Devonshire

The morning greeted Martin with bright sunshine. He listened to the chirping of Spring birds and the staccato burst of battling squirrels above his head. After loading his fishing rods and tackle into the back seat of his battered sedan, he lowered his considerable bulk down into the driver's seat. His feet crunched down on the collection of old drink cups, candy wrappers and empty Newport boxes scattered around the floor. Martin eased the sedan out onto highway 701, which ran directly past the front door of the ramshackle little house he had inherited from his grandmother. The scenery, still shaking off the clutches of a hard New England winter, flashed past him as he motored steadily along the rural highway. He fished a fresh box of smokes from the front pocket of his flannel, kicked the car's cigarette lighter in with one knuckle and hummed contentedly while he waited for it. A few seconds later, following an audible "pop", he lifted the orange coils to the tip of his Newport and inhaled. Martin grinned; escaping smoke snaked through his yellowing teeth. He wiggled the letter opener he'd wedged into the car's radio to make it work and tuned in the only rock station he could get. The radio lost reception in the middle of Martin's favorite Creedance song when he turned off route 701 and onto the thickly wooded, narrow road that led into the state forest and down to the Devonshire reservoir toward his favorite fishing spot.

Martin coasted up onto the embankment where the road was the broadest. He stuffed the smoking remains of his Newport into the half empty can of Mountain Dew perched precariously in his cup holder. He heaved himself up and out the door. Collecting his rods and tackle, he slogged off down toward the chain link fence that ran along the water's edge. The laces of his worn-out work boots trailed along behind him as he walked along it, looking for the place where it had been partially cut. Finding it, Martin tugged the metal as far apart as he could and forced his large body through the hole. He leaned back to retrieve his gear, careful not to damage the tips of his rods as he pulled them through.

Martin picked his way down to the reservoir's edge. He parked himself on large tree root that had burst through the ground and begin to work on setting up his fishing rods. His big fingers were surprising nimble as he re-lined the poles with 12lb test and tied on the delicate lures. He baited his favorite rod with a shiny, silver flashing lure that caught what little light filtered down through the canopy. Martin outfitted the other rod with a lure that was made to look like a fat, juicy tadpole then outfitted the line with a standard red and white bobber. He took off, navigating along the shoreline until he found a place where the vegetation thinned enough for him to make a cast. Drawing his arm back over his shoulder, he set the lure and bobber sailing out over the water's rippling surface in a smooth and graceful arc. The bobber hit the surface about 200 yards out with a pleasant "plop". Martin set the rod down, wedging the end of the pole between an exposed root and the heel of his boot. He picked up the other rod baited with the shiny silver lure and began the process of casting it out and reeling it back in. The lure looked very much like a bait fish, sparkling just below the reservoir's rippling surface.

He passed the better part of an hour in this steady rhythm, pausing only once to check the other line when the bobber suddenly bounced on the surface. It was "only just nibbles," he decided, after having reeled it in to find the tadpole still intact. Martin was just about to call it quits when he felt a telling quiver in his rod. Martin jerked it back sharply. There it was, the insistent tug of a hooked fish. He began to quickly reel the line in. It whistled down the rod throwing droplets of water off as it collected on the spool. At last the fish broke the surface about forty yards off, a decent sized small mouth bass. Martin whooped and continued to bring the fish in at a steady speed. Finally it was below him, slapping about in the shallow water at his feet. Reaching down, he grasped the fish in both hands. He gently pried the hook free with his pliers and held the bass up, inspecting it. It was thick-bodied and beautifully colored; Martin rotated it, examining the lines of its body, the pulsating gills. It was a beautiful fish. Sighing contentedly, Martin planted a big, noisy kiss on the fish's head and released it back into its watery world. He watched it make off toward safer depths. He bent down again to pick up his rod when the hairs at the base of his neck all stood strait up. The world had gone eerily silent, even the swarm of black gnats, his constant companions, suddenly vanished. No more than twenty feet directly in front of him, something else had broken the surface and it was looking right at him.

