The Artist at the Pond

The Artist at the Pond

Sato-san comes in from the north gate and strolls along the western perimeter of the first pond in the Park of Three Ponds. Recently retired, without nearby friends, and no hobbies to past his time, he comes here nearly everyday for the exercise and to get out of his home. But, there is another repressed reason.

The ponds are named North, Middle, and South, but he has his own names for them. The one he’s walking along he calls The Pond of Moon Flowers, for it’s filled with lotus plants whose white flowers he imagines mimic the moon. They’re blooming now and most of the few visitors, it’s a weekday, are taking pictures.

Sato comes to the junction of the first two ponds. There‘s an arched bridge whose red wooden frame accents the green of the lily pads. He doesn’t cross it, but continues into the western boundary of the second pond which he calls The Pond of Tired Trees, for the willows hanging over the water. His plan today, as usual, is to circle all the ponds. He plans to toss bread to seagulls and ducks at the last pond he named The Pond of Hungry Birds. The gulls, flying in circles and hovering over the water catch the bread while the ducks fish the morsels the gulls miss.

Halfway around and among the willows, the pond sharply curves east. That’s where he sees a young lady on the opposite side sitting on a rock. He stops and studies her. She’s wearing a long red cardigan and a white skirt that covers her legs past her knees. Her brown hair is short and straight. He can’t make out her facial features, for his eyesight is poor. With a large sketchbook on her lap, she seems to be drawing, for her head bobs up and down as she shifts her attention from the pond to the paper. The effect is of a colorful bird searching.

Sato continues his walk around the ponds and lingers at the last one to feed the birds and warm himself on a sunny bench, so it’s nearly an hour before he reaches the spot where the painter was sitting. The rock is bare. He’s left to wonder what kind of artist she is. His imagination conjures an impressionist like Monet for the pond could have been copied from one of his paintings.

The following week, he sees her again. Exactly the same, except the day is overcast. He has a warm shirt on, for it’s a little cooler with a breeze that keeps messing his hair. This time not stopping to feed the birds or sit at the bench, he keeps walking till he reaches the other side. He keeps her on the edge of his sight, and only increases his pace when he’s where he can’t see her. Haste wasn’t needed for there she is on the rock. She’s busy creating, for her arm moves rapidly. Strangely, an image of a seismograph needle moving during a strong earthquake forms in Sato’s mind.

His steps become slow and quiet, for he wants to know what she’s drawing without asking her. The page appears blank. He doubts his eyes and steps closer, but the paper is pure white. The mystery for him has become much more mysterious! Why is she pretending to sketch? If she’s there waiting for someone or for something to happen why go through the motions of sketching? Sato can think of no reason as he heads home.

He keeps thinking about the mysterious artist. His imagination comes up with lots of scenarios- she’s an artist with painter’s block, she’s a spy waiting for a message, she’s catatonic in an energetic way, but nothing that convinces him.

He goes to the pond everyday hoping to see her and talk to her, but it isn’t until Friday that she appears again at that rock. The day is again overcast with a smell of rain gathering for a downfall. The water of the pond is dark and unreflecting, conditions not good for sketching. Sato hurries to her all the while rehearsing how he will start the conversation. Never confident speaking to women and strangers, he’s very nervous when he finally stops in front of her.

His throat is suddenly parched. “Uhhum, hello. Looks like we’ll have some rain.”

She doesn’t respond at all. Sato takes two steps forward and tries again, “Excuse me, I’ve seen you here on other days, and I was wondering if I could see what wonderful art you were creating.”

She slowly swivels her waist and looks his way. Sato falls backward onto the ground and kicks his legs to stand. Her face is devoid of features! The sketchbook drops onto the ground the pages fluttering as the wind picks up. Panicked and muttering apologies, he flees on all fours.

A blinding flash and a crash of thunder pound his senses. In seconds, he is drenched. The rain streams down his face and into his gasping mouth. Heading for the exit of the park, he crosses the small wooden bridge over the neck of water between the Pond of Tired Trees and the Pond of Moon Flowers. Another bolt of lightning stops him in his tracks. Cowering with his hands on the rail of the bridge, he shuts his eyes. He retches from the stench rising from the slimy bottom of the pond. Minutes pass as he clenches the rails of the bridge and sobs. Finally, he gets the courage to open his eyes.

In the murky waters of the Pond of Moon Flowers, framed by the rain splattered lily pads is a women’s face contorted in pain. Large hands with a spider tattoo on one forearm are choking her. Her pale hands are gripping those thick arms. Her pale eyes that plead him to stop send a stiletto through his heart. He clutches his chest in pain.

Sato feels something on his arm. Raising the sleeve, his eyes widen, for the tattoo is crawling up his arm. He releases his hand from his chest and slaps it on the tattoo, yet the black lines slips past, even as he tightens his grip. The head sink into the skin. His howls denies what he eyes tell him as the spider disappears into his arm. He arches in pain as his heart is seized in ice. He flips into the water. For a moment, the splash distorts her face as the ghost embraces Sato and drags him to the bottom.