Reap What You Sow

I threw a rock into the still lake to confirm I wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t stuck in a painting. The sun had yet to rise, but it crept close. A dark blue sky past purple’s point jumped off the spreading ripples. Two images placed bottom to bottom. One distorted, the other clear. The trees in the distance, the mountains behind them, the birds searing the sky, all mirrored below in waving waters. The fire slowed, a pile of embers veiled behind a curtain of ash. I went back to my book, Huck Finn. I’d read it before, remembered enjoying it. But on a second passing it felt mediocre, curated for hillbilly children who never left the farmstead. A little adventure for late nights huddled under blankets with a flashlight. I tossed the book, regretting only bringing the one, and threw a log atop the ash. The chirping of sparrows and pattering of creatures filled the early air. A squirrel squirmed on the trunk of a tree facing the ground, barking rhythmically and working his tail with each sound. Horny no doubt. The rest of the guys slept. Their tents zipped up, sleeping bags unrolled, and eyes sealed.

Shrooms always kept me up. Imagination outpacing the brain’s ability to produce whatever hormone put people out of their misery for the night. A cloud of skinny bugs swarmed close to the shore, imperceptible in the water’s reflection. Looked like mosquitos, vampires have no reflection. The log finally caught, its thick smoke turned a gentle flailing flame, defending itself. The new heat rippled through me, alive. In the distance behind the smoke, across the lake, a moose skulked. The sky stretched like taught canvas over a wooden frame, the further it stressed the lighter the blue. The lake sprawled no more than a hundred feet across, so the moose couldn’t have been much further. The beast loomed perfectly between the mountains and the trees, a dark silhouette against the valley’s canvas. It walked carefully, nibbling silent at the ground. Tree branches for antlers, roots grasping the air. I always wondered, if you dug up a tree would the roots be a one-for-one match to the branches above? Leafless, covered in mud and bugs, but if cleaned and suspended, would each end echo the other? One entity between two worlds. A mirrored image for us and those below, each side supporting the other. The moose took a step into the lake, walking on water. No ripples. Not a single sign of tangibility. Its ears perked, still silent. A spectral moose, mirrored in the calm of the lake guarding the forest.

I listened to silence. The sparrows stopped chirping. The squirrels stopped pattering. The fire next to me crackled, a reminder of sound. A sparrow landed on the moose’s antlers, then a chickadee, then a dozen other avian cousins perched on the beast’s branches. The squirrels ran behind the moose and waited at its powerful haunches on the shore. Fish bobbed their heads in front of the great beast. Two beavers swam through the water leaving dents in the reflection, slapping their tails before the spectral beast.

Slap-Slap-SLAP. The water splashed. The birds and squirrels chirped together. Chirp-chirp-chirpy-chirp. The fish swam in a thrashing circle, bodies half submerged and stitched together like the coils of a viper in a pit with its sisters. Spliiiiish-sh-splaaaash-sh. A harmony between beast and noise. The fire crackled in my ear, out of tune and off beat. The moose let out a low rumble which seemed to excite the animals, who in turn, increased the tempo of their dance. SLAP-SLAP-SLAP, Chirp-Chirpy-Chirp, Splish-Splash-Splish-Splash. The beast wiggled its head, side to side. The birds perched atop the beast began to peck at new bulbous growths budding from the antlers. Fruit began to grow. Shifting from bright green to rich red, the bulbs swung lazily from the moose’s roots. Glass ornaments on a Christmas tree. A new noise started as the rhythmic music stopped. The sounds of chaotic violence. The birds acted first, tearing at the stems supporting the fruit, removing them from the antlers and dropping them unceremoniously to the ground and water. The squirrels stole what they could, and bolted for the woods. The beavers and fish dragged the floating fruit under water, slinking beneath the now choppy surface. The birds ferried the largest ornaments to the trees. All fell silent again, and only the moose remained, its reflection fluttering in rippling water, stripped of its fruit. He stood alone, facing me and the crackling fire. He walked towards me, cutting through the lake. With every step he sank deeper into the water, until at the center of the lake everything below his bare antlers became completely submerged. But as the antlers continued towards me, the beast never resurfaced. The antlers floated closer my way, before coming to a rest on the water’s bank at my side of the lake. Detached from their host who never returned with his branches, who descended into the roots. I sat, wrestling the crackling fire from my ears as a dozen or so crab-apples bobbed to the surface, breaking the silky water’s tension.

I grabbed Huck Finn, a hillbilly child searching for his lost farmstead.

Nathaniel Spencer-Cross is a Montréal based Best American Short-Stories nominated author, writer of Drinking in Public: Rules to the Game, and content curator for numero810.ca. Spencer-Cross’ work has been featured in the International Human Rights Art Movement quarterly magazine, with further publications forthcoming in the Fonderie Darling’s summer catalogue. Nathaniel studied English Literature and Creative Writing receiving his B.A. from Concordia University, and his M.A. from the University of Windsor.