Art's Ice Pond

Port lived in a log cabin deep in the wintry woods of Ontario with his widowed father, Art. He was an only child and had spent many days at home along while his father was at work timbering pine trees. His father had disciplined him and made certain he had done his chores and his school work that had been mailed to Art from the nearest school district which was many miles away. Port’s father did not want for his son to risk frostbite or sickness trekking the long miles to attend a school whose agenda his father didn’t agree with anyway.

As a result of his father isolating him for much of the week, Port did not know many people and had few friends. The only ones he would ever talk to were the neighbors kids who were still several miles away in their more luxurious living spaces. Their families would blast the electric-powered furnace whose ducts lined the entire home while the only warmth in Port’s home were a couple of space heaters and a fireplace. Although the cabin was heavily insulated, there were many times when Port found himself huddled in his bathtub filled with warm water to escape the cold. Thankfully, they had access to one utility, which was gas. Electric lines hadn’t quite made it as far north as their cabin.

Besides his late mother, Port had never known any females. He would only see them from afar at a market that his father occasionally took him to or to the houses his father had sometimes taken with him to sell his wood. It was something he had always longed for. To be friends with just one girl.

Port sat in his bathtub, waiting for his dad to return one evening. He gazed at the pond in front of their cabin once more. It had always been there, unchanging, always frozen. But there was a tiny hole where his father would sometimes fish. And caught nothing, absolutely nothing. Suddenly, Port had a thought. If he was the one who finally caught something for his father, he would be proud, so proud that he would be not so disciplinary, and less neglectful. He would send him to a school, a warm school with many friends and many girls.

Port stood up out of the tub. Yes, He thought. Yes! I can do it! Pond, here I come!

He quickly dressed himself threw on his thick jacket, pants and beanie and picked up his dad’s fishing rod. His Styrofoam cooler in the kitchen was filled with minnows. Some were floating sideways and some were swimming about weakly.

“Ah! You’re still alive!” He said aloud, grabbing a couple of the surviving minnows. “Come on fishies! It’s dinnertime!”

Out he went, braving the cold weather and arriving at the lip of the frozen pond. He remembered his dad’s methods of fishing. Hook your bait, let it sink deep into the water. Then, it’s a patience game. He would say.

A patience game? How patient did he have to be? Very patient if his dad had caught nothing. He did those things and waited. After a moment he started to wish he had brought a chair or log to sit on. The patience game started here.

Just as Port proceeded to sit Indian-style on the ice, he felt a tug on the line. He jolted upward and tightened his grip on the fishing rod. He set his line and began reeling, just as his dad had told him to when he ever felt a tug. He did so and to his surprise, the line gave a little. He swiped the pole upward and continued to reel. This was it, the big catch was coming – the catch that would impress his dad and perhaps even find its way to the wall above the fireplace with its innards replaced with stuffing. It would be glorious on many fronts.

Finally, something poked up from beneath the surface. Just as Port stepped to it, he saw that it wasn’t a fish or animal of any sort. It was a small wooden box.

Port wrinkled his brow in confusion. How could he have hooked a wooden box so quickly? And to get it right on the latch? No wonder it was easy to reel in. He threw down his rod and unhooked the box from the line. He placed the wet, icy box down and observed it. It was a fine polished wood, even after having been underwater for so long. A design was carved onto all the sides of owls, people, wolves, and deer with varying sizes of snowflakes scattered all about.

“Hmm,” Port said aloud and opened the box. A small swig of water spilled out and in the box was a letter inside a plastic wrapping. He opened the wrapping and began to read. The ink wasn’t faded or smeared. He looked at the front and back of the letter, it was all consistently new-looking.

“What?” Port exclaimed. Then looked into the icy water. “Where did this come from?”

As he looked closer it looked as if the ink was still damp. “This is crazy.”

He wondered now if reading the letter would be intrusive to someone else’s conversation. Yet, he couldn’t take his eyes off this thing. The whole essence of this letter was quite mesmerizing, and finally he read the introductory part.

Hello neighbor, It read

“Neighbor?” He looked around him, making sure there wasn’t a hidden cottage or hut nearby his house. So far it was only his own. And nothing else but snow-covered trees and the frozen lake he was standing on.

Port raised his eyebrows. “Neighbor, huh?”

He looked back at the paper and read on.

You may not have seen me, but I have seen you.

He crumpled the letter slightly and stood looking around harder for someone in the bushes, or standing in the distance. He still saw no one.

“What is this a prank? Come on, Evan, this is way too elaborate.” He muttered.

