Pond Monster

I live in a body of water called Cherry Grove Pond. It’s called this because of the cherry trees that used to grow here before the land creatures tore them down to put up their own grove of townhouses. I never saw the cherry trees; I don’t have much interest in trees, to be honest. I know the story of my pond only because I can understand the creatures’ speech and read their language. This is the kind of osmosis you can’t avoid when you live so close to them for so long.

If the land creatures gave me a name, they might call me a monster. Like a sea monster, but not, because this isn’t the sea. I would be a pond monster.

I’ve never known a home other than the pond. My mother said beings like us live everywhere—some in seas big enough to fill our pond millions of times over. Beings out there, she said, can live in groups of hundreds or more. Unlike this pond, where it was just me and her. Beings in the seas rarely, if ever, see land creatures.

I wonder, sometimes, what it would feel like to be surrounded by hundreds of beings like me. Beings I could talk to and joke with. Because let’s face it, the fish in my pond are not great conversationalists. I get lonely here sometimes, is what I’m saying. My mother passed away two summers ago. Her body’s nutrients were returned to the water and sediment. So she is still here, in a way, but not like she was before. I miss her. She always told me that when I was older and she was gone I’d find “my people.” Friends. A new community, either in the pond or somewhere else. How I was supposed to find my people here, I never knew—I guess I was just supposed to wait for them to come, as my mother once came to the pond.

In my loneliness, I’ve noticed myself thinking more and more about the land creatures. Wanting to spend more time around them. I may not understand everything about them and their hair and their townhouses, but I recognize something in them that is the same in me. Like when I see them laughing. Or when I see one that looks lonely. Fish don’t have feelings like that. But I do.

I’ve never gone out of my way to make myself known to the creatures. It’s a dangerous proposition, given the common wisdom about them. Which is: they want to kill anything that they do not understand, like me.

But the creatures are hard to ignore, especially when you live in a pond as small as mine. So I’ve started going closer to them, teasing them—really leaning into the pond monster thing. When their canoes flip, or their kayak paddles disappear, or they feel something slimy brush against their ankle—that’s me. Is this behavior a death wish? Maybe. But I have my fun, and I feel slightly less alone. But only slightly.

I feel especially lonely in the winter when the pond freezes over. There are rarely land creatures to interact with. And without sun I feel slow and thick. I swim with less vigor. When I do summon the energy to swim to the surface, all I find is a sheet of ice that reflects my face back at me, a never-ending mirror that follows me no matter where I go, reminding me that I am all alone. This is why I stay mostly at the bottom, buried in soft silt.

But one winter day, I drag myself out of the silt and force myself to swim to the surface again. And it is as it normally is—my face in one long, cloudy mirror. Until, near the shore, it isn’t. There is gray winter sky. Someone has carved a small hole in the ice.

I am caught off guard. I freeze, staring up into the hole, my face clearly visible. And this is when the creature sees me.

He is a young creature, bundled in a puffy coat, a scarf wrapped around his head. He has dark curly hair peeking out from under a brightly colored winter hat. He is on his stomach, peering cautiously into the hole, the toes of his boots touching the shoreline.

He’s seen me. There’s no denying that, because after a beat of silence he looks directly into my face and asks, “Caleb?”

He is not afraid, from what I can tell. It’s as if he’s talked to pond beings every day. I may be more afraid than he is, I realize, because I can’t stop myself from picturing him fleeing to his home and returning with a pack of land creatures who will kill me.

“Caleb?” the creature asks loudly, again. “Do you know Caleb?” His voice is quiet and kind, and he does not run away.

I don’t know what to say. All I can do is continue to stare up into the hole, dumbfounded, unable to even swim away. Luckily the creature keeps talking.

“My mom said this is where Caleb went,” he says matter-of-factly. “We put him in the toilet yesterday so he should be in the pond by now. He’s this big.” The creature holds his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “And he’s really orange.”

I think I am beginning to understand. Caleb must be a goldfish. I’ve seen them before in the pond. But I don’t understand how or why Caleb could’ve gotten here from a toilet. Perhaps, I think, the creature’s mother has told him a lie. But the young creature doesn’t seem to understand this.

The creature looks at me expectantly. I feel something well up in my chest. How sweet, I think, that he is unphased by me. More important to him is finding his little fish.

I stick my head above water and make my mouth form the language I’ve learned without trying. My voice sounds strange in the air, like it’s thinner. I’ve only ever spoken underwater before.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I haven’t seen Caleb.” The creature looks a bit let down. “But I’ll see if anyone else has,” I add, wishing I could do or say more. “I know a lot of the fish in here.”

“That’s okay,” the creature says. “It’s just that I really miss him. I wish he didn’t have to go live in the pond.”

“It’s not bad in here,” I say, hoping to comfort him. “He’ll probably like it, and he’ll have lots of new friends.”

“Like you?” he asks.

“Yeah. And all the fish.”

“Are you a fish?”

“Not really,” I say. “My mom always said I’m more like you than like a fish.”

“But you stay in the water?”

“I do.”

“Do you like it in there?” It seems like such a simple question, but I have to think about it.

“Mostly,” I say. “But it gets lonely sometimes. I don’t really have anyone to talk to.”

“Me either,” the creature says. “I talked a lot to Caleb, but not anymore.”

We both need someone to talk to. So, we keep talking. I learn that the creature is named Danny. He learns that my name is not really sound, but is the action of blowing tiny bubbles underwater in a certain way.

“Can I call you Bubbles?” Danny asks, and I laugh.

“Sure,” I say. I was wrong about the land creatures calling me a monster, I think. They’d call me Bubbles. Or at least, Danny would.

I learn that Danny lives in one of the townhouses nearby. He’s just moved there and hasn’t made any friends yet.

Thinking of my mother, I say, “You’ll find your people.”

“What’s that mean?” Danny asks.

“Just that you’ll make friends,” I say. “Give it time.”

We talk until the air temperature drops and the wind picks up. We both hear a voice calling Danny from the direction of the townhouses.

“Shoot. That’s my mom,” Danny says, scooting off the ice. “I’ll come back tomorrow, Bubbles!”

“Okay,” I say, and just like that Danny runs away across a snowy field, toward home. I sink happily, slowly, to my own usual resting place at the bottom of the pond. Maybe Danny will come back tomorrow, and maybe he won’t. But either way, I am filled with hope that it won’t be so hard to find my people after all.