, I watched the first stars twinkle into view, and felt sure the sun would carry me away with its last rays. But something about the way the starlight sparkled across the surface of the pond reminded me of the gleam in their eyes as they looked down at me one last time, before walking away. For the first time in weeks, I flexed my fingers. My joints crunched like a footstep in the snow.

My strength returned slowly over the next moon-cycles. Once I could move my fingers, I practiced balling my hands, then tensing the muscles in my arms and legs, until my whole body jerked. I learnt to catch the fish that flitted like puffs of breath under the surface of the ice. At first, their sweet, coppery taste turned my stomach. After a time, I started to enjoy it. I also started to think properly about what I would do when it was time to leave. I scratched maps and diagrams into the ice, plotting the route I would take and the places I would stop to rest. They kept me in the dark when they brought me here, but I was able to map my route from the sway of the truck as it screeched around corners, and the groans of the wheels as we drove from paved roads to dirt and ice. I know how to get back home

And now I know I will not have to wait long before I go. At first, I thought it was a figment of my imagination, a trick of the light as I watched the night sky. But now it is unmistakable; the moon rises later and sinks earlier, and the clouds are turning brighter shades of pink and purple. The water around me is warming up. When I tap on the ice above me, the sound is high-pitched and reedy. The frozen surface that has blurred my vision for so long is almost clear now, and I can see the fir trees overhead moving in a harsh wind that I will finally be able to feel myself. The pond is melting. Soon it will be spring.