No sooner had the thing registered in his mind, it was gone, leaving nothing more than silent ripples on surface. Martin, sweating and feeling a little sick, grabbed up his gear and dashed up the bank. He fought the urge to look behind him terrified it would slow his escape. He stumbled back through the fence, tearing both his shirt and the flesh beneath on the jagged metal. Back in his car and breathing in painful gasps, he dared look up and out at the reservoir before him. With the exception of some low flying gulls, it was devoid of any activity or movement. Still feeling the prickling of panic, Martin pulled back out onto the road. When he was safely out of the forest and back on 701, he rummaged in his pockets for his cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands.

It had been watching him. "What the hell?" Martin suddenly barked, involuntarily stomping on the accelerator. The car raged forward as he let loose a stream of obscenities. He didn't dare think about it, but he was thinking about it. "A river otter..." he thought, "that's what it had been."

Martin felt the flood of relief. River otters were rare and elusive creatures but the occasional sighting was reported in this area. He shook off some of his fright and begin to feel a little silly. Later though, tucked into the bed, the vision of those bright, wet eyes hovering above the water crept up on him. They had been so round, so bright, not like any eyes he'd ever seen before. They had been two turquoise pools, heavy-lidded and rimmed with the most brilliant shade of green. "No, not a river otter at all," Martin decided as he drifted off to sleep.

It took him the better part of a week to drum up enough courage to go back. This time he brought only his old Olympic camera, fully loaded. He sat down on the bank and guzzled his Mountain Dew with trembling hands, watching the water. After two hours, his neck and shoulders were sore with tension. Martin stood to relieve his aching bladder. Suddenly there was a splash so close by that his entire body jerked in fright. He looked out over the water, scanning for movement on the surface. Nothing. Then there was a sudden flash of color. There was something moving through the reeds on the far side of the reservoir, something long and slick looking. Martin raced up the bank, crashing noisily through the vegetation toward a place where he could gain a better vantage point. He finally broke out farther down the shore. The thing had slipped under water again, only to surface about thirty feet from where Martin now stood.

It rose up out of the reeds, a smooth head that looked to be covered in thick, brown ropes. Gill-like slits on either side of its head flared as it surfaced, a thick bullfrog struggled feebly in its jaws. Martin watched, holding his breath as the creature slide effortlessly out of the water and onto a partially submerged log. "Definitely not a river otter.' Martin thought again, his bowels trembling.

It had its back to Martin now, the long rope-like things trailing down its back, the lower half of its body still below the waterline. There was a crunching noise and a low mewling sound that made Martin's stomach ache with a new fear. He took a step back, lost his footing and went crashing down to the ground in a heap, dropping his camera into the brush. The thing's head snapped around seeking the source of the threat. Martin got a good look at it and screamed.

It had long, sinewy arms whose talon-like fingers were wrapped around two halves of the large frog. Below the eyes, which were wide with hostile alarm, was a flat face framed by gills. It had a wide, fish-like mouth filled to the brim with jagged, blood-soaked teeth. It dropped the partially eaten frog. The creature turned toward Martin completely now. He could make out two beautifully shaped breasts that swung like ripe melons as it raised its arms and hissed. It launched itself into the water, its broad tail slapping the violently. Martin screamed again and felt the warm flood of urine coursing down inside his jeans.

Gasping and sobbing with fright, he lumbered to his feet and began to run back up the embankment. He tore back through the undergrowth and for one second of pure panic, feared he'd lost the path back to his hole in the fence. Finally he spotted it and charged through. Certain he'd see the creature dragging itself through the woods with its bloody jaws snapping, Martin did not risk a look back.

