Pondscum

I knew his type. The type of lily-livered trickster who could trap someone with his tongue from a mile away. The type of slimeball whose oily charm served as lubricant to get away with whatever he pleased. The type of pondscum whose eyes were as dark and inscrutable as the bottom of a bog, opaque enough to hide behind. 

He was smartly dressed in a crisp brown suit, but I knew better than to be fooled by clean attire. His slick skin shone under the fluorescent lights as he smarmed his way up to the counter, and I made a mental note to mop the floors after he left. 

“Hello . . . Iris,” he said, reading off the teller’s nametag. She sparkled, her antennae fluttering, while mine bristled. Clearly, the stranger’s manipulative tactics knew no bounds.

Pixies. They were great with numbers but useless when given any modicum of attention. Iris, of course, was eating it up with a silver spoon. “What can I do for you?” she trilled.

“I’d like to make a deposit,” he replied. 

Enough was enough. He was clearly in the wrong place, despite the dapper suit, despite the tacky charm. My wings were trembling faster than a common hummingbird’s, a telltale sign that something was awry. I exited my office and hastened over to where he was standing, the green of his complexion clashing with our pink quartz counters and floors. Conscious of other patrons, I forced a smile.

“Can I help you?” I said.

“Oh, hello, sir,” said he. “As I was telling Iris here, I’m looking to make a deposit.”

Of what? Algae? “Do you have an appointment?” I asked.

“I do. It should be under Timothy Hopper.”

Hopper. Of course. How had the name itself not raised any suspicion? “I believe there has been a mistake. Here at the River Bank, we don’t accept ordinary currency. It is our strict policy to serve only magical patrons.”

“Oh, I’m aware. In fact, I came into a large sum of magic recently, and I need somewhere secure to store it. I can’t keep it in my house, after all.” He chuckled.

“I think you are in the wrong place. As I said, we do not serve Creaturae.” I gestured to the sign, letting the bold letters speak for themselves: MAGICAE ONLY. NO EXCEPTIONS.

“But surely you know that Creaturae and magical patrons are not mutually exclusive? I mean, Magicae aren’t the only ones who earn magic these days.” Hopper glanced again at the sign. “How can that be your policy? Correct me if I’m wrong, sir, but are you not Creatura yourself? Dragonfly, yes?”

I shot toward him until we were practically thorax-to-chest. “I do not need to explain my personal information to you or to anyone. If you refuse to leave now and continue to harass me I will be forced to call security.” I advanced, causing him to stumble back toward the door, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield. I could sense people staring, and suddenly couldn’t bear to be associated with him for a moment longer. “I don’t know what your intentions are coming here with these ludicrous claims, but your deception is not welcome.” 

“I assure you, it–”

“Enough! You are hereby banned from all branches, effective immediately. Now get out of my bank.”

“I haven’t done anything to warrant this treatment,” he protested. “This is highly unprof–”

“I said get out, pondscum!” I yelled.

With that, he backed out of the door, nearly tripping over his ridiculously large feet. I hovered above him, momentarily victorious. 

Hopper swept a hand across his brow, shaking his head and muttering, “Where am I supposed to go now?” 

“Why not cut out the middleman and go to the Sky Bank?” I knew I should have let it be, but I just had to have the final word. 

Despite my sarcasm, he tilted his chin pensively. His beady eyes flicked to my nametag and then he smiled.

“Maybe I will, Silvio,” he said resolutely, before turning and hopping away.

That night, I was beside myself with worry. Had I inadvertently directed that con man to the highest bank in the land? I pictured Timothy Hopper, with his shiny briefcase and crisp collar, conniving his way into the vaults. Needless to say, the prospect was unbearable, as was the guilt in knowing that my words had sparked the idea.

The messenger who delivered my two a.m. telegram to the Sky Bank was a vampire bat named Bella. She commented on my abnormally early start, and offered a sympathetic click when I admitted that I had not slept. It dawned on me how nice it was to see a Creatura simply doing her job, not entertaining grand aspirations or masquerading as something she wasn’t.

I didn’t have a problem with Creaturae per se, I reminded myself. Not even with frogs specifically. They made fine farmers, carpenters, and plumbers, and occasionally excellent comedians, musicians, and athletes. Some of them had lucrative careers and some even earned magic nowadays. Did I understand high society’s recent fascination with frog culture and frog music and frog facials made of real mud? I couldn’t honestly claim that I did. As far as Creaturae went, there were far more interesting options. Frogs couldn’t even fly by themselves. But my real issue was with the intrusion into sacred spaces, the flagrant disregard of the status quo. Creaturae earning and spending magic was one thing, but saving it? Investing it? Patronizing Magicae banks with an air of entitlement, demanding to be served? It was unconscionable.

At work, I overheard Iris whispering with my assistant Dessa that the charming stranger from the day before was apparently on his way to Cirrus City, and my worst fears were realized.

“How does he intend to get there?” I demanded to know. “Even he must know you can’t leap to the clouds.”

“Falcon?” Iris suggested.

“Impossible. There’s no way he can afford that.”

Dessa shrugged. “Maybe he actually does have magic, Sil. Some Creaturae do nowadays.”

