Without the protection of the rusalki water spirits, one woman stands alone against the Flame of Asgeoth…
Image Credit
Wolrider YURTSEVEN (on Pexels.com)
So, I wrote “Anna” for an ex, some months ago, as a present. I printed it out, put it in a manilla envelope, and gave it to her in a giftbag with some chocolate I knew she liked, labelled “To My Sweetheart.” Corny, I know, but maybe corny is good, actually?
Life has a funny way with timings, though. Not two seconds after I gave her my present, she decided to break things off with me. So, that was fun. (For more bitter thoughts on love, check out my upcoming short story “Withdrawal”, which I’ll link here).
Anyway, I thought I’d put the story on here. It’s one of my best, I think. Definitely one of my more experimental pieces. Hopefully, you guys (the wonderful Internet) will appreciate it more than my ex did.
—
I
The Drowning Woman (Pt. I)
What did I do?
Hands on my throat. Keeping me underwater.
My legs thrash behind me. Useless.
What did I do?
A dark shadow stares at me from the riverbank. Smiles as I struggle. Smiles as the air leaks from my lungs.
My hands tug his. But they are clamped tight, like an iron vice, locked shut around my neck.
This river was my place. My haven. I was safe here, in the woods. The rusalki protected me. They kept the monsters at bay.
Monsters, beasts – like the one whose hands forced me beneath the water’s surface. I can hear his laughter in my ears, half-imagined.
The rusalki, where are they? Have they…abandoned…me…? Were the stories…lies…?
My legs burn, but not as much as my chest. I scream. No one can hear me. And if he could, he would only laugh.
The water bubbles and churns all around me. It is cold. My necklace of iron, my ward against the evil spirits, tightens around my neck, constricts me as much as his hands.
My legs tire. The water seems to thicken, like treacle. I fall still. No resistance.
He’s won… He’s won… He’s won…
But you must keep fighting, Anna. Keep fighting.
I barely feel the final bubble of air as it leaves my lips and bobs to the river’s surface. The water darkens to mud, then tar. My limbs are numb and useless.
He lets go. My necklace weighs me down and drags me into the deep blackness.
II
The Cell (Pt. I)
The bedsheets are rough and coarse as I pull them tighter around myself. A heavy stench of urine clouds the air. Hugging my ankles, I shiver. It isn’t cold.
He’s still alive.
He must be.
He can’t be… I shake my head. He can’t be. It wasn’t me.
They burst into my house. Dinnertime. Dragged me away with them. I’d never seen Thoron so angry. It’s nice being protected sometimes.
I rub my side and wince. The alderman’s men had been rougher than they needed to be. Claiming they treated me like a princess, that I should be thankful I don’t have balls for them to kick in.
Mud coats the undersides of my nails. And blood. My blood. The shackles had burned me: I had tried to scratch my way through them but had failed.
My blood. Not his blood. My blood.
I couldn’t have killed him. He was already dead.
The lock clatters on the floor, and the door whines open. I turn around. Two men enter the cell.
The alderman is a bearded man, with a bald head and kind, brown eyes. He wears a well-made tunic. His wife makes good tunics. I suppose it’s one of hers. An iron band clasps his left forearm. The alderman’s band, passed through his family, from father to firstborn son. Only the man with the alderman’s band has the right to rule our village.
The priest is a gnarled old man, with toothless gums and greasy skin. Hunched over on his stick, he tugs at his robe, a dusty, dull-grey thing that stinks of foul odours. I almost forget the smell of urine as his flailing robe wafts its dreadful smell towards me. The priests pray for days at a time, without respite; I fear how long his robe has gone unwashed.
Narrow eyes, like a hawk’s, fix on me from sunken eye sockets. He mutters something, some ancient Bible incantation.
I wince, groan. Fire. Fire on my skin. It blossoms over me in an instant of searing pain, as if the air itself were ignited. Then it is gone. My breath quickens. The cell feels comparatively cooler now. I shiver more violently now.
A necklace dangles at the priest’s neck. At its epicentre hangs an emblem of Asgeoth’s Flame. My husband and I forged several of those, a few years back, and sold them to the Church. The Church paid us little, but we were glad to service our souls to the Lord. I suppose his charm was one of those we sold.
‘Sit.’ The alderman is not one to be verbose. ‘Sit,’ he repeats, gesturing to the chairs and table at the side of the bed.
Slowly, I roll out of the bed and sit. They both choose to stand.
From his robe, the priest produces a leather-bound tome that looks at least twice as old as he is, with a faint reek of mildew. He sets it on the table with a dull thump. Grimacing to himself, he stoops over, ensnaring my hand in his aged palm and pressing it firmly against the book’s cover. The cover is as rough and as wrinkled as his hand.
Every muscle in my body clenches. I ignore the pain at him squashing my hand into the book. He stares at me impassively, though his eyes are no less narrow than before.
‘You swear to tell the truth? On the Bible of Asgeoth, you swear that no falsity will echo from your lips?’ His voice is as gnarled as he is, a creaking moan that trembles from between dry lips.
I swallow. Nod sharply. ‘I swear.’
He releases my hand. I retract it quickly back to my side. Finally, the two sit.
The alderman sighs, face creasing, brows knotting. ‘Marietta, I trust your rights were declared to you properly?’
I shrug. ‘I have read the ritual rights.’
