The Pond - Part 35

Izolda shook Nikolai’s arm. “Where is Dmitri?” she demanded again, voice shrill with fear.

Nikolai turned towards her, a bleak expression on his face. “The grinding wheel, it cracked. It must have had something to do with the speed in which it was turning. I have never heard of such a thing happening before.”

“But Dmitri, what happened to Dmitri?”

“He was the first to see the smoke. He, he shouted fire and tried to put it out himself. He slipped and he ended up under the grinding stone, trapped. The floor underneath him must have been rotted, it gave way. Somehow he ended up caught in the gears. We tried to pull him out . . .”

“No!” Izolda shrieked.

She tried to make her way into the burning mill, but hands held her back. She fought them, needing to get to her son, until her strength was gone. Nikolai wrapped his arms around her from behind and held onto to her.

“It was my fault,” he said brokenly. “I knew the mill could not keep going at such a rate. All I could see was the profit we could make, not the danger.”

A perfumed breeze wafted across them. Izolda stilled.

“No, my husband. It was not your fault,” she said with conviction.

The crowd on the river bank was silent. The workers had formed two lines from the river, one passing buckets full of water forward, the other sending the empty buckets back. The roaring flames began to die out and soon the flames were gone. The smouldering remains still sent black smoke into the air.

“Now there is no choice but to send for Mikhail,” Nikolai continued. “He needs to come home.”

Izolda went ridged in his arms, then forced herself to relax. “Of course, you are right,” she agreed, to placate him. But already she was formulating a plan to keep her remaining son safe.

The fire was out when they finally made their way back home. Nikolai would allow no one inside the mill to inspect the damage, not even to retrieve what remained of his son, until the mill was completely cooled down.

Too restless to stay inside, he went off down to the village. Izolda shut herself up in her workroom. She pushed her grief aside, focusing on ways to save her remaining son. Protection spells were useless, she knew that now. But there had to be something . . .

She sat in her rocking chair and leafed through the ancient text she inherited from Varnya, the one she had spent countless hours trying to decipher. In it were the darkest magics, ones that revealed themselves bit by bit, and only when she was at her most desperate. Never had she been more desperate than she was now.

And there it was. The spell that could save Mikhail. She read it over, then read it again, cementing it in her mind. There was no time to waste. The spell must be cast tonight, under the new moon.

The rusalka would be at her weakest now, having used so much of her power to assault the mill. And there was no doubt in Izolda’s mind that it was the rusalka who was responsible for the fire that caused Dmitri’s death. The scent of her perfume was unmistakeable.

It would take time for the creature to replenish her energies, time Izolda would take advantage of. She began gathering the ingredients she would need. And when Nikolai returned and called for her, she waved her hand to send him to sleep without a moment’s thought. When he awoke, it would be all over.

As she worked out the details of the spell, there was a part of her that also mourned for Mikhail. If the spell worked as it should, it would mean losing him, but he would live, and that was all that mattered.

The Pond - Part 30

With Mikhail safely away, things became very quiet. Izolda did not trust the quiet.

There were times she caught Nikolai looking at her with a strange look on his face, as though he was about to ask her something, but then he’d turn away without saying anything.

The water in the well of one of the outlying farms became tainted, and the entire family died, as did much of their livestock. No one could understand how such a think could happen – none of the other sources of water were affected.

Nikolai fought with his elder brother Konstantin. It began as something trivial but exploded into near violence. The result was Konstantin uprooting his family to look for better luck elsewhere. Others took this as a sign and began moving away as well.

Izolda kept her remaining children close by her side. If anyone thought this was odd, they knew better than to say anything. Her temper, never even at the best of times, was beginning to fray. The stress of her continued failure to stop the entity was wearing on her.

Where once Nikolai enjoyed good fortune in everything he did, now he seemed to have nothing but ill luck. It became rare that a week would go by without an accident happening at one of the logging camps – one man received a serious slice in his arm when the cross cut saw he was using snapped, another lost the use of his legs when a tree fell wrong, and a third lost his life when a log stack gave way.

“Another family has moved away,” Marta, the woman employed as a housekeeper and to help watch over the children, said one evening.

“Who was it this time?” Izolda asked, when Nikolai said nothing.

“Lavin and his wife Sara. They packed up their children and their belongings, and left like thieves in the night.”

“That is the third family this month,” Izolda said.

“It makes you wonder who might be next.”