“Yes. I know. And I told you how I feel about that nickname. Now get back to work; I have to make a call.”

Sampson Thompson was fairly high above me, but we had met a handful of times. I intended to briefly and respectfully inform him of what I knew and urge him to keep security tight. I didn’t expect his secretary to refuse to patch me through. 

“I’m sure Mr. Thompson will hear me out,” I implored. “We’re practically related.”

“Scaley, right? Aren’t you mostly dragonfl–”

“I’m part dragon on my father’s side,” I snapped. Why was everyone determined to bring this up? “Welsh dragon, like Mr. Thompson. Look, I’m the regional manager of River Bank, looking to communicate with the manager of Sky Bank, so if you could please just put me on the line–”

A staticky sigh assaulted my ears. “Look, things are busy today. The boss is here—not just Thompson, but Dewey too. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

I slammed the receiver down. Clearly, the entire system was harboring a false sense of security, and from the looks of it, my telegram had not been taken seriously at all. I had to alert them, even if it meant going straight to the top, to Pluvia Dewey herself. I was suddenly grateful for my lack of sleep; my senses felt sharper than ever.

“I’m taking my break early,” I announced as I sped through the lobby. “Dessa’s in charge.”

“Where’s he going in such a hurry?” I heard Iris mutter.

“To prevent a catastrophe,” I replied.

The trip was more grueling than anticipated. I hadn’t used my wings to travel this far for quite a while, and even spending a sizable amount of magic to speed up the process, my energy was flagging when I finally reached Cirrus City. The bank wasn’t difficult to find, though I hadn’t visited in decades. It was the tallest, widest building for miles around, an imposing white edifice with cloudy marble columns. As I drifted through the front doors, I thought about how much magic it must have taken to build. Its pristine halls were clearly not the place for the likes of Timothy Hopper.

I hurried down the Sunset Wing, making a beeline for the central office, but as I approached the end of the hallway, a beefy roc stepped forward with her talons out. “I’m afraid Ms. Dewey is in a meeting.”

“Please, it’s an emergency. I’m here from River Bank on urgent business. There is an imminent threat to the safety and integrity of this institution.”

The security guard glanced back at the closed door uncertainly, and I took the opportunity to dart beneath her outstretched wing.

“Hey!” she squawked. “Where’d you go, you little–”

 I grasped the massive crystal doorknob with all six hands. It did not budge, so in desperation, I darted to the keyhole and squeezed myself through. 

“Ms. Dewey!” I called in the loudest voice I could muster. My vision was flickering and my flight was jagged with fatigue, but I was running on pure determination. “There is an unauthorized Creatura on the . . .”

I stopped short. Instead of Pluvia Dewey, Sampson Thompson was coiled behind a gargantuan desk, shaking hands with a figure in a beige suit. They glanced up, the dragon’s claw still extended, and I realized that wrapped around it was the webbed hand of none other than Timothy Hopper. 

. . . premises,” I choked out. 

Mr. Thompson rose. “I am in the midst of conducting business,” he rumbled. “Who dares interrupt me?”

I swallowed. “Silvio Scaley, sir. We have met on multiple occasions. I simply wanted to warn Ms. Dewey of this scoundrel’s nefarious–”

“Nonsense!” he boomed. “Mr. Hopper is a treasure. He came here to set up a trust fund, but we were just discussing a most unpleasant experience he had at the River Bank.” 

I was stunned. Especially up here, “treasure” was the highest compliment imaginable.

“Sampson and I saw fit to extend our apologies for our sister bank’s most shameful behavior,” intoned a sweet, sonorous voice that cascaded over the room like rainfall. I turned to see the most enormous being I had ever laid eyes on. Her serpentine figure dwarfed even Mr. Thompson, covered in turquoise scales larger than my entire body.

I struggled to compose my words. The air was suddenly suffocatingly thin. “Ms. Dewey—ma’am—I mean to say . . . A trust fund? Do you really think it wise to open the door to such things?”

“Mr. Scaley,” said Hopper indignantly. “I simply desire to invest in the futures of my tadpoles.”

“A valiant venture indeed,” added Dewey. “You would be wise to invest in the future yourself, Scaley. Times are changing, after all. I think it would be best if you took some time off to reexamine your priorities, especially considering this most recent intrusion. Good day.”

I could not believe such a mellifluous voice could speak such harsh words. The beat of my wings seemed to have slowed, but the room was spinning faster than ever.

“Ma’am, please reconsider. I–” 

“Good. Day.”

That was the last thing I heard before my wings gave out, and my body crashed into frigid marble. Three looming faces passed over me as voices faded in and out.

“Oh, dear. It seems that he’s fainted.”

A valiant venture indeed.

“Pluvia, we don’t have time for this. Beaks! Escort him out, will you?”

Mr. Hopper is a treasure.

“I suppose that’s what happens with creatures like that at this altitude. Poor little pond skater out of his depth.”

Times are changing, after all.

“Actually, Ms. Dewey, I believe Mr. Scaley is a dragonfly.”

“Oh, is he? Are you two from the same pond, then?”

A wry laugh. “Oh, no, ma’am.”

“Part dragonfly,” I managed to croak, before darkness fully overtook my vision.