‘Good.’ He grunts. ‘Then we can begin.’
III
The Drowned Man (Pt. I)
Heat sears my face, as the furnace chuckles to itself. I work hard on the bellows, as Thoron sticks iron into the flame. Pulling the iron away from the fire, he rests it on the anvil and begins hammering it into shape.
The chink-chink-chink of his hammer echoes through the forge. I take a moment to step away, breathe, mop the sweat off my brow.
It’s too bloody hot in here. I think of the River Eden, of the river’s gentle current lapping the riverbank. Of the coolness of the water against my skin, washing away the smell of sweat and soot. Of nature infiltrating me, encompassing me, enveloping me. The fish swimming. The birds tweeting. The leaves rustling like stacks of paper. The scent of flowers, carried on the gentlest of zephyrs.
Thoron finishes his hammering. Turns to me. A big smile fills his face. Scratching at the light stubble he calls a beard, he laughs. ‘Done a good turn, eh, love? Iron’s forging all well.’ He points at the pile of horseshoes, hoes, and other metalworks piled up in the corner. ‘If’n we’re lucky suchwise, might be able ta get some a them horseshoes shifted by tonight. Get us’n some meat for the little lasses’ dinner.’
I smile back. ‘That’d be nice. I’ll ready the broth.’
He wraps me up in one meaty, soot-stinking arm. His biceps are as wide as barrels, his forearms as thick as tree trunks. He kisses the top of my head, and a buzz of euphoria rushes down my back. I feel myself melting into his chest. In his arms, no one can touch me. I am safe.
‘Don’t ya worry. Dinner’s my turn, tonight. Aye, love. Don’t be worrying, now. Broth? I got the broth.’
I kiss his arm, rubbing it gently, feeling its warmth. ‘Are we finished here, then?’
He pauses a second, gives a bellowing laugh that tickles the back of my neck. ‘Sure are, love. I just got ta sort out the alderman’s order of blades, ready for tomorrow. You get yourself some rest, now. I don’t doubt ya’ve been dreaming of a couple hours in the Eden. You sure you’re all right going by yaself, like? I know Natta’s feeling unwell and all, but I’d sure feel better if’n she were wit’ ya.’
‘I’ll be all right.’ Another kiss on the arm. ‘The rusalki will protect me.’ I wink.
He rolls his eyes but says nothing. He doesn’t believe in the rusalki, but he knows not to argue with me.
‘Go on then, you stubborn mule.’ He grins. ‘Ya’ll ‘ave a nice hot broth waiting for ya when you get back.’
—
The river burbles gently as it flows between the mossy banks. Trees loom overhead, casting speckled shadows on the water. A cluster of roots form a small and gnarled bridge across the water, enough to make some little mouse into a keen adventurer. My ears prick at the soft twitters of birds in the leaves overhead.
The cool water comes up to my neck, and presses against my skin, clings to it, as if my skin should never be allowed to touch the air again. My hands, stared at through the prism of the river’s surface, waver gently on the winds of the water’s current. I step across the rough skin of a root, feeling its woody contours as they rub against my sole. Stepping deeper into the river, my feet plunge into the riverbed, the mud and sand tickling my toes.
I duck my head under, to wash away the sweat, drawing back my long locks of red hair. As I pull my head out of the water, droplets drip down my face, running down my pale cheeks. I touch my lips, tasting the water’s cool sweetness.
The fish shimmer silver and ignore me as they rush by. To them, I am just another piece of flotsam, caught in the river. To them, my pale-pinkness might well have been green moss.
I duck my head below the water again. This time, when I emerge, I see him. A man.
I yelp and leap out of the water, covering as much of myself as I can with my hands. My entire body seems to burn with my nakedness.
His glassy eyes stare at me. His beard is wet. His breathing is silent, lost to the gentle gurgle of the river. It takes me a second to realise he is not breathing at all.
He bashes against the riverbank, lingers for just a moment, then is gently carried further downstream. A mesh of reaching roots ensnares him. Water laps up his front, and he falls beneath the surface. There is no blood.
I inhale sharply and raggedly, calming my beating heart. I hug myself, covering myself, ashamed to reveal myself to what lurking eyes may be watching. I could not bear for even a frog to see me now.
As I turn to my clothes, settled neatly on the riverbank, I hear a voice.
‘Please, don’t go.’ A soft voice, like a whispering gale, with the sweetness of a flower and the delicateness of a baby chick’s first chirp.
I turn around. Dark eyes watch me from the river. A woman of green skin raises herself out of the water, long, black hair resting at her shoulders. Those eyes are piercing, and they seem to cut through me. But they are not angry, nor are they judgemental. Those eyes – she seems to see me as I am.
She stands there, as naked as I am, but where I am hugging myself, she seems resolute not to. As if she is proud. The shadows of the water and the trees are clothes enough for her, but there is a sense that she would not mind the absence of those shadows. Her body curves, but it is strong, and the smile she wears is one of relief. My breath catches in my throat, and a shudder resounds in each part of me.
I know who she is. She is a rusalka. A protector.
‘Please, Marietta. Come into the water.’
She knows my name. Somehow, that is only a comfort. My arms relax, and finally I can stop hugging myself. My nakedness is revealed to the woods.
