by Sylvan Scott
Sunlight woke him.
His wounds burned in contrast to his cold body. Blearily, he found that they’d been wrapped by strips of green woolen cloth. He blinked painfully, and looked around.
“Wiste?”
There was no response.
With difficulty, he managed to roll to one side and onto his hands and knees.
“Wiste?” His second call was more of a shout but got the same result.
Wobbly, he looked around.
The snow was stained with frozen blood. All around him were signs of the fight.
By day, the snow made the forest blindingly bright. By their tracks, he could see where the werewolves had come upon them and where he and Wiste had fought back. Off to the west he saw the satyr’s hoof-prints. They led off through the snow in a relatively straight line between the trees.
Wiste had gone to find help, but not returned.
He moaned and took several deep breaths before attempting to stand.
Shaky and feeling nervous, he tried to plan his next move. He knew he wasn’t safe here; he was injured and weak. He needed help. But he couldn’t just wait.
Steeling himself against the pain, he took a step in the direction Wiste’s tracks went. When he didn’t fall over, he took another. Bolstered by his success, he began to follow. Occasionally he had to stop to catch his breath or focus past the pain, but he persisted.
The winter forest was beautiful despite its dangers. By day, bright red cardinals flitted between the ice-laden branches. A few squirrels chattered at him, noisily, as he made his way along a frozen brook. But the air pierced his warm clothing and made him slower as he followed Wiste’s path. Every now and then, he called out his friend’s name to no avail.
He staggered through the woods as the sun rose and continued west.
A faint, almost musical, sound caught his attention. For a moment he wondered if it was birds but it sounded more … structured; more lyrical. The sound penetrated past his wounds and buoyed his spirits. It was coming from ahead, so he redoubled his efforts to push on.
He came upon a small glade in which the brook he’d been following originated. There, along its far side, was a pond, about half frozen over. A mound of boulders stood sentinel on its western edge at the base of a small cliff. Mostly ice, a waterfall had been captured by the depths of winter. A shallow stream flowed down the frozen falls.
He knelt at the edge of the pond where a small amount of water was still liquid. He put his hands into the biting cold and lifted them up to sip.
As the water touched his tongue his pain began to fade and the faint music, stopped. The effect was sharp and sudden as if being swept aside by a broom. He looked up in surprise and glanced around.
“Who drinks from my pool?” came a sweet voice.
Anthony lurched to his feet.
He’d not heard her approach but there, standing knee-deep in the small patch of open water, stood a pale, naked woman. Her white hair was wet and long as if she’d arisen from the frigid water. Her eyes were light blue and she didn’t seem to mind the cold.
Anthony steadied himself. “I’m just a traveler,” he said. “I was attacked. My friend: he went for help but never returned. I followed his tracks here.”
“Did you, indeed?” the woman said. Her face took on an almost motherly, concerned expression. “Well, you may drink deep of my pool, young mortal. Let it’s waters draw the pain from your flesh and bones.”
Anthony stayed wary but forced a smile. There was something about this place that was wrong; dangerous.
“You’re a forest spirit?”
She nodded. “I am naiad Meripone. You kneel at the edge of my home. You are welcome here, mortal.”
Anthony wanted to drink again. Already, the pain that had been soothed was returning. He examined his wounds. One of them had reopened during his trek; fresh, frozen blood stained one of his sleeves. It had stopped on its own but the wound was still there. All of his wounds were still there.
“The pond: it will heal me?”
“I offer you freedom from pain; from misery. Please: drink deep and know peace.”
He scowled. He was about to ask more questions when he saw it. At the glade’s edge, leaning against an old tree, was Wiste’s staff. He frowned.
“Where’s Wiste?”
The naiad cocked her head. “I know not this name, mortal man. Surely it can wait; you are in pain.”
He brushed her off. “I’m in pain but I’ll deal with it. Where’s Wiste?”
For only a flash, a look of anger marred her features. But it was quickly washed away as the water spirit summoned a smile. “Ah, you must mean the satyr, do you not? He came this way not ten hours ago.” She pursed her lips, coldly. “He, too, was in pain.”
“Where is he?”
The water nymph smiled prettily and turned to the south. She raised her hands to her mouth and sang. It was the same sound that had led Anthony here in the first place. Sweet and compelling, it promised healing and peace and rest for any who would listen. It took all his strength to not stumble forward into the freezing water to get closer to the source of that beautiful sound.