The laptop screen flickered as Martin's latest google search's results were displayed. Martin, frustrated and tired, cursed it. Having searched under everything from swamp monsters to mermaids, his results had yielded nothing that would help him. The colorful storybook images did not even remotely resemble the creature he had seen. Admittedly, his search criteria was limited. The thing he’d seen was definitely aquatic and female. Martin felt an inexplicable stirring in his loins as he remembered its large, eerily perfect breasts. Those breasts had hardly fit in with the rest of it, those beautiful flashing eyes and menacing jaws. He thought back to the awful sounds it had made as it tore that frog to pieces. There were those unmistakable gill structures and those bizarre ropes, "like hair or…", Martin wracked his brain for the right word, "...dreadlocks." That’s what they had been, thick, wet dreadlocks. He took a long, thoughtful pull on his beer, drained it and tossed the can over his shoulder.

Martin clicked on the thumbnail picture of something called a Fiji mermaid. The picture opened full screen and he felt a rush of cold dread. This was closer, much closer to the thing he seen. He leaned forward and read the caption below the picture. "A man-man relic from the days of PT Barnum’s traveling sideshow.". It was apparently an ugly example of taxidermy genius, pieced together from a monkey parts and the tail of some large fish. It looked to be about four feet and was largely black and shriveled. The sharp ragged teeth in its twisted mouth were clearly discernable. Martin thought of people standing in line, waiting to get a peek at this monstrosity. For the first time, he remembered his camera uselessly lost somewhere in the undergrowth. PT Barnum’s monster was man-made; could that creature in the reservoir be some kind of experiment gone wrong?

Martin popped the top on a fresh beer and reluctantly recalled the creature’s image again. It had been a long time since he’s been in school, but he remembered Darwin’s theory and that thing had looked anything if not evolved. It struck Martin as having been far more adapted to its environment than the product of any human intelligence, no matter how advanced. Had PT Barnum artist's rendition been based on reality? Had its creator once seen the same creature that was now occupying Martin’s secret fishing spot? Martin found he was both fascinated and repulsed by the possibility.

An hour later, Martin’s six pack was gone. He’d managed to find several more references to the Fiji mermaid but they were too obscure to be helpful. He stumbled to bed with the realization that he had to go back. He had to get a better look, more evidence. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with that evidence yet but he was driven by the need to understand.

Martin lugged the bait bucket alongside him. It was heavy with two dozen fresh water eels. He'd hatched the plan two days ago but he hadn't considered how colossally stupid it was until this moment. He stood on the shore, scanning the perimeter.

"What did he think was going to happen? He was going to try to lure it out into the open with live bait, then what? What if it came after him?" Martin looked down, checking that the laces on his boots were securely knotted. If he had to make a run for it, he didn't want to trip and break his neck.

He pried the lid off the bucket and fished out a wriggling black eel. He carefully hooked it through the jaws, then set it down in the shallows at his feet. The eel instinctively began swimming out into the depths. Martin let the line out. The sun caught the filament. The eel was already a good distance from the shore and moving out toward the middle the of the reservoir. Almost out of line, Martin snapped the bale shut and waited. Nothing. He repeated the process three more times, each time moving to a new location on the shore and letting the eel work its way out. When the eel stopped moving, Martin reeled it in and replaced it with a fresh one. He was in the middle of retrieving the latest eel, when the line grew taut and the pole jerked in his hands. Something had taken the bait, and it was a big something.

He dug his heels in, backed up the bank a bit and began reeling in earnest. His heart was pounding and he was sweating, more from fear than from exertion. About ten feet in front of him, the broad, mud brown back of a large snapping turtle broke the surface. The eel came free with one snap of its powerful jaws and the monster disappeared. Martin stomped and swore loudly, tossing his pole aside. He waded into to the water and upended the bucket, setting the remaining eels free.

It had moved so quickly, so silently, that Martin barely had time to jump out of its way. It had come from somewhere off to his right, and it fled past him, keening and launching itself after the fleeing eels. He caught a glimpse of its misshapen back and it's flat, iridescent tail. He backed up, away from the shore but stood shock still watching it feed. The creature disappeared underwater, then re-emerged, its mouth working, spewing bloody bits of eel and mucus. He stood, transfixed as it casually rolled over onto its back, its breasts bobbing obscenely. It slapped the surface of the water with its tail, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the otherwise quiet morning. It clutched another eel to its mouth and sucked at it. Martin shuddered with revulsion.