The water is like a blanket as I step in. The moss-covered riverbank is like a bed as she gently presses me against it. But I don’t feel tired; my heart gallops with a wildness like the rabbit as it bounds through the meadows, like the bird as it pirouettes in the sky, like the frog as it springs across the lily pads. My chest rises and falls slowly, with every breath, and I can feel the beating heart of the forest as it reverberates around me.
My hand coils around my ring finger as she stares at me with those dark eyes. I ease off my wedding ring – a silver band engraved with my initials, “M.E.” – and as I set it on the riverbank, the rusalka smiles. As she presses in towards me, though, my finger burns where my ring had once been.
IV
The Cell (Pt. II)
‘My dear,’ the priest creaks, eyes narrowed on me, ‘where were you at the time of Mister Danagh’s demise?’
‘You mean this evening?’ I bristle as the air turns to ice, prickling my skin.
The alderman nods, stroking his beard. His eyes are narrowed, but where the priest’s eyes are scathing, his are thoughtful. ‘Yes, love. This evening.’
I swallow, pressure mounting up inside me like a water fountain threatening to gush. ‘I was at the forge with Thoron, as I am every evening.’
‘My dear…’ The priest leans forward, resting a hand on my own. It feels wretched, the wrinkles and protruding veins of his palm rough against my skin. ‘Women sighted you heading to the woods. To the river.’
I sigh. The washerwomen always liked to gabble to the priests. It made them feel important, somehow. Apparently, it was the Lord’s work to be a spy and a collector of idle gossip.
My hands are trembling, and I clasp them together, hoping neither alderman nor priest had noticed. No use lying, I suppose. ‘I went to the river.’ My voice quavers in mid-air, swallowed into the gloom.
‘You went to the river, and what happened there?’ The alderman’s voice isn’t sharp, but it is firm enough that I flinch.
‘Did you see Danagh?’ the priest added, as if one question was not enough.
I blink back a nervous tear, my mouth drying, as if all the moisture had been sucked from the room. I find myself longing for the river, for the waters’ embrace, for the rusalka…
‘What happened?’ The priest’s insistence sharpens to a verbal knife.
‘A rusalka,’ I blurt out, covering my lips quickly, in sheer disbelief of my utterance. My cheeks burn like the noonday sun, and I struggle for breath, as if fresh from a run.
The rusalka. I cannot – I cannot stop thinking of her. My ring finger burns, and I reach down, realising my wedding ring is missing. I’m sorry, Thoron. I shouldn’t have – I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that.
He had made me feel so safe in his arms, but with the rusalka, it had been more. I had felt alive. Alive not only with my own lifeforce, but with the lifeforce of the forest around me.
I jerk my hands away from each other, hoping neither the priest nor the alderman had noticed my missing wedding ring. A married woman caught without her wedding ring. I bristle, dreading what punishment the Church had dreamt up for women like me. Whores like me.
The priest frowns at me. Shakes his head. ‘A rusalka, you say, dear?’
I nod dumbly. With all the thoughts racing through my head, it is just about all I can manage.
The alderman scoffs. Rolls his eyes. ‘Women…’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Bloody rusalki.’
‘The rusalki are demonic beings,’ says the priest, with a grave look on his face. ‘You’ve read the stories, I trust? The Bible has many stories of rusalki stealing little boys away in the woods.’
‘But they are kind to women,’ I reason. ‘They are our protectors.’
He shakes his head. ‘The rusalki are murderous monsters, born from the violent deaths of women. They are entrancing – and that is precisely their danger.’ His eyes darken, and he seems to be looking past me, as if I am invisible. ‘Rusalki steal girls, too, my dear. Young girls. Girls of any age, I suppose.’ He sniffs. ‘They stole my Clarice, after all. Not even iron could protect her from the rusalki.’
V
The Drowning Woman (Pt. II)
‘Anna, you are safe now.’ The words are carried on the water’s gurgle.
The water presses in all around me. Cold. Quiet. Its murmurs sate my racing heart, an echoing chorus of soft wails and gargled spits.
My iron necklace hangs limply around my neck. I grip it tightly, feeling my father’s reassurance echo through me.
I realise I am not drowning. The water is nourishing me. Lifeforce seeps through it, into my skin, into my being. Fuelling me.
‘Anna, you are safe now,’ says the voice, in the distance.
Against my better judgement, I open my eyes, releasing my necklace. A green murkiness surrounds me. A blue light gleams in the distance. A gentle whistle echoes, muffled by the water’s gurgles.
I swim towards the light. It strokes my skin, and I feel exuberance, like when one inhales a breath of fresh air after minutes underwater. In the light, the murkiness of the water fades to crystal clarity.
I spy a large, stone throne, perched on the ground. Slumped on the throne is a large figure, slender but tall. A silver fishtail takes the place of her legs; she must be some sort of mermaid, I decide. Her face is angular and beautiful, with thin lips and pristine skin. Her bald head is tattooed with symbols and glyphs. There is a coldness to her look, though it does not seem aimed at me. I cannot help but think she must be lonely.
In her silence, she seems to be calling to me. I swim closer.
As I near her, I spot dark shapes swimming through the water, on the periphery of the blue light. Naked women, with green skin and dark hair. Rusalki. Their piercing stares follow me as I approach the throne and the woman lying upon it. As my feet touch the ground, before the throne, I look left and right and see rusalki landing either side of me.
