Arrow Lake white snake

Anselm coursed alongside his new hunting partner, the vigor of the hunt in his blood. They galloped in tandem briefly before he was fully abreast of the water; after several paddles he pinned his ears to his skull, took a deep breath, and dived under. 

The first thing he noticed was one could not scent underwater; holding his breath, and not being immersed in the colorful scents of the world was an alien concept to him. He felt oddly stricken without the familiar sense to aid him. 

He opened his eyes underwater, to a vision of murkiness and shadows. Green slants of light illuminated the mouth of the lodge and he paddled towards it desperately, already feeling the burning of his lungs and construction of his head. 

Movement darted past him — the silhouette of a beaver with surprising swim speed. 

Paddling under the den mouth, he realized he could barely fit — he broke the surface with a gasp, clawing along the bank while shapes scurried past him. Overhead he heard the clatter of sticks being dismantled and mud flung — sunlight began to pierce through in bright pylons. 

He saw a beaver towards the edge and lunged for it, unaware that just feet from it was a secondary exit situated for exactly this purpose.