The thing about ice fishing was that you never knew what you were pulling up until it was too late to do anything more than drop the line and run, hoping you had enough time to reach the treeline before sharp claws and sharper teeth reached you.
I've pulled up all sorts from angry water rats to half-eaten deer carcasses and I've heard plenty of stories from people who've pulled up worse and lost more than a few fingers in the process. The only story I can actually say is true came from an old one-legged man called Hop.
Small towns are creative like that. They see it and they say it without thinking first. At least old Hop doesn't mind - he's always too concerned about when the ice season will start and how we can all be prepared enough to not suffer for it.
There's always someone injured at best, dead at worst. My great-nanna used to say that the ice is as alive as we are and requires blood to keep it strong enough for us to stand on, strong enough to support life, if you can call half of what's down there alive.
Old Hop swears the ice is alive too, only in a less mystical and kind way. He says it's a kind of primordial entity that feeds on the blood of the suffering, giving us stories and keeping us close with the promise of food and treasure. Like a god almost, only it doesn't need us to worship it, just feed it.
Hop fed it his leg, unwillingly of course. His line came back with what he thought was a dead fish, only it came alive when his warm breath hit its scaly hide and it thrashed about, sending him flying. He landed on his back so hard he still can't walk right some thirty years later and the fish tore his leg off before he could draw another breath to scream.
I'm glad I only pull up dead things and angry rodents, it's about all I can handle. I know someday it'll be my turn to feed the ice and keep us all alive for another year with my sacrifice but I hope I only lose a finger or a toe. I hope it's either small and quick or quick and final - please don't let me suffer.
No comments:
Post a Comment