The mermaid turns towards me. ‘You must know who I am?’
I shake my head, toes curling as they knead the sand. ‘I know little of the myths of the rusalki.’ The current billows around me, and I dig my toes deeper into the cool, icy fragments of sand to keep my balance.
She laughs slightly at that. ‘They are not myths, darling. As you can see for yourself, the rusalki are very much real.’
‘Then why didn’t they save me?’
She pauses a second, considers. Her fishtail twitches uneasily. ‘We can only protect so many,’ she murmurs. Pain mars her face now, as a lifetime of suffering seeps through her skin. She seems to age before me, a decade with each passing second, until she is as wrinkled as burned paper, the shimmering scales of her fishtail reduced to a dull grey.
I blink once, and her youth is suddenly returned to her. Wrinkles fade to smooth and vibrant skin. Her fishtail gleams silver, like iron fresh from the forge.
‘Who are you?’ I ask.
‘I am the Fair Lady, Protector of the Heavenly Waters, Wife of Him, and Mother of the Rusalki.’ She smiles sadly. ‘This is the Lake Realm. Only female spirits may inhabit this realm.’
‘ “Spirits”? So, I am dead, then.’ The realisation does not hit me with the shock I expected. It is almost a relief.
She nods. ‘Yes, darling. I am sorry we could not save you.’ Her fishtail flaps. ‘With your death, the wheels have turned and laid you to rest at my feet. The waters have opened and accepted you. Remember those thoughts which have faded to gloom but remember them for a different woman. Our regeneration is constant and eternal; our memories belong to us and are stolen from us both at once in the cycles of the kalpas.’
She pauses, sighing, a trickle of bubbles slipping from her lips. ‘The rusalki are not creatures of memory. We are scars of being. Duty-bound, unto the protection of our female progeny. I would like you to join us, Anna, and help us as a thorn protects the rosebush. You need not carry your scars with you to the afterlife; you can meld them into a new future.’
I swallow hard, thinking. Not much thought is needed for my decision, though. I close my eyes, clamp them shut. I can see him again, laughing at me as my legs flail in the water, hopelessly, as my hands scrabble against his grip on my throat.
Danagh. I can see him. Young. Handsome. Little bit of stubble. The kind of man we’re told every woman wants. The man who drowned me. I dared not think what happened to my body.
My eyes snap open. I fix the Lady with a look of sharp determination. ‘My Lady, I will gladly serve amongst the rusalki.’
She smiles and nods. ‘Step closer, darling. And stoop your head.’
I do as she commands, shuffling forwards across the dusty ground. Bowing my head, I feel the trim edge of her nails strafe the back of my neck. But I feel calm.
‘You need not the man’s iron to protect you,’ she declares. There is a snapping sound, and I see my iron necklace fall through the water, cut through. ‘Man’s iron will only burn you.’
The necklace thumps onto the riverbed in a cloud of dust that glimmers spectrally in the gloom. As the dust settles, the necklace is lost from sight.
VI
The Drowned Man (Pt. II)
I sprint as fast as I can, not daring to look back. I don’t know what I expect to find behind me, be it the man’s glassy eyes or the rusalka, staring at me. I can see her nakedness before my eyes, proud and bold, but I try to forget it. I ignore the exclamations of people as I pass. The washerwomen, as they hang up their clothes to dry, shout angrily and stare hard at me. It is unbecoming of a woman to be seen running, and especially with such ugly haste.
The dirt paths thump underfoot, dry with dust. I don’t think – my mind is blank – but my legs carry me exactly to where I am needed. Home, with its straw-spire roof and the tiny plumes of smoke trickling through the windows, suggesting that the hearth is burning gallantly.
The warm scent of beef floods the air. My heart suddenly races. Dinnertime. It’s dinnertime. Have I missed dinnertime?
I gasp, rubbing my face. All the sudden, back in my clothes, my naked form hidden, I feel more exposed and ashamed than ever before.
I realise I had forgotten to take a spare key with me when I left the house this morning. My hands thud desperately against the door. Let me in, let me in, let me in–
The door opens slowly, and I fall through the doorway. Thoron catches me, wrapping his arms tightly around me.
‘Hey. I’m ‘ere.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘I’m ‘ere. You’re here. You’re home, love. You’re home.’
I wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. I inhale as much of his scent as I can. But it only worries me more. Just the smell of him was enough to calm me down; but now, that smell is cloying and unpleasant. It’s somebody else’s dream, not mine.
‘I’m so…sorry…’ I gasp, sobbing into his chest. ‘I’m sorry…’
He nuzzles his face against the top of my head and kisses me again. ‘It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’
I feel sick. If he knew why I was apologising, he wouldn’t be so calm about it. No. He would be right up there cheering with the rest of them as my pyre was lit. That thought only made me cry harder.
It all felt so natural. The rusalka. The river. Natural and familiar. As exciting as if it was the first time, but also…somehow…it wasn’t the first time.
I stifle my tears, wiping them away with my hands. I look up at him from my nest in the centre of his chest. He was safety, I couldn’t deny it. But he wasn’t my safety.
‘I’m all right,’ I manage. ‘The beef – the beef smells good.’
He chuckles heartily. ‘Aye. It’s nice and warm, like. Come on. Let’s get ya something ta eat, love. Ya’d be starving.’
