The Pond – Part 8

Izolda needed time to think, and plan. She needed to explore the witch’s cave. What she needed most was time to herself to adjust to these new-found powers that she could barely keep contained. Instead, from the moment she was within sight of the village she was being fussed over by her mother and several aunts. Maybe she’d done a little too good a job of changing her appearance to something more disheveled.

While the men made much of Matyei, who seemed somewhat bewildered by his newfound status as favored son, the women tended to Izolda. She was excused from her evening chores, the dirt washed from her face and arms by Olga herself, then she was wrapped in a blanket and given a place by the fire, a thick clay mug of herbal tea cradled in her hands.

“Do you hurt anywhere?” her mother asked, gently brushing the detritus from her hair.

Izolda shook her head, no.

“You are fortunate she only set a distancing spell on you,” Polina told her. “It could have been so much worse.”

“She was not likely to have been in any danger,” Anya said with a sniff.

The others, including Izolda, looked at her.

“It is well known that the Rusalka care only for men’s souls, not women’s.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Polina retorted. “Bu the creature could have just as easily decided to kill her instead of banishing her.”

Izolda focused her attention on the mug in her hands and said nothing, but she couldn’t hold back a wince as her mother pulled at a knot in her hair.

“Still,” Olga said evenly, setting the comb aside. “It is not an experience to be taken lightly. Facing a Rusalka is enough to make even a grown man shake in his boots.”

The others murmured in agreement.

“I would not have thought he had it in him,” Izolda’s grandmother murmured.

“Who, mother?” Olga asked.

“The boy.”

They all looked over to where Andrei was telling everyone within earshot of how skilled his son was, and at such a tender age. Izolda had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing at the perplexed expression on Matyei’s face.

“I would never have believed he could face a Rusalka and live.” Grandmother pointed her walking stick towards Izolda. “You witnessed the battle. He did banish it, did he not?”

Izolda thought quickly. “The creature banished me to the woods,” she said in a shaky voice. “But I know these woods well and it did not take me long to make my way back to the river. I did not see all that transpired, but I saw Matyei cast some kind of spell and the Rusalka turned to smoke.”

Her grandmother nodded in satisfaction.

“I, for one, would like to know what spell he used,” Anya said.

Olga agreed. “I can scarce believe he learned such from Andrei, but it will do no good to ask. Men guard their spells like jealous lovers.”

Izolda finished her tea and did not even have to feign weariness as she excused herself and made her way up to the corner of the loft where she slept.

But sleep was a long time coming. Her mind would not quiet. Thanks to the addition of Varnya’s power, hers now eclipsed even that of her father. What was she to do with all of it though? Certainly not live out her life as her mother had, hiding her true nature. What good was power if you could not use it?

Izolda did not know how, but she knew her future lay beyond the village of Likhvin. She had so many questions. Tomorrow she would go to the cave and begin her search for answers there. But she would have to be careful, very careful. The men would be easily fooled, but the other women would not.

The Pond – Part 5

Very little changed for Izolda, save that now her free time was spent slipping away down to the caves by the river. If it was discovered what she was doing, it would not go well for either of them. Varnya was not part of the family and as such Izolda had no business in her company.

As for Varnya . . . Izolda’s family had little tolerance for outsiders. It was one thing for sons to learn the art of magic, but such a thing was not to be tolerated in daughters. Especially learning from outsiders who practiced what they considered the dark arts.

So Izolda went about her daily tasks as though nothing untoward was happening during her free time. She still did the tasks set her, no matter how menial, and she still spent time with her brother, Matyei, although he was developing his own interests. Around the fire at night she kept her silence, listening intently to the aunts and grannies as they gossiped and told their stories.

One night at the end of summer, when the leaves were just starting to turn, Izolda’s Aunt Anya, who rarely spoke, had news to share. “Svetlana from the village Bakal had news to share when I took her herbs from the garden,” she said.

While the some of the women looked at her expectantly, Izolda kept her attention on the stitching she was doing.

“They believe a Rusalka has infested the caves near the river.”

There were gasps from several women,

“What’s a Rusalka?” Izolda asked.

“It is an ancient evil,” Polina, another aunt, answered.

