Mist on Water

by Shea Berkley

  A head rose above the lake. The sun caused a fiery halo to surround the wild hair whipping in the wind. “Remember your promise. I shall come for my boon soon. Amid the mist hovering above the water, I will take it from you.”

  And with that, she was gone. Almost instantaneously, the sky cleared and the mist receded.

  His heart pounded within his chest. He laid back, his skin oddly hot, his vision unfocused. No one would believe him, not even his wife. He lay there for untold minutes. Time rippled past until he gathered enough strength to look toward the house. Its masonry walls gleamed like polished marble in the setting light and seemed miles away instead of only a few yards. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled from the boat and fell to his knees. The world swam before him as he hugged his limp arm to his side. He bent his head to his chest and willed himself to move, but his body would not obey. Light flickered in the window of his cottage, drawing his attention, and again, he gritted his teeth and lunged to his feet. As night extinguished the light of day, a small cry filled the night.

  Could it be? Had his wife finally given birth? The sound of joy punctuated the night, mingling with the weak sound of a newborn babe. Son or daughter, he cared not. The small babe would be precious to him no matter what.

  Fevered eyes suddenly darted to the water. “No. No,” he cried and collapsed on the beach, his mind whirling with the weight of his promise. “No,” he whispered harshly. “What have I done? God, what have I done?”

  2

  They found my father passed out before the door. The midwife assumed he had drunk himself to sleep after realizing his wife had gone into labor. He did not discourage her from the notion. Better to be thought a drunk than reveal what had just happened to him. But my mother knew something unusual had happened. With one look, she saw his distress. When the midwife put me in his arms, he broke down and sobbed.

  The midwife smiled, and whispered to my obviously upset mother. “A natural reaction to finding oneself with a healthy son.”

  Though my mother smiled and nodded, she was not comforted. She saw the ragged injury to his arm, spied the delirious cast to his eyes and knew trouble had come to their door. My father held me as if I would disappear. I struggled and whimpered until even the midwife noticed and soon rescued me from his desperate embrace. “He’ll settle down soon,” she said, meaning my father and not me.

  Days passed into weeks and the house grew into a routine, one my father did not share. He had yet to settle down as the mid-wife had predicted, leaving well before sun-up and staying away far past nightfall. And whenever the mist rolled in from the lake, his face grew haggard; his footsteps slow. Restlessness ate at his peace of mind, until one night, in the predawn light cast by a heavy moon, he paced the floor. His gaze darting to the water then back at me where I slumbered in my cradle.

  The odd tension soon wore my mother raw. She turned over, and found his place in bed empty. Lying quietly, she watched him until her heart grew so sorrowful, she thought it would burst from grief. Propping herself up on an elbow, she called to him. “Why do you pace? Come to bed.”

  “Do not mind me, my love. I will return shortly.”

  My mother would not be put off. “No. I cannot ignore your upset a moment longer. Something has happened. Ever since our child was born. I know you were not drunk that night. You were attacked.”

  His startled look confirmed her fears. “By whom?” she asked. “Who carries such hate that he would try and harm you?”

  At first he denied everything, unsure whether he even believed what had happened that night himself, but my mother was not convinced, and my father was unaccustomed to lying. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed and slumped forward with despair. “I have brought disaster to our family, and I do not know how to fight it.”

  Unease shone in my mother’s eyes. “What has happened? Tell me.”

  Her growing alarm woke me, and I began to fuss. My mother reached into the cradle they had wedged against the bed and picked me up. She cooed and cuddled, and soon I grew quiet. My father shot me a glance and quickly looked away.

  My mother frowned. “You barely look at our son, yet I know you love him.”

  He winced, but his gaze returned to me. “I try not to. If I can stop loving him, then she will not come.”

  Silence stretched as my mother fought for understanding. “Who?”

  He bent forward, his gaze earnest and a bit frightening to behold. With a hesitant finger, he traced the outline of my tiny lips. “I am so very sorry,” he said to me. He then gazed into my mother’s soft brown eyes. “You will hate me after this, but I cannot suffer the guilt a moment longer.”

  I snuggled against my mother’s softness, content within her embrace and oblivious to the crisis unfolding as my father began his tale.

  Siren. Water nymph. Sprite. Nix. Whichever name one wished to use, the outcome was always the same. The creature demanded payment of a perceived wrong. When my father told her the cost of his freedom, my mother gasped and held me tighter.

  The last word of the tale fell from his lips, and he cringedat the tears swimming in my mother’s eyes. He quickly looked away. His hand cradled the back of my downy infant head. “Do you see why I said nothing? Who would believe me? I find it hard to believe myself.”

  Her gaze, which had grown more horrified as the story had unfolded, grew somber. “You are not a man who exaggerates. You say you do not believe it, but your eyes tell me differently. If you say it happened, I believe you.”

  He shook his head, searching for any doubt he could find. “It cannot be real.” He let his head drop, shame wreathing his face. His big hand fell away from my head. “Only a madman would relate such a tale.”