He sits me down at the table with our two girls while he busies himself in the kitchen. We are silent. Tugging at their braids of dark-blonde hair, they look at me expectantly, at the tears streaking my cheeks, but I give them no answers. I barely even look at them. Just looking at them is another reminder of everything.
My stomach churns uneasily, refusing to grant me even a moment’s respite. When my husband returns from the kitchen, with a big clay bowl of stew, it is only then my stomach stops clawing at my insides. I realise I am not hungry. Very much not hungry.
I feign eating, managing through the warm, gravy-soaked beef in small portions. I cannot deny it smells and tastes delicious – but then again, my tongue cannot decide if I should taste beef or ash. It is much too warm, also, swelteringly hot. I remember the river and its coolness, washing over me, and I feel sickened again.
We eat in silence. Thoron and I exchange occasional looks, and he tries to tempt the girls to speak, asking about school and their friends in the village. But the girls are very perceptive and can only manage a few words, with a few curious glances my way.
A knock at the door startles us all.
Thoron glances across the table at me. He rises swiftly and soundlessly to his feet. ‘Don’t you be a-worrying, love. I’ll see who it is. No bother. No bother at all.’
‘Thank you.’ I manage a smile on dry lips.
He proceeds down the hall to the entranceway. As he opens it, I see dim figures standing outside but cannot make out anything about the details of their person. I continue forcing myself through dinner. Things will only get worse if Thoron is insulted about his meal.
I hear Thoron ask, ‘What are you doing here, like? Your blades aren’t due ta be collected ‘til noontime tomorrow,’ and I assume he is speaking to the alderman, or at least, one of the alderman’s men. The conversation fades into murmurs.
My ears prick, though, as the conversation loudens. Shouts echo down the hall, indiscernible, but their furious intent very much felt. I shudder.
The man. The body. The rusalka. They’ve come for me.
The shouting turns to a riot. The girls are pale. I plant careful kisses on their foreheads, then hurry down the hall to see what the ruckus is about.
At the doorway, Thoron is fighting two men, lifting them both in his tree-trunk arms. The cross-hatched insignia on their chests tells me they are the alderman’s men. There are another three of them with swords drawn, waiting to pounce on Thoron.
‘Wait!’ I shout. ‘Thoron, stop this!’
He pauses to glance at me, then lowers the two men to the ground. He shakes his head. ‘Get back inside, love. I’ll deal with–’
‘Marietta Everflower, by orders of the alderman, you are under arrest,’ bleats one of the men.
As he reads me my ritual rights, I shiver, feeling the air constrict on me, squeezing me like a berry being pressed for juice. My feet carry me outside, into the hands of one of the alderman’s men, who clasps shackles on my wrists. Thoron can only watch in silence.
‘This is my judgement,’ I whisper, bowing my head. The iron shackles burn my wrists, and I contort, though keep a face as calm as the waters are blue. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain.
As the men saddle me on their cart, assigning one of their number to watch over me, I turn to the house. One of the men is barking at Thoron. There is a cut on my husband’s cheek – a warning against any further violence. I see the girls hiding behind him, gripping his legs. They watch as the cart rolls away. A wind kicks up, skirting my red hair across my face.
VII
The Cell (Pt. III)
My heart sinks as the ring hits the table. Every piece of me twists and contorts at the memory and shame of what I had done. Of the things I could do.
The priest wears a self-satisfied smirk that makes me want to throttle him. He rubs the engraving on the ring. “M.E.” It plinks as he tosses it onto the table. Instinctively, I reach for it, caressing the smooth, engraved initials with my forefinger.
‘This ring alone, left at the scene of the crime, is enough to make you a prime suspect,’ the alderman says.
‘It’s not enough for the judge to accept,’ I reason quickly.
The alderman pauses. Tilts his head. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it might be. Depends on which judge you ask.’ There is a glint in his eye, one I had not noticed beforehand.
‘A married woman without her wedding ring?’ the priest muses. ‘How interesting…’
My blood turns to ice. My stomach becomes a rolling, spiralling miasma of hot, putrid flame. My ring finger prickles at the mere memory of my wedding ring’s touch.
‘This is enough for the Church to levy a “Breaking of Oath” charge against you,’ the priest explains.
‘I didn’t break my oath.’ My voice cracks with the weight of my lie.
His eyes narrow. ‘That is no matter, dear. The simple absence of the ring’ – He taps my ring finger, where the ring should have been – ‘is enough for the charge.’
I swallow. My ring finger burns where he touches it.
‘You need only admit to Danagh’s murder,’ the priest begins, ‘and this charge can be quickly dropped. You serve prison time, rather than burn. It is your choice.’ He stares at me, a smile creeping onto his face.
I bite my lip. I swallow, thinking back to the rusalka in the River Eden. Was it her? Or was it me?
I shake my head. ‘I refuse to confess to a crime I have not committed.’
The priest’s nostrils flare. ‘You will be executed for this.’ There is an air of dark anticipation in his words. He snaps to his feet, using his staff for support. Tugging the alderman to his feet, he leads him out of the room.
Casting a final dark look over his shoulder, the priest slams the cell door shut, leaving me alone in the cold and the dark.
I sigh and get to my feet. It must be late by now, I determine. Curling up in bed, I try to keep the thoughts of flaming pyres from my mind. But my heart quivers and my chest quakes. I can already feel the warmth on my skin, and I long once again for the comfort of the river.