“They say she has already lured Dimitri, Sasha’s son, to his death. His body was found washed up on the riverbank – it could not have been an accident, he was a strong swimmer.”

Anya waited for the murmurs to die down before she continued. “Luka and Yuri swear they have seen a woman with long, dark, unbound hair near the river, where no woman should be.”

Izolda’s needle slipped, and pierced her thumb. With a gasp, she put her thumb in her mouth to suck the blood. Varnya had long, dark hair, and she never wore it bound up as most women did. But she was not this evil spirit, it was just an ugly coincidence.

“We must warn our men to stay away from the river,” Olga stated firmly. “Until this spirit has been dealt with.”

“But where did this Rusalka come from?” Izolda dared to ask.

Polina shrugged. “She could not have come from Bakla, they would have known if a woman killed herself or was drowned. It would have been easy for them to put her unclean spirit to rest. For her to be able to leave the place where she began means she must be very powerful.”

“Banishing a Rusalka is a difficult thing,” Ulyana, Izolda’s grandmother, said gravely.

“Yes,” Anya agreed. “It has been a long time since there has been need of a banishing ritual, but their babki is quite powerful.”

“They say if you can find her comb of fish bones and break it, you can break the curse she’s under,” said Yana.

“But first you would have to discover the cave where she lives,” pointed out Polina.

“It matters not where she came from or who she was,” Ulyana stated firmed. “She needs to be dealt with.”

Izolda wanted to ask more questions about the Rusalka, but held back. Speaking out would only draw attention to herself. But she could ask Varnya about it. Varnya who wore her long dark hair unbound, and lived in the caves near the river. Varnya who had a beautiful comb made of bone.

The Pond - Part 3

It might have been natural for Izolda to resent her baby brother, but much to Andrei’s chagrin the two became very close. Izolda did her fair share of the fetching and carrying, cooking and sewing, but was never too busy to answer Matyei’s endless questions or play with him. The two could often be found curled up together in a corner by the fireplace while Izolda told him stories.

Andrei would often watch them, something dark in his eyes. The unwanted girl-child was strong and robust, but the favored son was frail and somewhat lacking. There was a part of him that resented this. The son should be the stronger one. Still, he allowed it to continue because the girl made the boy happy, and no one else had the time to spare to give him the extra attention he deserved.

Even as these thoughts went through his mind, the girl looked up from where she was showing her brother how to make a wicker doll. A shiver went up Andrei’s spine. It was as if she could read his mind. There was something uncanny about her and he often wished he’d had the portents read after her birth, as he’d done with his sons. She was a model child – thoughtful, unobtrusive, always ready to help. But he just couldn’t warm to her.

Izolda continued to grow, staying unobtrusive, and out of her father’s way. And she continued to give Matyei what time she could, becoming not just his playmate but his confident.

“ ‘Zolda, you’ll never guess!” he exclaimed, bursting into the kitchen where she was kneading the bread dough. He’d just turned seven the day before.

“I’m sure I won’t,” she said with a smile. She, herself, was now ten, tall and slender and able to wear her long dark hair up in a woman’s bun.

“Papa said I’m to start magic lessons!”

Izolda’s hands stilled in the bread dough briefly before she continued. Only two days before she had asked her mother if she’d be taking lessons in magic, as her brothers did. Olga’s smile was sad and she stroked a hand down her daughter’s hair.

“No, my daughter. You will not.”

“But—”

“It is not fair,” Olga said with a sigh. “I know. But that is the way of things. We do the small magics of the kitchen and home and keep the rest to ourselves. You have a rare gift, my daughter. I am sorry it cannot be nurtured as it should be.”

“I don’t understand,” Izolda said. “Why can’t it?”

“Your father is narrow in his thinking. He does not accept change as he should. And the idea of a woman being able to wield the same magic as a man is too big a change for him to accept.”

“But you learned magic.”

“Yes, bit by bit, spell by spell, and mostly on my own, as you will.” That was all her mother would say on the matter.

“How nice for you,” Izolda managed to say to Matyei now.

“Maybe we can take lessons together,” Matyei said, a little more subdued.

“Such is not for me.”

“Why not? You have magic, I’ve seen it. I can ask Papa and—”

“No!” Izolda said fiercely, spinning around to face him. “You must not tell Papa of my magic.”