  Though petite, my mother held a strength which her feminine form hid well. She gently put me down, securing me in my swaddling and the cradle my father had made. Strong fingers clasped his hand and she motioned to the scars that punctuated his forearm. “And these. Are they not real? Do I share your delusion? If you say a nix attacked you, then it is true. If you say, in your desire to be free, you promised her our most precious possession, then it was done without thought of it being our child.”

  She released him and held his head in his hands, determined to not let him bemoan the past. She pulled his face to hers, her demand simple. “Do not give up.”

  “What can we do? If we do not give in, we will be cursed forever.”

  “Have you not thought it may be something else she desires?”

  “What else could it be? You did not see her. Somehow she knew of our son.”

  Her gaze swept the house and landed on a hand mirror inlaid with mother of pearl. She pushed back the covers and went to the small table where the mirror lay. Picking it up, she held it out to my father. “What of this?”

  He let out a bark of bitter laughter. “I do not value a looking glass.”

  “I do. And so might she.” The hope in my mother’s voice caught his attention, but before he could say anything, she dove ahead. “A creature as vain as a nix would see the value in her own reflection.”

  “My love…I do not think—”

  “Let me try.” She picked up a shawl and gathered it around her shoulders, her gaze bright and determined. “The mist is rising. Stay and acquaint yourself with your son. He needs your love as much as I do.” She left before he could utter a complaint.

  The night air slithered against her bare feet and ankles as the moon shot silvery blades of light through the tree branches and across the water. My mother stepped to the very edge of the lake. Her gaze probed the night, looking far and near for any sign of the nix.

  The mirror lay heavy in her hands, and as she glanced down at it, she caught sight of her desperate reflection. “Let this be enough.”

  She knelt at the edge of the gentle ebb and flow of the lake, its cool waters chilling and mysterious as it nudged at her knees. She held out her treasure, for it truly was a thing of great value, a wedding present and dear to her. Few women could cla
im such a prize.

  The mist hovered near. My mother searched the waves for the shape of a woman. Minutes passed, and the mist grew thicker, drew closer. My mother thought she heard a splash. The water lapped higher, dampening her nightgown even more. Was it the nix? Her heart thudded as she placed the mirror at the water’s edge and looked out toward the undulating mist. “You cannot have him. Take this with my blessing and be gone.”

  Minutes passed. The mist swirled and grew heavy. It collected on her clothing, wetting her hair and coating her skin. With each breath, she felt smothered. She had walked the mist before, but never had she felt so threatened.

  Frightened, she rose and returned to the cottage.

  The next morning, as she sat brushing her hair into a gleaming veil, my father brought the shattered mirror inside. My mother stared at it and worried her bottom lip. The mirror looked as if it had been dashed against the rocks.

  My father carefully placed it on the bed. “Maybe an animal stepped on it.” But it was clear he didn’t believe his own words.

  She continued to brush her hair and stare out the window toward the lake, refusing to look at the treasure she had lost to an angry hand. They were too poor to move and too proud to beg. The nix was their burden to bear and theirs alone. “Do not lose hope. I will find something to tempt her, and she will be gone.”

  My father’s gaze landed on me, a chubby, perfect newborn. The truth rested uneasily in his eyes. He was afraid. Without a word, he left. That afternoon, he took an ax to the boat and burned the remnants down to ash.

  Thus, I was born into a world where reality and myth lived side-by-side. From the moment of my birth, the story of the nix was whispered into my ear—a warning of harm, a plea for understanding. If only the tale had stayed close, but my parents’ fear had given it wings, and a slightly altered tale had spread throughout the village telling of the nix who had taken one look at the stonemason’s newborn son and had desired him for her own. The lake grew cold and lonely as people whispered of a curse. No one even dared mention the nix for fear her anger would find them as well.

  At first I obeyed the command to never go near the lake, just as I accepted my mother’s offerings always ended up broken and abused the next morning. With her strange rituals and the knowledge that many had drowned in the lake, it was enough to sufficiently scare a small child into obedience.

  But year after year, as I grew from toddler to young lad, the music of the lake seduced me closer. The water lapped at the shore, innocent and empty of evil…and I began to doubt.

  3

  By necessity, the woods stretching out from my home to the boundaries of the village had become my playground. I delved into the quiet shelter and managed more mischief than a lad had a right to find. I was fearless. Climbing, digging and generally causing havoc with my surroundings. The village lads and I were great explorers. There was Gordie and Tait—the eldest of our troupe—followed by Cyril and Douglas, and then myself. The five of us found fox holes and rabbit lairs. We set traps and built hideouts and chased the girls away. All save one. Gordie’s little sister. Since Gordie no longer had a mother, it fell to him to look after her while his father worked. He taught her to pee standing up–not such a good idea, but how were we to know?—and to belch and spit, at which she excelled. We cut off her hair and dressed her in hand-me-downs and called her “lad”, forgetting her true name altogether.

  A blood pact was called for. Even then we didn’t leave her out, though Tait suggested we should. I would have none of that.

  “It’s all of us or none of us,” I said.

  The other’s nodded and he caved, but with a warning. He got right into the lad’s face and whispered darkly, “There’s no turning back once this is done. You talk about this and you’ll die.”