Nikolai rose from where he’d been sitting and left without a word, slamming the door behind him.

Izolda could hardly blame him. Life had never been easy in their small settlement, but now it was becoming next to intolerable. It was like an impending storm was about to break. And when it did, it was a blow none of them expected.

A few days later, Marta came to Izolda, white faced. “I have looked everywhere, but I cannot find her,” she said.

“Who are you talking about?” Izolda asked impatiently, angry at being disturbed.

“Pavlina. I left her napping in her room, but she is gone.”

Izolda went white as bone. “If anything has happened to her, I will kill you with my bare hands,” she vowed.

All work was suspended and search parties were quickly gathered and sent out. Dimitri had been out with his father at the time and knew nothing of his sister’s whereabouts. Izolda demanded that he stay with her while the others searched, and if she held onto him a little too tightly he knew better than to protest.

When the men finally returned, just before sunset, she had only to look at their grim faces to know the worst had happened. Izolda’s keening wail of grief sent the birds in the surrounding tress to wing.

Pavlina had been found in the pond, floating face up, but still quite dead, ringed in water lilies.

The next day, Marta was found hanging by her apron from a tree just outside the village.

The Pond - Part 19

Having spent her morning on the deck watching the New World draw nearer, Izolda retired to her cabin for the actual docking. The trunks were carefully packed, and if some of Katrinka’s nicer clothes had ended up in Izolda’s trunk, well, there was no one to know but Izolda.

The somber black dress she wore was Katrinka’s. Why a bride needed such a dress was beyond her, but it served Izolda’s purposes well. A grey dress would not have conveyed the sentiment as strongly as black, nor would it have made her skin seem as lustrous. Appearance was going to play a large part in her first meeting with Nikolai.

It was important that she get close enough to Nikolai as quickly as possible to transfer another of her powders to him, one much stronger than the one she’d used on the captain. Even so, she knew Nikolai well enough to know that even if she could revive his feelings towards her, he might feel obligated to send her home again until a suitable period of mourning for Katrinka had passed. She could not let that happen.

As she waited for the ship to go through the docking procedures, she paced in the cabin, rehearsing what she would say, and how she would say it. While it was true she had the power to make Nikolai her puppet, that’s not what she wanted.

Back in the old country there had been a spark of attraction, but he had been duty-bound to Katrinka. It had really taken very little to drive a wedge between the two, and to enhance what he’d already felt for Izolda. She wanted him, yes, but as he was, not as some soulless creature.

Nikolai was a strong, ambitious man and he needed a strong woman at his side to help him achieve those ambitions. That woman was her, Izolda. Katrinka had been frivolous and weak. He would have eventually realized his mistake in marrying her, but it would have been far too late.

Finally, finally! There was a knock on her door, the porters come to take the trunks away. Izolda gave herself a final once over in the mirror, then picked up her reticule and followed, joining the line of passengers disembarking the ship

The city of Boston spread out beyond the docks, and Izolda was intimidated, in spite of herself. It was so very different from Russia. The cacophony of voices around her was deafening. Katrinka’s father had hired a tutor to teach his daughter, and by extension Izolda, English. She had been careful not to let either the tutor or Katrinka know how quickly she’d caught on to the new language so as not to rouse the other girl’s jealousy.

Now she was able to understand many words and phrases spoken by the people around her, but everyone talked so fast! It took her a few moments to translate what was being said. For the first time she was grateful for the ship’s captain insisting that the steward accompany her to the inn where there was a room waiting for her.

The fact that the room was in the name of Katrinka Romanovich rankled a bit, but it couldn’t be helped. His duty done, the steward tipped his hat and left. Now all that was left was the waiting. Izolda didn’t mind this waiting. She was a patient soul, especially when it mattered. And Nikolai mattered a great deal to her.

The Pond - Part 14

Izolda’s rage lessened only slightly as she stared down at her mother’s cooling corpse. Already she was trying to figure out how to turn her impulsive act to her advantage. Quickly she gathered what she needed for a cleansing spell, to banish any trace of the magic that actually killed Olga.

Fortunately, her mother kept a well stocked larder and she easily found everything she needed. Humming under her breath as she worked, she crafted her spell quickly. When it was done, she sprinkled what looked like clear water over the body, chanting softly. After she was done, she used her magical “sight” but could find no trace of magic.