I toss and turn but sleep avoids me. My entire body seems to course with an unfathomable energy. My hands twitch, my fingers flicker, and my legs kick out at odd angles. It is uncontrollable.
I feel it in my chest. Some deep pressure. I feel it in my mind as well.
‘Anna, you are safe now.’
That voice emerges from the silence like a lost dream. “Anna.” A lost name. My name?
No. Marietta. I am Marietta.
‘Anna, you are safe now.’
Where do I know that voice from? It feels so familiar, yet so far away.
My entire body suddenly pulses and shakes. Euphoria erupts all over my skin, a sharp sensation that floods my soul.
My eyes widen. I gasp.
VIII
The Drowning Woman (Pt. III)
The water engulfs me, but this time, it permeates me. Underneath my skin, it flows through my body. I watch as pale flesh turns mottled green. As red hair turns dark. As a past self is washed away.
From her stone throne, the Fair Lady smiles as she watches. Her fishtail twitches, sending sparks of silver shimmering through the watery gloom.
‘You have learned well, Anna. Your person has changed and is changing. Let the waters guide you, wash you away, bring forth the next identity you will call your “self.” Let yourself be replenished with each moment, draped with a newness that carries through with it those old selves you held so dear.’ The loneliness in her eyes remains as it had when I first met her, but this time, there is a spark of hope. ‘All that is left is to embrace yourself as one of us. To embrace your primal nature.’
I realise my hands are covering my chest, and my legs are hugging each other. I try to hide my nakedness, ashamed of what they might see.
‘We see you,’ says the Lady. ‘We see you and we embrace you. Now it is time that you should embrace us and accept yourself not as Anna, but as a woman.’ She pauses. ‘Lower your hands, Anna.’ Her words are firm but kind. ‘Unfurl yourself. There is nothing to hide.’
Gradually, I lower my hands and straighten my posture. I try to ignore the heat on my cheeks as I imagine the rusalka staring at me. They do not seem to take notice of anything. Their eyes simply fix on mine…and look through.
The Lady smiles once again. ‘That is good. There is but one final stage of your renewal.’ She clicks her fingers and five rusalki land on the ground of the Lake Realm. I stare at them. They are each so beautiful, almost perfect specimens, and they stand so proud and unfettered. Their scars gleam on their skin, reminders of those foul wrongs committed to them.
‘These rusalki claim they feel a close spirit with you – closer than a usual rusalka bond,’ says the Lady. ‘You must determine for yourself who your spiritual bond is with. You must see who they are, feel their soul, and then your transformation into rusalka shall be complete.’
I stare at the women, examining them. Their shape. Their size. Their smiles.
No, I correct myself.
Their eyes hold great secrets of who they are, who they were, and who they aspire to be. Deeper than that, there is a feeling that echoes through the water’s current towards me. Each feeling is unique, differentiated from the others. Some feel warm; others feel cold; others have no temperature.
I step towards them and reach a hand to each in turn. They take it and cradle it. Then with one, my hand touches her side. I did not intend for that. It simply happened. As if some god had writ into me that was what I should do.
With a flick of her hand, the Lady dismisses the other rusalki, leaving me with just this one. Our eyes lock on each other’s. Already, I know her. Like she is an old friend.
‘I am Marietta,’ she tells me. There is pain in her eyes. A pain I know too well.
‘I am Anna,’ I answer.
She nods. ‘I am “Anna” now, if you so take the name of “Marietta.” ’
‘It’s a beautiful name.’ I smile. ‘I accept.’
My hand holds her side, and I pull her towards me. Our chests press close together, and our limbs entwine like tangled vines.
I am Marietta now. She is Anna. Not that it matters.
The water connects us. Binds us. Like hands, interlocking.
I feel her heartbeat, feel the water rushing under her skin. Feel every breath she takes, as she filters air from the water. I can taste her lips without ever touching them. Her skin is soft, and her chest echoes a gentle warmth, like that of a hot spring that warms through a bitter winter.
We are ensnared. The water swirls excitedly around us as our dance begins.
IX
The Drowned Man (Pt. III)
The rusalka embraces me tightly, pushing me against the riverbank. The dirt and moss squelch into my back, as soft as any feather mattress. Her legs press against mine. I stare into those eyes. They are dark, yet bright, the eyes of a woman who knows the world and her place within it. I sense, too, that those eyes are mine.
Her skin brushes mine, wet but soft. Its coolness calms me and clings to me. My mind explodes with colour, like rainbow roses. She smells of lilies and of the earth: a deep, gravelly scent. Her breaths rasp in my ear, tickling it with damp.
The water splashes around us.
‘You’re back,’ the rusalka whispers.
Her arms wrap around me, grip me tight, and hold me close. I bury my face in those tangled locks of dark hair, nuzzling the cold skin of her shoulder. Her nails dig into my back, and I gasp sharply.
My legs wrap around her middle, around her slender waist. I press my chest against hers, as if hoping to somehow enter her and fuse into her. Her damp hair whips my face lightly as she, too, gasps an exhilarated breath.
We tremble. Together. Shaking and shivering.
The cold is not a cold, but a bolt of lightning rushing down each of our spines. As her hands tickle my back, I bury my face deeper into her neck, feeling her pulse resound through me.
