The Ice King

My grandpa said that when he was four years old, he witnessed the incident with the black bulb and the Ice King. On that snowy Christmas Eve, he crept out of his bed to peek at the presents under the tree. Garlands spiraled down the glossy banisters. A vintage silver tea set done up with holly and red berries sparkled under the dimmed lights of the chandelier. The tree glowed like a snow-covered star, a ten-foot giant towering before the great windows like a seraphic guardian. Snow feathered all over Grandpa’s beaming snowman outside. He was so excited that he’d forgotten about the black bulb.

A relative who lived on the other side of town had hung the aberration among the festive decorations at the bottom of the tree. It reflected no light. Grandpa was especially afraid of it. The murky bulb seemed like an infernal demon. Hanging at his eye-level, it peered at him with malignant force.

When Grandpa entered the room, he spotted the black bulb and hid behind a chair in his little pajamas. How was he supposed to open presents Christmas Day under the monster’s leering presence?

The glass people from the Christmas village on the big oak table didn’t like it any more than he did. They’d watched it in rising apprehension for the last three days. Something was amiss with that black bulb. On this night, they especially didn’t want to consider it. They had last minute Christmas shopping to do, Christmas dinners to cook, parties to prepare for, caroling to warm up for, and cookies to deliver. Trying to ignore the black mass, they returned to their village.

As soon as they’d gone, the bulb began rotating of its own accord. It circled faster and faster until two massive legs stretched out of it to the floor. A pair of saucer eyes opened and gazed towards the village. The bulb had become an enormous bullfrog.

Dropping down among the gold and white presents, the ebony bullfrog leaped towards the big oak table. The town had rested safely there for decades until that night. The beast lifted its bulbous head and smelled the pond somewhere in the middle of the hamlet. An awful smile spread across the great lips. Springing four feet off the floor, it landed in the forest surrounding the village.

A lone woodcutter heard the trees jar as the bullfrog landed almost beside him. His horrified cry caught in his throat. It was a good thing, for the sound would have alerted the monster to his presence. The little woodcutter jumped behind a boulder. He pulled his warm hat around his ears as the bullfrog barreled towards town. Though frightened, the woodcutter didn’t lose his head, and he ran for help.

The amphibian barged into the village, startling the miniature inhabitants. They dropped brown paper packages and plates of sugar cookies. Music sheets fluttered into the streets. None were prepared for what happened next. The beast’s sticky tongue shot out and snatched hapless victims into its mouth. It swallowed the baker and his wife, the candymakers, the toymakers; it ate the blacksmith, and devoured the carolers. The innkeeper, the little reindeer, the bouncing rabbit family, and the carriage driver couldn’t escape. It gorged on the screaming ice skaters and the children on the merry-go-round. There seemed to be no end to how many the bullfrog could consume.

In this way, the monster made its way to the pond in the middle of town. It was a quiet nook surrounded by snowy trees. An ice fisherman in a fuzzy hat angled for little red fish. He looked up at the bullfrog as it lunged into his sanctuary. It meant to leap into the ice-covered pond, but caught sight of him. The dozens of villagers in its stomach had failed to satisfy its gluttonous appetite. It would enjoy one more snack before it sank into the freezing waters. Licking its lips, the bullfrog hurled at him.

The ice fisherman sprang out of the way and rolled into a clump of bushes among the trees. The bullfrog wasn’t a normal beast. The pond would be its palace, the village its haunt, and the screaming glass people its slaves. Not one could be allowed to escape. It whirled about on the ice and came after the fisherman again.

He looked to the ice pick he’d left on the pond’s frozen surface and grimaced. If only he’d not left it there! He had to go back and get it. Running through the snow from the bullfrog, the ice fisherman raced through narrow spaces between the trees. The beast got stuck between two of the trees and struggled to get out. Its rubbery flesh stretched and squished like goo.

The ice fisherman reached the frozen pond and slid back to his ice pick. As he snatched it up, the bullfrog freed itself of its tight prison. Lunging back onto the ice, it slid towards him. Its cavernous mouth opened as wide as three villagers. The fisherman, his weatherworn face set for battle, swung his pick at the bullfrog. He caught it across the mouth. Though he was strong, he wasn’t strong enough to knock the monster away from him.

The bullfrog smashed into his glass frame and knocked him across the pond and into the snow. Between the ice and its momentum, the bullfrog couldn’t stop itself. It, too, slid wildly towards the shore. Rolling over the little fisherman, the beast landed among the trees.

For a few seconds, the ice fisherman thought he’d been swallowed, until he noticed the Christmas tree glowing against the high windows beyond the snowy pine trees. The crystals in the chandelier winked like a thousand clustered stars. Scrambling to his feet, the fisherman snatched up his ice pick. He endeavored to stab the bullfrog before it regained its feet, but the pointed end of the pick couldn’t penetrate the copious skin. It bounced off.

The bullfrog kicked the ice fisherman square in the chest with those powerful legs. It knocked the breath out of him as he flew off his feet and over the pond. He landed flat on his back on the ice and slid into the hole where he’d been fishing. The frigid waters closed over his head. Only his fuzzy hat remained. Smiling, the bullfrog sat up and hopped across the pond. Now it could better catch the little ice fisherman under the water.

As it propelled itself at the hole, the water broiled as if alive. A tall figure burst into the air in a dazzling explosion of shining Christmas light. Hovering on a halo of frosty star beams, this new apparition was dressed in a long furry robe. It was as if snow had been pulled up like a blanket about his broad shoulders. Underneath, he wore thick white clothing and great heavy boots. A gilded belt held a single knife with decorated hilt. Golden hair fell down his powerful back. His eyes were as bright as the flames of Christmas candles. A crown of frosted evergreen and small pinecones circled his head. In his strong hand he carried a long white spear.

His fierce eyes turned to golden slits at sight of the bullfrog. He shot at the beast, his spear before him like a jouster. The diamond tip cut into the rubbery skin and opened a gash on its thick back. Little villagers tumbled out and looked wildly around as the glowing warrior landed in a crouch beside them.

Their faces lit with joy and they cheered: “The Ice King! The Ice King!”

The bullfrog didn’t seem hurt. It lashed out its tongue to catch the Ice King in its slimy mouth, but he glided to the side and ripped open another hole in the monster’s flank. More villagers dropped out, until the entire town and its animals sat on the ice.

The bullfrog let loose a thunderous croak that shook the trees. How could this happen to it? Food and shelter had been taken from it in a matter of seconds.

When the Ice King was sure the whole village was free, he skewered the bullfrog through the head and staked the beast to the ice. His spear glittered with glacial mist as frost encompassed the beast. The long limbs, bulbous body, and eerie eyes froze into an arctic sculpture. Smiling triumphantly, the Ice King removed the shining blade from his belt and stabbed the demonic statue. It shattered into a thousand pieces. The shards glittered in the light as they clattered onto the frozen pond.

With the death of the monstrous bullfrog, the Ice King shimmered back into the simple ice fisherman with his plaid shirt and warm clothing. He picked up his fuzzy hat and put it back on his head. The villagers swarmed around him with gladsome thanks and invited him to Christmas dinner. The little fisherman made sure they invited the woodcutter, too, since he’d warned the Ice King about the bullfrog. He gifted the woodcutter with a special ax and named him Guardian of the Northern Wood.

The next morning, the black bulb was found shattered at the base of the Christmas village. The ice fisherman seemed smug where he crouched over his fishing hole in the pond. Nobody was sure what had happened, but Grandpa knew. Now so do you.

The End

Copyright © by Julia Benally 2022

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this work are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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