Franklin

7 | of the lake and klutz culture

               In the canvas of my mind, I had pictured the lake to be either dry or covered with leaves. So I am left surprised when I see it for the first time.

               On this sultry morning in mid-July, the lake is as flat as any mirror. It lies without a ripple in the greenish blue water, as if time itself has frozen. From the tall birch trees surrounding us, comes not a sound, no movement of branches, no birds calling.

               “Damn.” A crunch is made when Andy steps on a pit of dry leaves. It’s music to my ears. “I should have brought my camera.”

               I chuckle. “Use your phone.”

               “No shit, Sherlock.”

               She taps the camera icon and waits for the camera to come into focus. She takes a couple of pictures of the crocuses on the waterfront which smell nirvana sweet. The images are over exposed.

               “Argh, give me your phone.”

               I don’t want to but I hand it over. You do not want to keep Andy from taking pictures when she wants to. It backfires. Take it from someone who knows.

               “Where’s Keith, anyway?” she asks.

               “I don’t know.” I check my watch. “There is still time. He will be here soon.”

               Andy snickers. “If he is going to show up, that is.”

               I ignore her. My eyes drop to the water, clean enough to drink. I bend down with cupped hands and take a sip, drips falling from my lips, sending ripples in ever widening circles until they disappear. Before my lips have dried, my hand is returning with more and I am sorely tempted to wade in clothes and all. As it is, the wet mud from the lake’s edge has stuck to my clothes.

               I try cleaning it. I smudge it.

               But it was the best I could do, for the icy feeling on my arm not getting rid of the stain is not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand has gripped my wrist, and it is pulling me, slowly, into the water. The surface of the lake is no longer mirror-smooth; it is churning.

               I fall on my back on the ground. It happens so suddenly, that I don’t see it coming. That’s twice in one day. The falling. I have set myself a new record.

               Andy rushes to my side. “Are you okay?”

               No. It’s bleeding where my palm scrapped over a rock. I instinctively make a fist at the sight of blood.

               Psychologically affected, checked. Physically hurt, also checked.

               “Did you see that?” I ask her after taking a few deep breaths.

               “See what?” She picks up my phone from where she had dropped it.

               “The hand.” I point to the lake. “There was a hand. It tried to pull me inside.”

               Andy frowns. She looks at me as if I have finally lost it. “What are you talking about?”

               Good question, I think. What am I talking about? What the hell just happened?

               I open my mouth to verbalise my confusion, but Keith beats me to it.

               “What the hell is going on here?”