Evan was his nearest neighbor who would steal his firewood and replace it with plastic wood, or had even move snow to the very edge of his roof so when him or his dad would walk out the door below and close it. The snow would avalanche on top of them. Evan would even sometimes call his dad, “Morning Wood” or call Port, “Woodpecker.” Because of what Art’s profession cutting down trees.

If the letter was his doing, it was the most elaborate prank he had ever played. Port even half-expected him to come out of the bushes laughing and saying, “Gotcha, Woodpecker!” Port shook his head and continued reading.

Don’t be alarmed. I mean no harm. I only mean to help. Your father is absent, and you are alone for much of the day. And you struggle to stay warm.

Suddenly, Port forgot about his neighbor, Evan. He knew this was a letter to him.

Your father is a persistent fisherman. And I see the same persistence in you.

Port spread his arms and shouted, “Then where are you? And why did you put a letter in the water?”

No answer came except for his own echo. He sighed and almost did not want to finish reading. He looked down at the paper.

I know you must be looking and shouting for me, but I will never hear you until you do one thing for me.

Port’s heart raced. It was as if this letter was a live person looking at him. He took a few quivery breaths and read the last couple of lines in the letter.

Cast another line.

See you soon,

-Seray

“Sah-ray?” He said aloud, trying to pronounce it right. It was a name he had never heard before. Was this a boy or a girl? He wished deeply that it was the latter.

“Why does Sah-ray want me to cast another line?” He looked into the icy water.

At that moment, he saw a dim light deep within the water. He squinted to try and make sense of what he saw. He stood up and shook his head, thinking maybe it was a reflection of the moon or stars.

He sighed, feeling ridiculous, but he did not have much else to live for, besides his own father and schoolwork. Slowly, he hooked another barely living minnow to the line and cast it into the icy water. He let it down deep into the water and sat down Indian-style just as he intended before. He had only been sitting for a short moment when the line jerked harshly. So much so, that it sent him reeling forward and plunging into the icy water. The coldness stabbed him all over but for an instant, when suddenly the cold feeling disappeared. Strangely, the water he had fallen into had ended and he was falling again, this time the other way and within seconds he hit another soft snowy surface. fell out of the water he had plunged into and plopped onto a soft snowy surface. He coughed up water and felt the snow around him. It wasn’t cold. He opened his eyes and saw that it was indeed snow and it was only cool, not a biting cold as it usually is.

He sat up and searched for his pole, feeling around him for it.

“Looking for this?” A sweet female voice asked.

He froze in his position and saw a girl, about his age, dressed in a pure white silk dress. With beautiful blonde hair blowing around her face. She smiled and giggled playfully. In her hand was his father’s fishing rod with no bait.

“Your minnows sure are excellent.” Said a deep male voice behind the girl.

Behind her were three muscular men, one of them chewing on something and swallowing. Port tried to stand then hunched down again, feeling as if he was going to fall. He looked back at the hole he fell through. It was still filled with icy water, yet surrounded by beautiful snowscape. Port stumbled away from the hole, pointing to it.

“What….I..I fell through that thing!” He raised his voice. He stared at this girl in deep confusion. He wasn’t sure if he should hold on to something to keep from falling, well, up into the sky, or to stay away from the hole to keep from falling back into it. He felt as though the laws of physics and gravity were cheated. As if they were simply a figment of our imagination.

The girl giggled again, “It’s okay. You won’t fall! You’re safe in our world!”

Port slowly stood, realizing that gravity worked just the same on this…underside of the frozen lake. “What is….this world.”

“This is the world as no one has seen it. It is the world as it always should have been. No bitter cold, no abandonment, no weariness, and no sadness.”

Port wondered what that truly meant. “What about…the snow?”

She smiled again. “It is a powdered snow, that needs no freeze to exist.”

Port observed this “new world”, seeing beautiful cottages, smoke rising from each of them and inside were filled with joyous families. The outside of these houses was no different, people were dressed comfortably in vibrantly-colored clothes, playing games, throwing large balls around and laughing. Port looked up to the sky to see that he was not blinded by the sun. It was simply a bright light that filled him with joy. He smiled widely and looked at the woman.

“You’re….?” He started.

“Seray,”

“You wrote the letter.” Port mumbled.

She smiled. “You’ve made it. This village is only the beginning.

“But what about my dad? My neighbors?”

“They’re all here! I told you this is the world as it should have been, which means everyone and everything in it!”

Port was aghast.

“Come on,” Seray said, grabbing his hand. “There is much to show you.”