Everything went back to its place in the cupboard, and only then did Izolda let out a shriek of despair.

“Come quick! Something has happened to mother. Please, someone, help me!”

By the time Anya, the closest auntie, opened the door, followed quickly by Polina, Izolda was sitting on the floor, her mother’s head cradled in her lap, tears running down her cheeks. She looked up, every bit the grief-stricken teenager.

“I can’t get her to wake up!”

“Come away, child,” Aunt Polina said, taking her gently by the shoulders and moving her aside. “Let Anya see to her. She has a strong healing gift.”

Izolda allowed herself to be drawn away, and gritting her teeth, allowed Polina to wrap her in a comforting hug. Anya knelt on the floor beside Olga. She ran her hands along her body, a hare’s breath from touching her.

“What happened?” Polina asked.

“I—I don’t know,” Izolda gulped. “We were deciding which of the hens deserved to go in the stew pot for tonight’s dinner. Then suddenly all the colour left her face. She clutched at her chest and fell to the floor. I could not wake her!”

Polina glanced at Anya, who shook her head. Izolda, interpreting what that meant, let out a loud wail and buried her face against Polina’s shoulder.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

The next few days passed in a blur. Izolda played the part of grief-stricken daughter so well, she was excused from the task of helping wash and prepare the body, which was then laid out in the front room for three days of visitations by friends and neighbors.

In part, her grief was real, because she was not able to say good bye to Nikolai before he left for the new world. She had hoped to see if at least some remnant of her spell had remained, but it was not to be. There was a part to play, that of a young girl steeped in grief over the loss of her mother, and play it she would.

At night, when there was no one else around, she stood looking down at the waxy face.

“I think we both know it was always going to end this way,” she said dispassionately. “Although I think this was a little sooner than either of us expected. Still, this is what comes of meddling with someone else’s spells.”

With a sigh, she confessed, “I am sorry it had to come to this though. But you brought it on yourself. Why did you arrange it so that I carried the power of the seventh? Perhaps you were only trying to get back at Andrei for some slight. I guess I’ll never know.”

Pacing around the body, she continued. “Did you really expect me to have this power and not use it? Such foolishness on your part. Would you have found it easy to resist using it to your own advantage? I wonder.”

Running a hand along the edge of the wooden box, she looked down for the last time at the shell of the woman who’d given her life. “You were starting to suspect I had far more power than I was letting on, weren’t you? That’s why you were keeping such a close eye on me. Oh, you thought you were being clever, but I have the power of the Rusalka in me. Did you guess? Did you know?”

Izolda stayed a few moments longer, almost as though expecting a reply. Finally, she turned and went up to bed. Her only regret was having to find a new path to take towards her future.

Another day of mourning, of doing her part with the baking and cooking for those who came to pay their respects. By the time Olga was buried in the old churchyard, Izolda had worked out the details to her new plan. This time, she would make sure nothing stopped her.

The Pond Part 11

Izolda was growing restless; her need for a life beyond the village was growing. She was fifteen now, and she had come to an unpleasant conclusion. There were no apprenticeships for girls, no fostering between villages. Her only escape would be through marriage.

This meant she would have to give up her solitude and become more visible. Instead of wandering the forest paths alone, she would need to join one of the groups of girls that gathered herbs together. She would need to ingratiate herself with the girls who visited the nearby villages to exchange weaving techniques or have stitching gatherings.

This was going to be a huge sacrifice, as far as Izolda was concerned. She was an indifferent weaver, at best, and she did not care for stitching at all. As for becoming one of those girls she often scorned, she shuddered at the thought. But if she’d learned nothing from Varnya, it was that sacrifices must be made to reach your goals.

And so Izolda embarked on a course of action to become more involved in village life, to gain friends, and to become visible. And if she used a touch of magic to make herself more popular, then who was to know except herself?

Olga couldn’t help but notice this change in her daughter. It was difficult not to. The girl had always been somewhat of a loner and now, now she seemed to be always at the center of a hub of activity. This should have pleased her, she had always worried that Izolda spent too much time in her own company, but this new Izolda gave her an uneasy feeling.

“Perhaps I was wrong, giving her the power of seven,” she admitted to her mother.

“Why did you?”

Olga looked at her shamefacedly. “I was angry with Andrei, always so superior, so sure of himself.”

“Did you not wish for a daughter, one with power?”