“But I can ask about us taking lessons together,” he said stubbornly.

“It is no use, little brother. Papa will never agree, and asking will only anger him.”

Matyei opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his sister’s face and he closed it again. His exuberance gone, he left her to her breadmaking.

Later, Izolda brought him some witch hazel to put on the bruise rising on his cheek.

“You never listen, do you?” she said, gently dabbing his bruised skin. “Did you tell him of my magic?”

“No,” Matyei said dolefully. “I did not wish to anger him further.”

“Then perhaps you learned something after all.”

The Pond

After much (way too much) consideration, I’ve decided to start a new serial. True to form, I have only a vague idea of how long its going to be, but at least I have a vague idea of what it’s going to be about.

I’m basing it on what I thought was a story length piece, but is actually only 1500 words. At first I was a little disappointed there was so little to work with. However, when I read it over I realized that while it kind of failed as a story, it wasn’t bad as an outline for a longer piece. I’d stripped so much of the detail away from the original, that I was left with what amounted to a laundry list of events.

Bad for the story, good for me to turn it into something longer. But still, there was something missing. It was supposed to be a creepy story, with vaguely otherworldly or supernatural undertones. So then I got all caught up in an introduction to set the tone of the tale, which really bogged me down until I realized it wasn’t necessary.

I ditched the intro, discovered what the core of the story was, and started over. Whether it turns out as creepy as I’m hoping remains to be seen because I did not have time to plot the whole thing out.

Without further ado, for better or for worse, here’s the first installment of my new online serial, The Pond.

Chapter One

No one was sure where they Anton family had come from. Nicholas Anton, born Nikolai Antonovich, simply appeared one day and had a massive house built, set back in the woods. Built of heavy timber and quarried stone, the house was every bit as imposing as Nicholas.

He was a tall, barrel chested man, with black hair and a bushy black beard, and habitually wore a scowl on his face. Those who worked for him claimed he was stern, but fair. Still, no one wanted to get on his bad side.

But if they had a healthy respect for Nicholas, the respect was fueled by fear for his wife Izolda. She was tall and thin, sharp featured, and her titian hair was worn in a severe bun. There was a room in the top floor of the house that she kept locked – no one was allowed in there, not even to clean. Sometime strange light could be seen flickering in the single window of the room.

This, of course, had rumors flying as to what she could be up to in that room. No one dared voice the word “witch” lest she overhear and take offence. But looks passed between the matrons and men made the sign against evil or crossed themselves when she passed by.

Safer speculation was where their money came from. Bit by bit Nickolas had bought up the land along both sides of the North River, right to base of Mount Saint Ana. He held the rights to a sliver mine, and one of copper, and built a mill on the banks of the Northern River. Gradually the village of Sweetwater grew up around it.

There was a fortune to be made in timber, but Nickolas refused to allow the old growth forest to be touched. Villagers were free to haul away the deadwood for their fires, but they were not to cut the trees themselves.

A man from a logging company came to Sweetwater, and was invited to dinner at Briarwood, the name Nickolas gave to his house. One of the serving maids reported that the man wanted to form a partnership with Mr. Anton, and start cutting down the massive trees.

Nickolas refused.

“Why not?” the man asked, obviously both surprised and angry. “With so much land, you’d hardly miss a few hundred trees.”

“The trees stay.”

“Transporting them would be simple with the river right here.”

Nickolas slanted a look at Izolda, who sat there stone-faced. “The trees stay,” he said, with a voice of finality.

Izolda said not a word to the logging man. Not a word of greeting, not a word of farewell, nor did she respond when he tried to engage her in conversation.

“If you could have seen the way she looked at him,” the maid said with a shudder. “I don’t know why, he seemed rather pleasant. But there was something about him seemed to fill her with rage.”

A light flickered in the locked room that night, but no one gave it a second thought. They’d long ago become used to the strange doings in Briarwood. But when Izolda put in an appearance the next morning, the serving maid couldn’t help but notice how pale and drawn her mistress looked.

A few weeks later, word reached the village that the logger had died while cutting wood further up the mountain. He apparently misjudged the angle of the tree he’d been cutting and it fell on him, crushing him.

By a strange coincidence, Izolda chose that moment to announce she was with child.