The Pond - Part 31

Everyone in the tiny community came to Pavlina’s funeral. Dmitri stood stoically between Izolda and Nikolai. His father had one hand resting on this shoulder, as though to reassure himself that he would not disappear.

Izolda was like a statue, her face white marble. She shed no tears, made no sound. In fact, after that first wail of grief and loss when Pavlina’s body was brought to her, not a word had passed her lips. Many of those gathering whispered at the sight of her. Some made a furtive sign against evil.

Dmitri snuffled as his sister’s body was lowered into the dark hole in the ground, and even Nikolai had big, fat tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks. But Izolda stood immobile, eyes hard and dry.

And still she stood, as the others filed by, some throwing handfuls of dirt into the grave, others flowers. When all the rest had gone, Nikolai turned and touched Izolda on the arm.

“Come, wife,” he said. “There is nothing left for us here.”

She ignored him, refusing to move. After a moment, he turned again and led their son back home, leaving her behind.

The sun was starting to lower in the sky before a shiver went through Izolda and she finally stirred. Her gaze lifted and she looked from the grave towards the pond. Something passed over her face then, and had there been anyone to see, they would have fled in fear.

Slowly, she made her way home, her steps heavy. There was a pot of stew still simmering on the stove, courtesy of one of the village women, but she ignored it and went straight to her work room, locking herself in.

She went to the trunk where she kept her spell books, delving deep and bringing up the oldest of the books she’d acquired from Varnya. Flipping through the pages, it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Silently she read what was on the page twice over, then began gathering ingredients.

Using a mortar and pestle, she ground the herbs fine and transferred them to a ceramic bowl, then added liquids and stirred, chanting under her breath. Waving a hand over the bowl, she chanted a little louder and a wisp of vapour wafted upwards.

Nodding in satisfaction, she decanted the mixture into a small, blue bottle, sealed it, putting it in the pocket of her dress. Then she mixed a handful of dirt she had brought with her from the graveyard into a bag of salt and took it with her. Without stopping to clean up her mess, as she usually would, she left the house and disappeared into the night.

Nikolai made as though to follow her but she flicked a hand towards him and suddenly he had the urge to sit by the fire. Women were mysterious creatures, there was no need to see what his wife was up to. She would mourn in her own way.

It was fully dark when Izolda left her house, but she did not need a light to make her way to the pond. Without hesitation, she began to pace around the edge of the pond, leaving a trail of salt in her wake. When the circle of salt was complete, she stood just inside it, raised her hands high in the air, and began to chant.

A wind rose up, but she ignored it. The water in the pond churned and bubbled, and she ignored it. Three times she chanted, never wavering from her place. When she finished the third round of the chant, she took the bottle from her pocket, unsealed it, and hurled it into the pond. The water seethed and boiled, accompanied by an unearthly shriek.

“By my power, light and dark, I demand you show yourself,” Izolda shouted.

Still shrieking, something rose from the center of the pond. It’s woman-like figure was draped in the remnants of a gown, it’s hair entwined with seaweed and crustations. Black water sluiced off of it as it fully manifested.

“What are you?” Izolda demanded. “Who are you?”

“Do you not recognize me?” the creature asked.

Izolda took a step closer.

“You made me, dear friend.”

“No, it cannot be!” Izolda sank to her knees.