Judgement of the Lake
It’s insensately, violently, monstrously cold. Icy wind shrieks across the lake’s surface, ripping the trailing drops of whitecaps into the air and freezing them into hailstones, which splash like buckshot in every direction. My rowboat shudders in the water, creaking nervously. Overhead, sky is gray and striated with dark clouds, revealing only the brightest stars: Sirius, Canopus, and Rigil. The waves churn noisily, slapping against the hull; they are uneasy witnesses, but excellent accomplices.
A dark silhouette sways below, his hands drifting akimbo like kelp in the languid current as the rocks tow him down. I can barely see him now; in a few minutes, his form will be completely indistinguishable from the vague fronds of seaweed. As I look down, pale fish gaze glassily up at me, their bulbous eyes reflecting the underside of my boat like a seer’s crystal ball. As the wind renews in fervor, I curse myself for neglecting to bring gloves. My hands shake violently, and my knife struggles free from my grasp into the lake. It plunges into the crest of a wave and scintillates crazily under the water, flashing like a wounded sardine. I watch as it finds its way to the bottom, disturbing the ghostly vigil of the drifting fish. This mistake shakes me from my cold-induced stupor, reminding me of the rest of my duties. I dump my fouled suit into the water as well, the last evidence of my day’s work. A bloody slick slides down each successive wave.
The lake is angry: it will not allow this obscenity to go unnoticed. Slender fingers of water grasp at my oar, freezing it to the oar-locks with a thin veneer of ice. A sharp, frozen knuckle forms around the hinge. With a groan, two planks of the hull split under the stress. I try vainly to plug the gap with my numb hands, but my efforts are in vain. As my rowboat slowly takes on water, I resign myself to the final judgement of the lake.
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| The Girl Behind the Glass by Alexis Buzzato |
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