Macka Lake ✔ [short story]

MACKA LAKE | 1

The Tads emerged in late winter, when spring was still a dream edging around the peripheral.

Hundreds of heads popping above the water at sunrise, smooth black and featureless faces glinting in the sunlight. The Tads wallowed and circled each other, their tentacles curling and flicking the water surfaces. Most of them liked swimming to the very edge where the cedars and mangroves leaning over the surfaces of the lake were budding new leaves, crowing and chasing after the wood ducks and feral carps.

They are getting bolder, though. Just this year, a Tad clawed up the shore, unphased by the burning sand, attracted by the sound at the Construction site. Their eyeless head tilted questioningly when the chaos of yelling and hammering and wood hauling abruptly halted, replaced by a taunted hush and guns cocked, its unformed mouth yawned wide—almost like a satirical, maniacal laugh—before it shuffled back to the water and slithered back to its awaiting siblings, disappearing underneath the water. Everybody went back to work, the terse uneasiness roiled underneath the jokes and jabs at lunch break, but nobody dared mentioning the incident again.

It was a fluke.

We would like to pretend that it was a fact for as long as possible.

The Tads dove back as the heat mounted higher and higher and resurfaced at sunset, their onyx skin reflected the colours of the sky and water. They stayed out until the last light in the Common Space was out for the night. We fell asleep to the soft whines echoing across the lake, and the ancient, slow rumble coming deep under the ground beneath our houses.

Come late spring, they came ashore in waves, naked and brilliant, glowing god-like, if it weren't for the writhing mouth of tentacles at their nether region. The setting sun painted them hallowed. Gone was the black, slimy epidermis, replaced by the perfect details of whoever was sacrificed.

Last time was Emilija Gilmore, producing clutches of men and women with honey-warmed eyes and sincere sing-song voices.

This time, it was Zoe Eidel.

We watched as they glided across the sun-lit meadow from across the Tunnel, movements graceful and flowing like a ballet, not like the awkwardness of amphibians on dryland. The summer air was acrid, dry and blistering on bare skin. They tried out the houses we built for them. Emerged moments later, dressed in clothes we had sewn and hemmed. The Tads lined the streets, cheering and taking in everything, silhouettes broad and stark against the horizons. Some of the Tads chose to remain in the water, treading for a few minutes before ducking down.

The lake glittered, the water surface was festooned with million diamond shards.

None of us said a thing, but we could tell It was very pleased with this year's result. A silent purr vibrated through the ground, ripples bloomed from the centre of the lake, the dark spot expanded and contracted, like an excited heart.

Lorgan lit a cigarette cupping his palm around the flame until the fire caught, and studied me out the corner of his eye. "Well. The hatching went smoothly."