The thing finished off the rest of the eel, then turned in Martin's direction. It began, ever so slowly, swimming back toward shore, toward him. Martin took several involuntarily steps backwards, then stopped.

"You want more?" he said aloud, his face flaming with embarrassment.

The thing stopped. It hissed. Its jaws hung open and a long black tongue flashed behind hundreds of sharp, pointed teeth. It didn't look like the shriveled thing in the photos he'd seen, like something long dead washed ashore. Instead, this animal, this thing, looked impossibly vibrant, like something that stepped out of his nightmares. It's head appeared a bit too large for its body. Its skin was the color of tapioca and was covered by fuzzy spots of green discoloration. The shoulders and arms were taught and narrow, the claws looked more like the hands of an old crone. The nails were blackened, chipped and caked with grime. It turned away, the dreadlocks making a wet, slapping sound as it disappeared. Feeling oddly both exhilarated and terrified, Martin raced back to his car.

The bait shop owner had looked at him strangely when he returned and bought every freshwater eel and mummichug he had in his live wells. "Fish are really hitting these today." Martin had offered by way of an explanation, then paid the man with a handful of crumpled bills.

This time, the creature seemed to be waiting for him. It surfaced as soon as he reached the edge of the reservoir, moving closer as Martin began chucking handfuls of eels and fish out into the water. It seemed to be insatiable, attacking each new meal with apparent zeal. With some amusement, Martin saw it jump up and snatch an eel out of mid air, tearing it in two and stuffing the parts into its gaping maw before splashing back down. He checked his bucket. One eel left. Martin bent down and picked it up then froze. The creature was directly in front of his face. Its body was fully extended, its head partly submerged with only the eyes above the waterline. It dragged itself forward and pushed itself up out of the water, its face pressing into Martin's, its fetid breath making his stomach heave. The gills flared and its jaws opened wider. It looked at Martin, the eyes were expressionless, unblinking pools of turquoise light. He counted what had to be hundreds of razor sharp teeth. He slowly extended the hand that held the eel. In utter amazement, he watched as it reached out with one claw-like hand and took it from him. Martin watched it swim away, sweat pooling between his shoulder blades and his breath coming in ragged gulps.

The phone was ringing when he stumbled through the door. Martin snatched it up. He answered in a voice that sounded like he'd been chewing gravel.

"Martin? Martin is that you? What's wrong?" His only sibling Melissa lived thirty-six minutes from the end of his driveway, but it might as well have been three states away.

"No. Nothing Mel. I was just sleeping." He lied, dropping down into a chair.

"You sure everything is okay?" Then, perhaps fearing he'd find some reason to end the call early, she got right to the point.

"It's Jason's birthday tomorrow. I'm making dinner and I want you to come."

Martin grimaced. "Mel, you know I don't like parties."

Over the years, he had kept his distance from his sister and her children. He found that he didn't do well with others, especially his own family. There was likely some deep rooted psychological explanation for it, but Martin had never had any interest in finding out what. He just liked his isolated life.

"Martin, you haven't seen the kids since Christmas. Would it kill you to make it to dinner? Jason loves hanging out with you. What are you going to do, live in gramma's shack and never get out into the world?" Melissa's voice was ripe with disapproval.

Martin thought his nephews couldn't care less about him. The boys always made him feel like some kind of large bug, like something that made them curious but they didn't want to get too close to.

"I didn't get him a present. I've been...busy."

His sister scoffed. "Busy? Martin, doing what? Testing video games? Illegally trespassing on the reservoir to fish? Give me a break! I'm raising two kids on my own and Martin, you know that I don't ask you for much. " Melissa let that bit sink in.

Melissa had lost her husband to a freak heart attack several years back. Though he ached for her loss, her grief had made him desperately uncomfortable. Martin knew she had suffered but she'd never sought comfort from her sole sibling. He had never once offered his brotherly shoulder in support either, a fact she often used to manipulate him.