My back sinks into the slimy moss and mud of the riverbank. My heartbeat slows, my breathing steadies, and my soul dissolves into the soil and the water.
The bear’s growl emanates from the depths of my throat. The wind tickles my feathers. Cool waters brush past my scales, filling my gills with sweet airs. My leaves flutter delicately, and tiny legs stamp across me as the ants make their maiden voyage from their hive.
A root in the riverbank digs sharply into my back, as sharp and delicate as any of the rusalka’s nails. I return to my primal body, enveloped in the rusalka’s grasp.
X
The Cell (Pt. IV)
I lie awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling as memories come flooding back.
I had forgotten, but now I remember. I remember her. Anna. That had once been my name and now was hers, as her name was now mine. I remember the Lake Realm, the time I spent with her. The times we had together.
We were interlinked. Connected by the water’s life-kiss. I was Anna and Marietta. She was Anna and Marietta.
I remember the Fair Lady, Mother of the Rusalki. I’m a rusalka. That realisation startles a gasp from me. I am a rusalka. Yet I have been away from the Lake Realm for too long and have lost my Way. My skin is no longer the mossy green, and my hair is no longer dark as the water depths, but bright, flaming red.
Another realisation.
This man. The dead man. Danagh.
I knew him.
When I had been Anna, he had wronged me. He had murdered me, drowned me in the River Eden. My entire body prickles with the memory. I had left the Lake Realm to find him, to kill him, but had stumbled into Thoron’s arms instead. The World of Men had ensnared me.
My insides writhe at the memory of my betrayals. I had betrayed Anna to Thoron and had betrayed Thoron to Anna. But my heart could only rest with one, as recognised by fate. Whatever happened, I would see her again. Thoron, I wish I could see him again. If only to thank him and to apologise. He is somebody’s dream, but not mine.
A nagging feeling tugs at the periphery of my thought. There is a completeness to my mind, now, a resettlement, but still, something refuses to allow my full reconstitution. I must be forgetting something. There is something lost that I have forgotten.
Danagh.
Something to do with him. I have betrayed Anna as I have betrayed Thoron. My reason to leave the Lake Realm was to kill him. He died in the River Eden – a rusalka’s work, no doubt. My work?
It is well-known amongst the rusalki that a rusalka who murders very rarely can remember such a murder. The rusalki must be pure souls; that purity cannot be tainted with murderous memories. We are the empty vessels through which the world turns.
But I remember that feeling so well. That…bloodlust. The hatred that had poisoned me. My legs kicking out, flailing at the water. My legs…or his.
My chest tightens and my breathing quickens. By all the Gods…By the Fair Lady herself…I had killed him. I had killed him! Something in my spirit tells me that was true.
If indeed that is the case, then there is only one course of action I can take. I must confess. A rusalka is not a murderer. A rusalka is a protector. I must confess to the murder of my murderer.
—
The alderman and priest return to my cell the next day. Both look grave. The priest seems to have aged a lifetime in the span of an evening.
When they sit me down, I announce my confession.
‘I killed Danagh.’ My voice is strained. I can hardly believe my confession myself, but it is the truth. It must be. There is no other explanation.
The alderman frowns at me. ‘Why? There must be a reason.’
‘There is always a reason.’ The priest nods his agreement. His hawkish eyes burrow into me.
I swallow, feeling a slight shiver pass through me. ‘He wronged me. So, I returned his evil.’
‘What evil justifies the killing of a man?’ the priest asks sharply.
I bite back a wince. ‘Terrible evil.’
He shakes his head. ‘There is always a reason. Let it be known to Asgeoth. Maybe then, his mercy will find you.’
My heart hammers against my chest. ‘I…I…’
‘Do not be scared.’ The priest’s voice is as kind as his eyes are dark; those sunken pits stare at me like twin caves. ‘Lord Asgeoth wants only to understand.’
‘I am a rusalka,’ I blurt out, accepting the truth of my words. ‘Danagh drowned me, and I was transformed. In return, I drowned him.’
The priest’s eyes narrow to slits. ‘You are no rusalka,’ he declares.
The alderman shakes his head firmly. ‘I would advise you do not lie in our priest’s presence.’
I bow my head. ‘I have been away too long from the Lake Realm, and I have changed much.’ Speaking is difficult, and I feel a weight settling on my chest.
Perhaps there would be a turn of events in which I could return to the Lake Realm? I dismiss that notion rather quickly.
I do not know if either the priest or the alderman accepts my words as truth. The two peer interestedly at me for some time, then turn to each other, murmuring words I am not allowed to hear. Then, they return their gazes to me.
After diving through the pockets of his robe, the priest hands me a slip of paper. ‘Sign this. It is the confession. Sign it.’
Dutifully, I do as I am told. As I sign the paper, though, I recognise a wicked glint in his eye. The alderman refuses to look at me.
‘Unfortunately,’ the priest begins, ‘I cannot uphold our deal from yesterday.’
My heart feels as though about to tear itself free from my chest. I frown. ‘What do you mean? I confessed!’
He sucks air through his teeth. ‘I’m afraid the charge of a Breaking of Oath has already been passed.’ His mock-upset does not convince me. He decides to do away with the façade, gritting his teeth. ‘You will burn on a pyre, rusalka. For my Clarice.’ His jaw tightens.
I swallow and stare at him. I can already feel the flames prickling my skin.