Motion behind a mound of boulders caught his eye.
Stumbling forward near the waterfall’s base came the shaking and frost-caked form of his friend.
“Wiste!”
He stumbled towards the open water and stopped. He glanced down at the water and licked his lips. The satyr lowered himself to the icy edge and reached down to scoop handfuls into his mouth.
“He was in such pain,” the naiad said. “You should have heard him: blaming himself, castigating himself for putting his oldest friend in danger. I couldn’t let him go un-tended.”
“What did you do to him?”
Watching his friend’s behavior, Anthony knew the answer. It was the water. It assuaged pain. It was a powerful and enticing panacea. He was sure that if he were to drink more he’d not feel his wounds for some time. But then what?
“Let him go,” Anthony commanded. He drew himself up in the most commanding stance he could manage. “Let him go and we’ll leave. If you don’t—”
He let his threat be implied rather than stated. For one, it belied his lack of ability to do much of anything given his injuries. Second, it gave him a slight surge of confidence to take such a stance.
“But my dear boy, he is free to leave,” the naiad said. “No one who ever comes here is held. All are free to come and go as they please.”
She stepped forward, the white rocks beneath her feet gleaming beneath the crystal clear water.
But they weren’t rocks.
Horrified, Anthony saw they were bones.
He took a step back.
“They were all in such pain,” she said. She indicated the bones with a sweep of her pale hand. “But now, they are at peace. Wouldn’t you like to be free of your pain?”
Anthony glanced at Wiste as the satyr sat back on the snowy ice after drinking handfuls of the magical water. The satyr looked both frightened and ashamed. Anthony looked back to Meripone and said, “Yes. I would.”
The naiad smiled.
“Anyone would,” he continued. “But they’d be wrong.” He turned to his friend. “Wiste! Come here.” He winced as his gesture created a sharp pain in his side. “Please,” he said.
The satyr looked up, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. “But, Tony; the water—”
“Wiste,” Anthony repeated, “come … here.”
His friend looked torn. He glanced from the water at his hooves to the frozen naiad to Anthony on the far bank. He licked his lips, nervously, and took a step. “Tony; I nearly got you killed. After all these years, I—”
“But I’m not dead,” he replied. “Wiste, I’m hurt but I’m going to be okay. You have to believe that.”
“You should not stir his pain,” Meripone said coldly. There was a threat in her voice that Anthony did not miss. “He is peaceful. Would you take that from him?”
Anthony igno
red her. “Wiste, we’ll get out of here. We’ll find real help. But you need to keep moving.”
“I’m so sorry, Tony,” Wiste said. “I … I just wanted a nice Midwinter’s Night with someone; with a friend I’d not seen in far too long. But it’s all become so … confused.”
The naiad moved towards Wiste but stopped at the water’s edge. Realization dawned.
“Wiste; keep back from her. She’s the spirit of these waters; she can’t leave them!” He hoped he was right. “She can’t get to you if you don’t let her.”
“You are wrong, mortal,” Meripone said.
With that, she raised her hand and made a sharp, pulling gesture. Wiste choked and put his hands to his throat. All that emerged were gurgling noises. He gasped for breath as water poured from his mouth. He gagged and stumbled, trying to breathe.
On instinct Anthony lunged to his friend’s defense. He stopped at the water’s edge as she turned her pale eyes to him in warning.
Wiste’s staggered back as the last of the water he’d drunk left him. As it had once taken his pain, its departure returned it, with interest. Breath rushed in and Wiste collapsed, panting.
“Now,” the naiad said, “dear Mister Wiste, how much would you like a drink?”
Wiste’s hands shook where they plunged into a thin layer of snow. The beautiful maiden beckoned with one hand while the other indicated the pool of pain-deadening water. He looked from her to Anthony.
Unable to think of anything more he could say, Anthony just looked back. Even though he’d only had a sip, the return of his own pain made giving in a very real temptation.
Slowly, Wiste stood. As if moving a great weight, he turned to the tree at the pond’s edge.
“You turn your back on my gifts?” Meripone demanded.
He reached out and took his staff. “My pain is great,” he said. “But I shall face it without your help.”
The naiad screamed in fury. Anthony and Wiste fell back and retreated as best they could. With a resounding crack, shelves of ice fell from the waterfall and crashed into the rocks, below. As quickly as they could, they left the glade. Meripone’s rage continued unabated as the two made their way away from the enchanted pool.