"Okay, but I can't stay long." Martin surrendered.

"Good, come by at 7. I'm making a roast." Melissa hung up without saying goodbye.

The next evening, Martin fumbled around his place looking for something Melissa would deem acceptable to wear. His wardrobe consisted largely of flannels, faded tee shirts and jeans. He finally located an old sweater she and the boys had bought him last Christmas. It was still partially wrapped and had the tags attached. He shaved his big face in the kitchen sink, checking his reflection in his old toaster. He looked a little less like the Unibomber now, he thought. Martin snagged the set of bright orange walkie talkies he'd got Jason. It had been a last minute purchase. After spending two clueless hours in the toy store he'd finally admitted he knew nothing about his what his nephew was into. He'd broke down and asked the perky female salesclerk who'd suggested they were "just the thing boys loved to play with."

Melissa, seeing his freshly shaven face and the sweater, had given him a half-hearted hug and an approving smile. She ushered him into the living room, calling out "Boys, Uncle Martin is here."

Michael was watching television. He jumped to his feet. "Hi Uncle Martin." His younger nephew had grown at an alarming rate, his eight year body reminiscent of his late father's wiry frame.

Martin awkwardly patted the boy's head. "How's it going tough guy?"

Michael shrugged, mumbled something incoherent, and glanced back over his shoulder at the TV.

"Hey, its okay, finish your program Mikey. Where's your brother at?"

"On the computer, again." Michael said.

"He's supposed to be doing his homework but he's talking to girls." Michael made a gagging motion.

Martin found Jason in tha back room, sitting in front of the computer. The boy was typing into an open chat window.

"Hey there birthday boy."

"Uncle Martin," Jason jumped and abruptly closed the window. "just doing homework."

"Oh yeah? Mikey says you just use that thing to talk to girls." Martin had meant it as a joke but his nephew's eyes flashed with alarm.

Jason had Melissa's soft looks, dark smoky eyes and long lashes. If it weren't for his broad shoulders and large build, he'd look almost feminine. Martin cast about for a way to change the subject. There were textbooks strewn about the desk. Martin absently glanced down at an open one and could not believe his eyes.

"Jason, what is this?" Martin picked up the book and held it out in front of him.

"History. We are studying mythology."

"No. no. What is this?" Martin pointed excitedly at the large picture of a female creature, half obscured by pond lilies. You could clearly see a golden tail and long, black hair that hung in thick chords. It was decidedly less monstrous than the thing in devonshire, but the similarities were stunning.

"It's a water nymph. Niadmes? No wait, Naiades. Its some stupid mermaid thingy that live in ponds and lakes." Jason gazed back at him curiously. "Why?"

"It doesn't look like a mermaid." Martin insisted. A rush like ice water coursed down between his shoulder blades and gooseflesh prickled his arms.

Jason took the book from him, flipped back a page and held it up.

"Look, this is how look normally. When they get pissed off or sick or something, they get to be ugly, like this one here." Jason turned back to the other picture.

Martin took the book from his nephew. He went back and forth between the two pictures, his mind burning.

"What's that?" Jason gestured toward the hastily wrapped present.

"What? Oh, that's for you. Go ahead, open it." Martin handed over the gift without taking his eyes off the book. He began to read as the boy eagerly tore off the paper.

“Cool, walkie talkies! Thanks Uncle Martin.” Jason beamed at him. Martin's ephoria was temporary interupted by an unexpected thrill at having pleased his young nephew.

“Glad you like them Sport. Sorry I forgot the batteries but maybe your Mom has some?” Martin suggested.

Jason took off for the kitchen and Martin, thankful to have a few extra minutes, sat down to finish reading about the naiads.

Dinner had gone remarkably well. The kids bickered less than Martin remembered and Melissa seemed relaxed and even a little happy. Martin found himself rushing through his cake though, eager to get back home in front of his computer and a new direction of research to pursue. Before leaving, he’d asked to borrow his sister’s digital camera. Melissa handed it over, without a single question. Martin felt a sudden flood of gratitude and affection for her.

