The marker went up on a Tuesday at the corner of Cumberland Head Road, right next to Lake Champlain. A maroon metal sign with gold letters proclaiming: CHAMPY, the legendary lake monster lives here. Over 300 sightings reported since 1819! Up to 200 feet long! New York State law protects this regional icon. 

           “So, you’re an icon now,” I say, keeping my tone jovial, erasing any traces of venom from my lips.

           Champy bares his teeth, which is what passes for a smile with him. “You know humans. They’ll do anything to attract more tourists.” 

           It annoys me that he said it first. 

           We’re sitting on the muddy bottom of the lake, playing braid the eelgrass. A school of sturgeon swims by, waving their sharklike tails. They’re not afraid of us. We’re herbivores. 

           “Two hundred feet?” I scoff. “Wishful thinking!”

           “Come on, Memphre,” he says. “Size matters. Haven’t you heard?”

           I consider swimming back to Lake Memphremagog, but it’s early afternoon and the trip involves crossing woodlands as well as water. I can’t risk being spotted. With my luck, one of the humans will shoot me and deliver my spotted carcass to the nearest museum.

           Overhead, we hear a man yelling through a bullhorn. The Ethan Allen brunch cruise, making its daily trip across the lake. It’s how we get our news, how I learned about the Champy sign. The captain, a guy named Burt, likes to improvise. So, in addition to facts about Lake Champlain’s history and geology, we know he lives in Florida in the winter and has an ex-wife named Linda Sue. Champy thinks he’s a drinker. But I’m convinced he’s bored, making stuff up as he goes along. 

           I’m older than Champy. Been around since the First Nations, thousands of moons ago when there weren’t big houses lining the shore and no one rode noisy jet skis or blasted awful music. When it didn’t rain so heavily all the time causing the lake to flood its banks. I used to sleep more then. Because there wasn’t much else to do. I didn’t know Champy. 

           “You got in the papers,” he reminds me.

           “Yeah. But my lake isn’t as popular as yours. People said I was probably a giant octopus or seahorse – not a sea monster. Remember?”

           Champy scratches his sandpaper skin, picks at his ear. “Actually, one lady thought you were waves from a boat wake.” 

           This is what bugs me about him. He likes to have the upper talon. 

           “It’s not a competition,” Champy says.

           But I know what will happen next. They’ll sell T-shirts with his picture on them and a bunch of goofy looking humans will pose next to the sign, holding dinosaur stuffed animals because no one really knows what we look like but us. 

           “Let’s play hide and find,” he says, and we curve our way through the water, making serpentine shapes. That article said I was wily. Cunning. Not true at all. Sometimes I feel like my brain’s turned to lake slime, like I could close my eyes and sleep through years of sunlight and storms. 

           We’re under the Ethan Allen now. We can see the boat’s white bottom. It’s raining again. Silvery wet darts blur the lake’s surface. 

           “There’s our new sign, folks,” Burt is saying. “Any of you ever seen a bona fide lake monster before? Ours is the very best. That’s why we call him Champy.”

           The words stick in my gullet like algae. Why does he get all the huzzahs? I’m just as good as he is. Better even. Smarter. Before I can stop myself, I let out a snort, which causes the boat to careen back and forth. 

           “Now you’ve done it!” Champy mouths, waving his fins.

           Dozens of faces peer down at us, pointing and shrieking, humans waving their stupid phones. I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Champy afraid.

           “They see us,” he says, grimacing. “They know.”

           I thought it would make me happier, being seen.

           “Swim,” I shriek, and we dive down, paddling madly away from the boat, our stomachs scraping muck.

           We eel-glide it to the other side of the lake, our tails thrashing in unison. Lightning knifes the sky open. The water billows gray, churning. They’ll come for us soon. They’ll drain every inch of Champlain if they have to and yank us out by our necks. Put us in a zoo. I dip my head, fold my wings to my chest. If only we could fly. 

           Champy is swimming in circles. “What are we gonna do?” he keeps repeating.

           The maroon and gold marker flashes through my mind. How shiny the sign is. How lavish.

           Above, the lake gasps and heaves. I look at my friend, his eyes dilated with panic, picturing humans and their nets. Grabbing his fin, I pat the familiar rough scales with my snout. 

           “It’s okay,” I say, not believing it. “We have each other.”

_{(Flash Fiction from The Hemlock’s Issue 6, Winter 2024)}

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