XI
Execution (Pt. I)
I scream in the hope that someone will hear me. The crowd ignores me, muttering to themselves. I am freer than they will ever be – I eye the washerwomen, those who snitched on me to the alderman. I pity them and their self-righteousness. I pity but do not hate them. The system made them. But I am free from that system.
Ropes chafe my wrists, keeping me fastened to the pyre. The smell of oil stifles my nostrils. They intend for me to burn, brightly and brilliantly. I try to smile, but instead I scream.
The glen upon which they have erected this pyre overlooks the forest. I can hear the River Eden as it meanders through the trees. In there lies the Fair Lady, Mother of the Rusalki, and her throne in the Lake Realm.
‘My Lady doth save me!’ I cry.
Somehow, I know there will be no answer. The rusalki failed to save me from death once before; it would be foolish to think this time would be any different.
My eyes fix on Thoron. His eyes are tear-stained. This is the best for him, I think to myself. Maybe then he will find something true and right.
Our daughters clutch his legs. Their faces are a mess of tears.
At the foot of the pyre, the alderman is white as a bedsheet, fidgeting with the silver alderman’s band fastened around his forearm. He cannot bear to even look up at me. His eyes fix on the ground. Brown eyes, once kind, now full of sadness.
I swallow and throw a final look at Thoron. There are worse ways to die than looking at your husband. He nods silently at me, jaw clenching as he fights to be strong. A strong man does not cry, they say. But the strongest man does. He was always the strongest man – if only he could realise.
Next to the alderman stands the priest. The crackle of his torch snaps in the air. He stares up at me, shakes his head, then tosses the torch onto the pyre.
‘For my Clarice,’ he mutters, pulling his dirty robe tight around him. The sunken pits of his eye sockets are dark. There is no joy on his face. He mutters his incantations, clutching his leather book to his chest, wavering to keep his balance atop his walking stick.
He is duty-bound to protect the people from me. From us. From the wild kiss of nature. From the primal spirits of the forest. From the gurgle of the river and the dark eyes that watch from underneath.
Heat blossoms all around me as the oil burns. Flames spiral up my legs. I scream as the fire eats me, tearing away my flesh, piece by piece. My heart drums furiously.
It shall not have my soul. I will not let them take that from me. My soul is mine, and my soul is free. I scream as such in the hope that whoever rules the heavens can hear me. Maybe then the laws of fate shall spare me from my suffering. The dark greys of non-existence flicker on the fringe of my vision.
Does one need to be reborn a second time, only to feel it all again? I quite thought the pain was enough the first time. Where once it was the water that choked me, now the fire has me in its grasp.
My skin cracks as loud as the cackles of the burning logs. It flakes and crumbles like old parchment. Burning hair, a sooty smell that engulfs my nostrils. My legs are melting. The bubbling sound of my own boiling fat echoes through me; the stench clogs my throat, and nausea wells in my stomach.
I fight against the rope, my primal instincts igniting me to panic. Fire sears my skin. The rope chafes my wrists and ankles. I am not free; they have chained me to my fate.
I catch a blur of movement on the treeline of the forest. Two dark eyes stare out at me. I know, in my chest, it is her. And as the fires rise all around me, I suddenly feel less alone.
XII
Execution (Pt. II)
The screaming has stopped. It is over. The smell of ash lingers in the air like a funeral pall.
I feel a piece of me wither away. Not just Marietta-who-had-been-Anna, my love, but also a piece of who I had been when Marietta had been my name. It has been so long ago, and I have seen so many women become their true primality, that I can no longer remember the name humans first called me.
Father, what name did you brand me with?
That name may be lost, but I can still feel the ache of my lungs as he drowned me in the river. So long ago…
The water calls me, and already, I miss the Lake Realm. I cannot be out too long, or I will end up like she did: forgetting the truth, losing myself, embracing the world of flame and iron once more. I wonder if she was ever able to remember our time in the Lake Realm, together. Maybe that part of her she lost for good.
I’m so sorry, Marietta.
I had killed him. Danagh.
I tell myself I killed him for her. To help her heal her scars. But I know the true reason, the true ego behind my actions. He had been minding his business in the woods when I had spotted him. With Danagh dead, I thought, Marietta would return to the Lake Realm. She would return to me.
I remember, afterwards, when she had happened across us, Danagh and I. The exhilaration. In my mind, that meant Marietta would be returning to the Lake Realm, but when I had looked in her eyes, I realised she didn’t remember me. Her body remembered me. Her soul remembered me. But to her conscious self…I was nothing. It was as if she had been reborn again, a third time, another spoke on the wheel, entirely detached from the spoke that had come before it.
The fires have begun to die now, reduced to embers. I don’t want to see her final form. She wouldn’t want me to see that either. I knew her in her paleness, streaked with red hair, as I knew her in her emerald, natural primality. Those iterations of her shall live on in my memory. I hope her soul has escaped. If it has, maybe I will one day find it, and the new self which it has inhabited. Maybe she has been lucky enough to be reborn another time upon this plane. Then again, maybe it would not be so terrible if she were allowed to escape.
As the crowd begins to disperse, I turn away, back into the forest, and dive into the River Eden. I wash away my thoughts, my guilt, and I return to the depths of the Lake Realm, beckoned by the Lady’s light.
The End
—
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