The Winged Terror

The Winged Terror


        The pond provided a hangout for the little kids in our Port Orchard area neighborhood. Round as a silver dollar, it lay in a depression filled by runoff from surrounding hills. Its water only rose to my waist at its deepest point.

        Older boys had fashioned a raft from a few discarded two by fours and planking tied together by twine. On warm, summer days, my buddies and I poled it back and forth across the pond, pretending to be Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers on a great adventure.

        Sometimes we simply waded barefoot in the shallows near the shore, allowing the mud to squish between our toes and push up puffy, brown clouds beneath the water. Other times we captured wiggling tadpoles in our cupped palms. We’d plop them into buckets of lukewarm water, lug them home, and watch to see if they turned into frogs. Although I fed them with goldfish food, I never had any luck. After a while, they always turned belly up. Then, I’d dig a grave in the garden, pour in the bucket’s ripe-smelling contents, and cover the corpses with dirt. Natural fertilizer for my Dad’s squash and tomato plants.

        One day unexpected, when I was nine or ten, our neighborhood hangout turned into a place of terror. Bored and anxious to get out of chores, I trotted down Flower Street one hot August afternoon to Gary and Doug Knight’s house. After knocking on the rough, wooden frame of their screen door, Mrs. Knight appeared. her shoulder length, reddish hair hanging limp.

        “Are Gary and Doug here?” I asked.

        She shook her head. “They took off for the pond just a few minutes ago to cool off. If you hurry, you might catch them.”

        “Gee, thanks.” I galloped down the road, thinking I’d found a cure for my tedious day.

        With soft, barefoot steps, I eased my way down the shady path carpeted with fir needles. I aimed to surprise my friends. The day was stifling, and the air hung heavy as I sneaked Indian-style. Only the ratta-tat-tat of a lone woodpecker broke the steamy silence.

        My excitement slunk away when I found myself the only person on the banks of the pond. Even the woodpecker had ceased its drumming.

        The glassy pool mirrored the trees and sky in brown, brackish colors. I tossed a few pebbles into the still water to stir up some tadpoles or water skippers. I discovered the raft on the far side of the pond – broken. Two boards had been pulled loose and had drifted away. The remainder wouldn’t float if it had to support my weight. I needed help to repair it. But I was alone.

        I glanced up as a low, buzzing interrupted the stillness. It sounded foreign, even alien – and my feet stuck in the mud like hunks of lead as my eyes tracked its darting course.

        Hovering, then zooming in widening circles above the pond flew the most menacing insect I’d ever seen. Colored blue-gray with black stripes, it measured at least six inches in length. Maybe more.

        Its tail resembled a scorpion’s stinger, and its wings flashed a blur that hummed like a dozen bumble bees – low and steady in pitch.

        Panic seized me, and an icy stab of terror pierced my chest. I wanted to dash away, but movement might attract it, I thought. Slipping out of the water, I crept behind an evergreen huckleberry bush and hunkered down while the ominous creature circled like a hawk hunting for prey.

        Terrified the monster would sink its scorpion-like stinger into me, I knelt stone still in my hiding place. The droning creature circled and threatened in ever widening sweeps. My decision made, during its widest arc when it buzzed far from my escape route, I made a break for it. Scrambling along the path and up the slope, I found safety among the trees and then in the street.

        Double-timing it up the asphalt, I peeked over my shoulder several times. At the crest of a hill, I met the Knight brothers and my neighbor Mary, heading for the pond. A flood of words spewed from my mouth as I told them about the flying monster. Gary Knight rolled his eyes when I described it. Having spent more time than any of us at the water hole, he needed proof. After some discussion, I agreed to return and take another look.

        We entered the woods and followed the trail in single file, whispering as we walked. At the closest vantage point, we crouched behind a tree and peered down at the round body of water. In perfect loops, the creature orbited the pond buzzing like a remote controlled airplane. Mary’s wide eyes fixed on the creature and reflected her fear. Gary jumped when I tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to the asphalt. Doug stooped over and stared slack-jawed until Gary grabbed him by the arm. After scuttling out of the woodsy shadows, we hurried to the nearest neighbor.

        Crowding onto the porch of the little, white house, we banged on the door at the same time. When Mrs. Arden unlatched it, waves of overlapping jabber caused her to throw up her hands. “Whoa! Just a moment, kids. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.  One at a time.”

        My friends’ eyes shifted to me, and I managed to tell her about the flying insect.

        Hands on hips, she paused and looked toward the pond. “Well – let’s take a look,” she said as she reached inside her door and pulled on a black pair of rubber boots.

        She led the way, asking each of us questions about the creature like its size, color, and the sound it made. After walking to the edge of the woods, she said, “Just in case it’s dangerous, you kids stay here.” No one objected. I was glad to wait while she investigated.
 
        Five minutes later she returned, lifting her open palms into the air and shrugging her shoulders. “Didn’t see a thing. Quiet as a grave down there.”

        I shuddered when I heard the word grave.

        “But from what you kids described,” she continued, “it could have just been a harmless dragonfly. Some of them can grow mighty big.”

        Just a dragonfly? That didn’t sound safe to me. A vision flickered through my brain. Dragons flew on leathery wings, scorched with fire, and devoured people and livestock . . . sometimes entire villages. Although I understood it wasn’t a real dragon, that insect’s size and strangeness creeped me out. I never returned to our pond alone. Ever.

*    *    *

        Only years later, I discovered dragonflies were benign, overgrown water insects that fed on mosquitoes and other tiny, flying critters. It’s funny. I still get startled when I’m surprised by one. Childhood experiences make such lifelong impressions.