Poseidon -- A Short Story

Poseidon
By: Megan Butler    

               The lake always threatens to seep past its boundaries, further than any lake should ever go.

               Mom warns us not to get too close, since mini tributaries trickle through the drowning grass and threaten to muddy up our shoes. Even during the merciless peaks of summer, the lake only drops half a centimeter, three quarters at the most. Sparkles of sunlight wink at us from a safe distance, beckoning to cleanse us of our sweat stains and the exhaust fumes of Dad’s old push-mower.

               Because those things build character, apparently.

               There's something otherworldly about the lake and its boundaries, something I'd noticed ever since I was a kid. It has a mind of its own, whether in the heavy tresses of summer or in the dead of winter. 

               Tonight the sun doesn’t blanket us with its suffocating heat. Bouts of seasonal rainfall have replenished what little supply the lake lacked and nudged it ever so closer to our neglected swing set with the broken straps. I eye spurts of moonlight as they twinkle on a steady chain of ripples, growing steadier by the minute. The same breeze reaches our wind chimes intertwined with a birdhouse. I hug my arms closer to my chest. No, summer definitely does not reside in our backyard anymore, at least not for another half-year.

               It’s enough to urge me back around and force the whole stupid idea out of my mind.

               I guess it’s technically my fault that Molly’s bike ended up in that bottomless pit of dirt and water. If it weren’t for the rusted handlebar poking out of the surface with its curly and miserable tassle, Molly would have been convinced that Nessy had a midnight snack. But since the Loch Ness Monster decided she didn’t like little girls' bicycles, I’m now obligated to rescue the useless thing. Without Mom knowing, of course. Something about the lake sets her Mamameter on high alert.

               The porch steps rattle underfoot and squeal after me as I bend my knees to carry wistfully down the hill. It’s not uncommon for a twig to jump up and bite you when you least expect it. A plume of visible air envelopes my face and I walk through the breaths, their irregular rhythm emphasized by the chill in the air. Each step jams my shivering fingers together in the pockets of my sweatshirt. I haven’t exactly conjured up a plan to retrieve the scrappy bike yet, but I won’t be able to know the extent of the damage anyway until I reach the shore-not-shore.

               A clump of moist earth catches my heel and propels me further than I anticipate. It squishes up the sides of my shoes with a sucking noise and throws me off balance. Before the mud can take me as its next victim, my palms splatter against the ground and interrupt the fall. The piercing smell of mud and damp grass lingers on my skin as I flick off the residue, an efficient yet angry attempt to pretend it never happened.

               The sopping noises don’t stop until the toes of my shoes tease the border of the lake. There’s Molly’s every happiness, bobbing closer to the surface of the barren lake like a lifeless body. Awesome. It would take a daring swim and a taste of pneumonia to pull it safely back to shore, if not a dance with the sea monster herself.

               The porch light casts a tunnel of dim light across the stilling waters. It hadn’t been on before. Dad probably got up for a glass of water and noticed the door unlocked, peeking out to see who the perpetrator might be. That would explain the gap in the blinds. But he didn’t come out, which means he probably hurried upstairs to put on three layers of clothes.

               So I had, oh, one minute or so to figure out how not to end up like a wet cat.

               A blanket of silence settles the tide, but it falls away when I refocus my attention and reveals an unsettling tremor across the glistening surface. Crescents of water resonate from the opposite shoreline, emanating from a featureless blob that moves back when I gasp. 

               That can’t be normal. Since when do people control large bodies of water like that?

               The arcs reach Molly’s bike and tug on the tassels, which seem to drag the bike in return, throwing it up and down in restless beats. It hits the glistening bank amidst lapping water and one side of the handlebar lodges into the mud. The waters recede and the bike stays put. The blob, however, doesn't. As the commotion dies, its creator grows and extends like the stem of a plant that’s fed by energy.

               It takes the shape of a body. Aware and full of purpose. 

               Watching me.

               I stare at the bike a beat longer before panic seizes my limbs and wraps them around the wet frame without my permission. The wheel bounces against my heels as I stumble toward the house, afraid to glance back. If I did, who’s to say Poseidon wouldn’t just walk on water and have a little fun swallowing me with his lake?

               The door opens ahead and Dad steps out, yelling something in raging tones that can’t break the blinding fear driving me closer, closer, closer. Anywhere nearer the house and further from the unexplained. I prop Molly’s bike along the railing and it clatters onto its side. I leave it--it's not like it can get any worse.

               “What did you think you were doing, anyway?” he asked hotly.

               I kicked my shoes off, nearly tripping. “Trying not to drown.”

               It’s pretty close to the truth.

               “You’re not wet.” Dad stops short, his hand floating around the doorknob. “How do you get a bike out of the middle of a lake and not get wet?”

               “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I murmur.

               I didn’t believe it myself.

    That’s pretty close to the truth, too.