“When did you quit smoking?” Melissa had asked. Martin had been surprised to admit that somewhere over the last few strange days, he not had a single smoke. The realization startled and unnerved him. He suddenly wished that he and his sister had been closer; he might have been tempted to share his discovery with her.

"You should take the boys fishing sometimes." Melissa suggested.

Martin shrugged, "Yeah Mel, maybe I will do that sometime."

The two shared an awkward hug before Martin made off for home.

Martin had stayed up all night reading everything he could find out about fantastic creatures of myths and legends. He wasn’t sure if the thing in the Devonshire reservoir was a water nymph or mermaid or some combination of these things. He had no idea where it had come from but the images he’d seen in Jason’s textbook had got him thinking about another possibility. "What if it had been something else before?"

Martin had lived alone for a very long time. He had gone without female companionship for almost as long. Living his reclusive lifestyle had not afforded him many opportunities to meet women. Martin had to wonder if that’s perhaps why there was this fixatation on the idea that this creature could have once been something something magical and alluring. Martin could admit his isolation had heightened his sensitivity of the female form. He thought again of those beautiful breasts and of all those lovely water creatures floating amid the pond lilies in Jason's textbook. His throat grew thick. It wasn't hard to see why so many lonely men had met their demise at the hands of such beguiling visions. Thinking of those poor lost souls, Martin was suddenly grateful to feel the tug of sleep. He stumbled off to bed to catch a few hours rest.

The water of the reservoir was cold and clear. Martin’s feet sunk to his ankles in the soft silt. The afternoon sun felt warm on his back and he stripped down to his sleeveless tee shirt. She was close. He could feel her moving through the water, sending ripples of excitement through him. She surfaced, just a few feet from him. Her eyes were sparkling pools and her skin, nearly translucent in the light, shimmered like a million cut diamonds. She edged closer and Martin felt his groin stir. She was almost upon him now, the points of her breasts with their hardened carmine-colored nipples rising out of the water. He ran his eyes over her, feasting. He reached out, cupping one breast in his shaking palm, stroking the warm flesh. She drew him back out into the depths, until the water rose up over his waist. She pressed up against him, pressing her body to his, impossibly warm and achingly beautiful. Martin felt her powerful tail ease up, between his legs. He ran his hand down over the shining orange scales, the foreignness of it, inspiring an almost painful lust. She moved against him with it and he felt himself grow hard and erect beneath the water’s surface. Her lips moved over his stomach, light and moist. Martin made a sound that began as a moan of ecstasy but became a scream of anguish as a hundred snapping teeth tore apart his flesh.

Martin sat up, still screaming and covered with cold sweat. "What the hell had that been?" He leapt from bed, pulling up his sweatshirt, examining his stomach for damage. He rummaged around until he found a half empty bottle of vodka, and stood, taking several deep swigs from it. He got dressed and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for sunrise, too frightened to fall back to sleep.

The morning was quiet out on the Devonshire. Certain she was close by; Martin emptied the first bucket of eels into the shallows. He saw the flash of her tail as she gave chase to her prey. He marveled at how different this creature was from the erotic beauty of his nightmare. He started off, picking his way around the shoreline, looking for what, he wasn’t sure. Jason had said that these creatures could transform when they got sick or upset. Martin thought that perhaps there was something wrong that could be affecting it. The Devonshire reservoir spanned roughly eight acres. Martin intended to search its entire circumference. He felt certain his secret entrance was the only access apart from a locked gated fence that crossed the service road, used only by the town’s officials. In all the time he’d been fishing down here, he’d never come across another soul, nor seen evidence that the authorities made excursions with any regularity.

