The Pond - Part Two

The names for Andrei Vasiliev’s six sons were chosen with great care and ceremony. Names had power, and Andrei left nothing to chance when it came to increasing his family’s power. He told no one the name he’d chosen for his seventh son, not wishing its power diminished by having it feminized for a girl-child.

He made it clear he wanted little to do with his daughter and refused to bestow a name on her. It fell to Olga to do so and she named the child Izolda, which meant fighting the ice battle. A fitting name, as the girl was born in winter and through no fault of her own her life would be a battle.

Izolda was a quiet baby, often overlooked in her basket by the fire. Olga would often peer down at the basket only to find Izolda gazing back with her. There was such intelligence in those clear grey eyes, dark as a stormy night, that Olga would not have been surprised if the baby opened her mouth and talked.

Andrei did not trouble to ask about his daughter, as he had his sons. He wished to hear no stories of her progress, made no inquiries as to her health. Olga’s lips would tighten whenever his gaze skipped over the baby as though she didn’t exist, but she said nothing.

When Izolda was three years of age, Olga finally gave Andrei his seventh son. There was much debate as to whether a seventh son must come from an unbroken line, but in the end the men, Andrei and his brothers and uncles, decided that females, being less powerful, did not affect the line of power and that a seventh son was a seventh son. He was named Matvei, gift of God, and if the auguries preceding his birth were not altogether favorable, neither were they unfavorable.

Izolda grew to be a strong and robust child. She learned to walk and talk early, although she said little. The aunts and grannies around the fire enjoyed her company, although they all agreed she was far too solemn. She sat in her corner and listened to their gossip and stories, sitting so still they often forgot she was there. Above all else, she seemed especially interested in their kitchen magics.

When she was four she worked her first charm, a simple kitchen spell to help the bread to rise. The grannies looked on with amazement, Olga with pride. When Izolda looked up at her mother, Olga smiled.

“You did well, my daughter,” she said. “Now, take this basket and gather some beets from the garden.”

Silently, Izolda did as she was told. When she was gone, the women began to speak excitedly.

“Never have I seen such power in one so young.”

“She will one day be greater than us all.”

“You must take care that Andrei does not discover what she is capable of,” Andrei’s mother, the matriarch of the family, said.

“I do not understand,” said Olga.

“All men are fools,” the dame continued. “They believe it is only the sons who can wield great power. Male or female, it matters not. A seventh child is a seventh child, and Izolda is the seventh, keeper of the magic. Andrei must never know.”

The other grannies began to mutter amongst themselves, but they were all in agreement. Izolda’s power must remain hidden, for the good of all.

When they moved on to other topics of conversation, Izolda slipped out the door. This had been the true first magic she learned, the ability to hold so still as to become invisible. It was a lesson that would serve her well throughout her life.