En Bref (Short Stories)

Sweet Water (Eerie, Slavic Mythology)

With the late summer's heat at its zenith, the river ran low and fetid. Istoma and the other village girls made a beeline for the spring in the wooded hollow. The hush fell as their bare feet searched for slimy stones of the old track hidden among the stinging nettles.

They were on a quest for hidden water, clear as a maiden's tear, but guarded well.

Istoma sighed wistfully for the times when a druid would come out of the woods as if beckoned. He'd take their offerings to Veles, the one who rules the waters and the underworld. Then they could draw springwater by the bucketful and scour the swampland for berries and mushrooms without fear.

This summer was the first one since the Prince's riders rode in and burned the Gods-Pillars on the high bank above the river. He had ordered the godhouse built for Onegod from the South, and not one druid came out of the forest since.

The foreign priest in the godhouse blessed the girls's buckets, but he neither came out of the wood nor ventured into it. What could Onegod know about their spirits, the girls whispered into one another's ear, as they teetered at the end of the old trail, pushing and shoving, but still huddled together in a tight clump. Their empty buckets clinked together.

The spring teased them with a touch of cool air on their flushed faces. They could see the dark gurgling pool overflow into a shallow stream to disappear between the brambles. A birch-bark ladle still hung off a twisted oak-tree's branch. The tree's gnarly roots grasped the spring like an old man's fingers.

Radunya, the owner of the thickest braid and the reddest cheeks, made even redder by their arguing, jammed her elbow into Istoma's back, shoving her forward. The gaggle of girls rolled backward leaving Istoma alone.

She wanted to run to them, but the whole village would sicken if the girls did not bring water back. The men and women worked from before the dawn till after dusk to save their crops from being burned out by Yarila-Sun's anger.

Istoma shifted the shoulder-pole that held her two empty buckets, gave one more furtive look to the other girls, and stepped forward.

A slimy hand broke the surface of the pool. It was covered with brown boils, each finger tipped with a colorless nail, a hand of an expert splasher. The cold droplets arched through the air, a rainbow flickered upwards from it and blinked out. Only because she had expected mischief from the water spirit, did Istoma jump out of the way in time, slipping on the mud. The screams tearing out of her throat counted as a prayer to all the gods to not let the spring water touch her.

The other girls dropped their buckets and fled screaming, shaking their frocks off.

Istoma had the most distance to cover, but she was the first one to reach the safety of the village. There, half-dead with fear, the girls inspected one another. Istoma palmed the hems of her skirt, while Radunya trilled, "There! Vodyanoy got her! She's his betrothed now!"

They spilled away from her, then came back together in a chirping cluster, a flutter of sparrows fighting in a hedge.

"Where?!" Istoma asked twisting her neck to see. A cold patch of fabric clung to her spine.

"Maybe I am just sweaty," she said through numb lips.

The girls shook their heads as one. They all saw the vodaynoy's mark on her back.

Istoma dropped to the ground, covered her face with her hands and wept. What else was there to do but cry? She would drown soon, and become a rusalka, to join the vodyanoy's other wives on the bottom of the pool.

"Istoma's going back for our buckets." Radunya flicked her famous braid, thicker than a man's wrist, over her shoulder and clicked her tongue. "Stop your bawling. Nobody dies twice, but everybody dies once."