As the morning gave way to the bright afternoon sun, Martin continued his trek around the body of water. His process was slowed in many places by thick undergrowth. Out of shape and in no condition to have untaken such an ambitious hike, he had to stop frequently to catch his breath and wipe the sweat out of his eyes. There seemed to be no other breaches in the fencing and by mid-afternoon, he’d worked his way almost three quarters of the way around. The creature, having long finished her meal, had been steadily keeping up with him. Martin stopped every once and a while, and found her eyes watching him from above the water’s still surface. Unnerved but determined, Martin continued trudging along. At last, he came to a point where he could make out his fishing spot beyond a rocky outcropping. He’d nearly come full circle.

As he made his way up over the rocks, his nostril picked up the heavy scent of stale cigarettes and beer. Dropping down off the top, Martin might as well have touched down in a landfill. The shoreline here was littered with empty bottles and butts. The water that ran up over the little beach was heavy with sludge-like mucus. Martin counted nearly fifty pieces of fast food debris, countless crushed and crumpled cigarette cartons and booze bottles. Martin noted with disgust, several dozen used condoms and even the charred remains of a small fire pit. Apparently someone had been sneaking down here at night, using the reservoir as a private partying spot and dumping ground. Several trees had been covered with spray painted graffiti and hundreds of broken branches covered the ground. This damage was his fault. His was the only hole in the fence. Kids or whomever had gained access the same way Martin trespassed. Instead of using the Devonshire to fish and appreciate nature, they used it to exploit the privacy of its acres. He looked down at the fire pit. They could have set the entire place on fire. Martin stood, taking in the refuse, burning with guilt and shame.

Martin remembered the camera. He fished it out from his pocket and began clicking pictures of the filth. He heard a familiar hissing and turned around. She had pulled herself halfway up the beach, the long fins at the end of her tail trailing in the scummy water. Her jaws opened and closed, her claws raked the mud. She made a low sniffing sound and looked up at Martin. For an instant, the beastly features of her face seemed to soften and swirl into something else entirely. For an instant, the lovely apparition of his nightmare seemed to surface before his eyes, and then it was gone.

“I’m sorry.” Martin said. “This is all my fault. I’ll fix this. I can fix this.”

The creature slipped back down the beach and out into the water. She fixed her eyes on Martin one last time before disappearing. Those eyes had reflected such a deep sorrow that it had made Martin ache inside. Martin had waited, but she never surfaced again.

Two days later, a plain manila envelope arrived at the office of public works. There was no return address. It was filled with pictures printed on low grade photo paper showing an area of Devonshire reservoir that had been trashed as well as pictures of the broken fence, the apparent access point for the vandals. A crew was dispatched to clean the area and the fence was fixed. The inspector also arranged to have a public works officer make regular passes during the night in an effort to catch the trespassers. So far, they’d managed to nab a few stoned teenagers during the nightly patrols thanks to what the papers referred to as "a mysterious concerned Samaritan." Martin had scanned the newspapers for weeks after but the cleanup efforts seemed to have gone through without any type of creature siting. He felt both relieved and strangely disappointed.

The walkie talkie in his coat pocket buzzed. “Big Bass, its tadpole. What’s your location? Over.”

Martin smiled. He set down his pole and retrieved the walkie talkie. “Tadpole, Big Bass is at bridge. Over.”

Jason’s voice crackled with excitement. “Michael just caught a fish Uncle Martin. He’s bringing it in now. It’s a big one!”

Martin grinned. He’d begun taking his nephews on afternoon fishing outings shortly after they re-secured the Devonshire reservoir. Mount Misery Lake lacked the quiet serenity and exclusivity his old spot had afforded him, but it was stocked with plenty of fish and the boys seemed to enjoy it.

“Okay guys, I’m on my way. Over.” Martin packed up his rod and tackle and headed off to meet the boys.

It was a perfect day. The sun was high and bright, the water was cool and refreshing and the fish were biting. Martin sighed and gazed up at the blue sky. He hoped the Devonshire was passing the same kind of idyllic afternoon and that somewhere in its cool, clean depths, its lone resident was at peace. Fully restored to her former beauty, he imagined her swimming in lazy, unmolested circles. Martin wondered if she missed the taste of eels.