  The lad’s large eyes widened and she nodded. “I’ll not breathe a word.”

  Satisfied, Tait pulled out a long knife. It glinted evilly as it caught a stray shaft of light. I exchange a quick, nervous glance with the lad, but neither of us pulled away as the sharp blade slid across our right palms leaving a bright red streak in its wake. The lad did wince when the blade skittered across her skin, but she didn’t cry, and we all gave her a hearty back slap.

  With our hands dripping blood, we surrounded an old oak tree and laid our palms flat against the bark. “Now say after me,” Tait murmured gravely. “Upon my own death …”

  “Upon my own death …”

  “I swear by holy God …”

  “Should we really swear by God?” I rushed to say.

  “Yes,” they all shouted at me.

  “This is a serious pact,” Tait reminded me. “We have to. It’s the law.”

  Being twelve, he seemed to know far more than I did. “Fine,” I relented. “I was just wondering …”

  “Say it,” Tait demanded. “I swear by holy God…”

  We repeated his words.

  “Never, ever will I ever marry a girl, or even look at one kindly…”

  “Never, ever will I ever marry a girl, or even look at one kindly…”

  “And if I do…”

  “And if I do…”

  “May I be eviscerated and my insides be fed to the dogs.”

  “May I be eviscerated…”

  “What’s eviscerated?” the lad asked.

  “Shut up,” we all cried, and continued with the pact, “… and my insides be fed to the dogs.”

  “Amen,” Tait concluded and pulled his hand from the tree.

  With somber faces, we echoed the last word. I grabbed my hand and shook it. The bark had dug into the cut and it now burned something awful.

  Before I could wipe it clean, the lad held out her hand to me. “You and me, forever,” she whispered in somber imitation of Tait’s voice.

  We were a team. Apart we were just regular kids, but together we were unbeatable, unstoppable. I nodded, clamping her hand in mine and feeling the blood slick against our palms. “’Til death.”

  A huge grin transformed the lad’s face. She turned to the group who were milling around unmindful of us as usual. “We got sweet cakes at the house,” she piped up cheerily. “Who wants some?”

  We all perked up at that, and I immediately forgot about my slick, stinging palm. I challenged the lad to a race back to the village. She won, but I didn’t mind. Though scrawny, she was a scrapper and a right fine lad, and my best mate. I held no secret from her and she none from me.

  For the next several years, our group was an unkempt lot–dirty and ragged and gloriously happy.

  But then, Gordie’s father remarried. The event caught us all off guard. Why, after all these years, would he do something so stupid as to find a new wife? The answer was clear that first night. He believed his children needed a mother. What a strange idea. We feared for our friends, so the rest of us lads snuck up on the cottage and peered into the windows.

  “What happened to her, Husband?” the woman asked, inspecting the girl in lad’s clothing. “I thought when first we met, you had two sons. The filth…why it’s shameful. No more cutting her hair and dressing her in trews.”

  Their father only shrugged and said, “She is your problem now. Do what you can, but I doubt it will be much. She’s grown wild running with the village lads since she was five. Your efforts’ll be like pruning a hundred year old oak. No good will come of it.”

  But his new wife would hear none of that. With a determined glint in her eye, she grabbed the youngest lad in our band of merry men and pulled her toward the wash basin. “When a body could grow mushrooms on the dirt covering her skin, it’s well and good past time for a cleaning.”

  When the new wife put soap to cloth, Gordie’s sister yelled and fought and made such a bother that the woman grew quite afraid. “God have mercy. It’s a devil in human form,” she gasped.

  With a sharp kick to the new wife’s shin, the lad escaped to the loft where she refused to come down. Her heroics made us all proud. But how much longer could the two of th
em avoid the new wife’s grasp? It was hard to say.

  As the rest of us crept away, Tait grunted his concern. “Mark my words, that woman has persistence written all over her.”

  “The lad will be fine,” I touted confidently. “You’ll see. Both of them will be out and about come morning.”

  For once I was right. The next day, harboring a nasty leg bruise and a few scratches, the new wife immediately sent the pair out as soon as the sun rose. “Good riddance to bad seeds,” I heard her mutter. “And may the wolves find the pair of you.”

  We didn’t question her change of heart. Our little world was safe. Gordie and his sister were as they had always been.

  I saw the little nipper glance back and stick out her tongue. I ruffled her hair, feeling the grit against my palm as I did. “What’s the matter, lad?”

  “Nothing. I just wonder…what does my father see in her?”

  Tait laughed. At fourteen to her eleven, he had all the answers. “Some girls aren’t so bad.”

  “What?” both she and I yelped. Surely Tait hadn’t said the unthinkable.

  “They’re ugly and stupid,” I reminded him.

  “And giggly,” she added.

  “They have soft skin and pretty smiles,” Tait rallied.

  “And long, silky hair,” Gordie said with a sigh, “…and they do smell nice.”

  Cyril and Douglas nodded while the lad and I shook our heads in disgust. “They’re completely daft,” she whispered to me.

  “Completely,” I agreed.

  “Come on,” she challenged, the long ago pact completely forgotten amid the search for fun and adventure. “I’ll race you to the hideout.”