“Yes, but—” Olga hesitated. It was true, she longed for a daughter but Andrei was so intent on getting his seven sons she’d worried that he would want no more children after that, so she’d used her magic to ensure she’d have her girl.

“Then you got your wish, what more is there?”

They both turned to watch Izolda as she sat chatting and sewing in a circle of girls. On the surface, everything seemed as it should be. Izolda was like any other girl, tall and slender, her dark hair bound up on her head, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief as she teased one of the older girls about her upcoming betrothal. But there was something below the surface . . .

“It’s just . . . this change in her has come on so suddenly. One day she was avoiding the others, the next day she’s right in the thick of them. Do you—you don’t think she’s using magic to influence them, do you?”

Her mother laughed at her fears. “I think it’s highly unlikely. Although the girl has power to spare, she would have to have enough to influence several at a time so that no one questions her acceptance.”

“I—I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Besides, using magic on others is forbidden, even Izolda knows that. Rest your fears, daughter. She is finally becoming the daughter you always wished for instead of the mouse hiding in the corner.”

Still, Olga was troubled as she watched her daughter. As though she could feel her mother’s eyes on her, Izolda raised her head from her work. Her eyes met her mothers and she smiled a bright, happy smile.

Olga’s fears seemed to melt away. She smiled back at her daughter and Izolda went back to work, answering a question one of the others posed. Of course everything was all right. Izolda was popular because she was a kind, generous girl. There was nothing amiss here.

The Pond - Part 4

The place where magic was taught was a secret place, deep in the woods. Matyei was trying not to show how anxious he was as he walked beside his father. He wasn’t like Izolda. Even though she kept it secret, he knew her magic was much stronger than his. He wished she was here now.

Had his magic been stronger, he might have recognized the shadow flitting through the forest, mirroring their movements. Andrei paused, as though he sensed something, but the shadow melted away and after a moment he continued on, a frown on his face.

Izolda pressed her back against a tree trunk and breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close. She would do well to remember that her father had more magic than her baby brother. She needed to be more careful.

She hung back slightly after that. There was no telling what her father would do to her if he caught her following them. What she was doing was unforgiveable. But she was desperate to learn. The small magics women were allowed were not for her.

At last they came to a small clearing. Andrei and Matyei stepped inside . . . and disappeared. Izolda held up her hands and felt in front of her. The air was solid. She stepped off the path and followed along the edge of the clearing but it was the same.

Taking several steps back, she stamped her foot, letting out a small cry of rage. Wards! The clearing was warded so that only Matyei and their father could step inside. How was she going to learn if she could not see or hear what was going on?

She paced the perimeter of the rough circle, fists clenched. “I will find a way,” she vowed.

There was no point in lingering, and she was in no mood to bake bread, so she turned away and followed her own path through the woods. Another time she might have named the trees that towered above her, or tried to coax a squirrel or sparrow to her hand. She might have even gathered herbs, as they were always useful, but she still seethed with anger.

Once she reached the verge of the river she slowed her pace, following the river’s course until she came to where the great, black boulders edged it. Climbing the rocks to the very top, she finally stopped, and stood looking up. Her scream of unfettered anger sent the birds in the surrounding trees into the sky.

“Well, I hope that made you feel better.”

Izolda spun around so quickly she almost slipped on the rocks.

“Have a care, girl. It would be sorrowful waste should someone with such magic die.”

“Who are you? And how do you know I have magic?” Izolda asked, anger forgotten as she faced the woman sitting on the rocks behind her.

The woman looked older than the oldest granny around the family fire. Her face was a maze of lines, her steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a dark brown dress with a white apron over it, and held a long wooden staff in one hand.

“Any fool with magic of their own could see what you are, should they care to look. Your father could, but he doesn’t believe women can wield the higher magics so he ignores what’s right in front of him.”

“Who are you?” Izolda asked again.

“I am Varnya,” the woman said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Izolda shook her head. “I only know the legend of the witch Varnya. Mother uses her name to make my brothers behave.”

The old woman snorted and rose to her feet. “Some things never change. Help me down, girl.”

Having been raised to respect her elders, Izolda did as she was bade.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself,” she couldn’t help asking.

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“Me?”

“Do you know any other young girls with magic writhing under their skin, the desire to learn eating away at her?”

“You can teach me what I want to know?” Izolda asked eagerly.

“Yes. But if you wish to learn, you will have to do exactly as I say.”