“The girl,” was all I managed by way of an explanation.
“It’s cheating,” Piotr repeated, laughing. “You’re supposed to catch a wreath first . . . Anyway, which girl it is you like?”
“That girl,” I pointed across the water, but she was gone. An indescribable, overwhelming feeling of loss and longing came over me; I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach and I figured I must be having a panic attack of some sort.
“What girl?” grinned Piotr, then stopped grinning as he saw the look on my face.
“The blond girl,” I tried to explain, my eyes scouring the opposite bank. “Look, Piotr, thanks,” I stammered. “I’ve got to go.”
I staggered off in the direction of the makeshift bridge, leaving a perplexed Piotr muttering to his friends—something about the lovelorn foreigner, no doubt.
Soon I was standing next to the bridge—a couple of logs thrown over the fast-flowing river. I stared down into the murky water.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
If I had any chance at all of finding the girl, I’d have to get a move on. I placed my right foot on one of the logs, then, checking to make sure there was nobody watching, I got down on my hands and knees, tested the logs and started to crawl along them; one hand and knee on one log, one on the other.
The gushing noise of the current made me feel giddy. I determined to crawl straight over to the other side, without looking down. I made it about halfway across, but then I caught sight of something white in the water to my left.
Of his bones are coral made;
I came to an unsteady halt. I could hear my breath coming in short gasps and my heart beating—a blessing, I thought, as it seemed to drown out the hiss of the river. Holding onto the rough bark of the logs, I glanced down to my left. Nothing: only blackness and the rushing, spuming water.
I took a deep breath and moved off slowly. It came again: a silvery flash in the water, caught out of the corner of my eye. I jerked my head in the direction of whatever it was, digging my fingers into the wood and flattening myself against the logs for fear of falling in. And I saw it: a pale shape floating just beneath the surface of the inky water. In my fear, I thought I could make out a human face, and for a moment I believed I was looking at a corpse.
Those are pearls that were his eyes
But then the thing disappeared upriver, apparently swimming against the strong current. Once I stopped trembling, I crawled as quickly as I dared to the far side. I stood up shakily and looked upriver. Nothing there. As my heartbeat returned to normal, I told myself that I’d imagined everything; that my innate fear of death by water had conjured up visions of corpse-like monsters to torment me.
Then I remembered the girl, and that unbearable feeling of sadness and yearning returned. I hurried up the grassy bank, unnerved by the willows, which looked like frozen human forms in the half-light, and headed upriver.
As I approached the girls’ bonfire, I looked in vain for the girl with the flaxen hair. The other girls didn’t notice me at first, but as my search grew more desperate, a couple of them spotted me. They approached, giggling, and searched me for any sign of a wreath, telling me off and shooing me away amicably when they found no sign of one. I stumbled past the bonfire and into the dense forest beyond.
The forest was a frightening place at night. The darkness was full of noises—rustling and scuttling, as startled animals fled before me into the undergrowth. Never for a moment did I stop to think about what I was doing. I only knew that if I didn’t find the girl, my heart would break—indeed, it was breaking already.
“Hello?” I called out, peering between the ancient trees. “Are you there?” Only the wind answered, sighing in the branches. For a moment I thought I glimpsed something white flitting in between the trees nearest the river. “Hey!” I called out, and tried to run, but tripped on a protruding root and almost fell. I righted myself by grabbing hold of a tree, scratching my hand in the process. When I looked up again, there was nothing between the trees but shadow. I stumbled on in this inept and idiotic way, imagining from time to time that I could see a wisp of blue-white hair ahead of me, stopping only when the dawn chorus broke through my desperate reveries and a rosy glimmer appeared in the east. Defeated and exhausted, I turned around and headed back along the river.
The shouts and laughter, and glow of the bonfire reached me before I broke clear of the treeline. I was surprised to find the young villagers still partying. The boys and girls had largely paired off, and were holding hands and leaping across the fairly feisty remains of the fire. Had I been in a fit state to appreciate what was going on around me, I would no doubt have concluded that their stamina and party spirit was something to be admired, even if the local vodka was contributing.
“Hey!” someone called, and then Piotr was patting me on the back, with a relieved kind of laugh. “Where have you been? I been worried for you!”
“I’m sorry, Piotr,” I muttered gloomily.
“Where you were?”
“I was looking for the girl, ” I told him, but didn’t expect to make him understand.
“What girl? All the girls are here . . . ” I must have looked as shattered and distressed as I was feeling, because Piotr put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Come on, my friend, we go home. ” I protested weekly, mumbling something about having to look for the girl. “Come on, man,” Piotr steered me in a friendly, but firm manner away from the river. “You look terrible. You need sleep.”
“But . . . ”
“I help you look for girl tomorrow . . . or actually, later today.” Piotr winked at a pretty red-haired girl and whispered something to her which made her smile, then led me back to his grandmother’s house.
I fell into an exhausted sleep—punctuated by dreams of floating corpses, dark forests, and the girl disappearing among the trees—and woke at lunchtime. I got dressed and sloped downstairs, presumably looking awful, as a worried look appeared on Piotr’s grandmother’s face when she saw me. She asked Piotr a question and he shrugged her off, in a not unfriendly manner. He pushed an empty chair away from the table, inviting me to sit down. I forced myself to sit, but every nerve in my body was crying out to get back outside and look for the girl.
Piotr’s grandmother busied herself at the stove, and moments later set a bowl of hot hunter’s stew down in front of me, along with a small basket of fresh rye bread. I hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and yet, when Piotr’s grandmother gestured for me to eat, I found that I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling miserable and ungrateful.
“You feel bad?” asked Piotr, the concern in his face echoing that in his grandmother’s.
“The girl,” I said. “I have to find her.” I rose swiftly, apologized again to Piotr’s grandmother, and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Piotr got up and ran after me. “I come with you!”
A couple of hours later, Piotr persuaded me to return to the house for fear that I would pass out. Reluctantly I succumbed, drinking a cup of sweet tea and packing a chunk of bread, before heading back out, much to the chagrin of Piotr’s grandmother.
“I come with you,” said Piotr, somewhat less enthusiastically than earlier.
“No,” I insisted. “You stay here; your grandmother looks worried.” I left quickly, hearing Piotr and his grandmother arguing as I walked away.
I spent the rest of the day following the Swita River first one way, then the other. Once or twice I thought I saw something pale shimmering in the water, but when I turned to look, it was gone. When my feet grew too sore to keep walking, I returned to the house and tried to sleep. I tossed and turned, and attempted to free my mind of thoughts, but whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the girl waving to me from the row of willows. The terrible yearning and hopelessness gnawed away at me, and I’m ashamed to say that I cried into my pillow. I finally dozed off a little before dawn, and got up late again.
As I entered the kitchen, Piotr’s gr
andmother eyed me with unease.
“Piotrusiu!” she called, and a moment later Piotr appeared, smiling at me in a worried way that I was coming to dislike. There was a brief exchange between the two of them, during which the look on the old woman’s face became progressively more alarmed. She said something to Piotr, who laughed, causing her to brandish a wooden spoon at him in a less than friendly gesture. She cast me an extremely troubled glance, then returned her attention to the frying pan.
“Are you okay?” asked Piotr.
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing myself to smile at the old lady as she set a plate of ham and eggs down in front of me before sitting down opposite and staring at me intently.
“What you are going to do today?” questioned Piotr with feigned cheerfulness; then added doubtfully, “You are going to look for your grandmother’s village?”
“No.”
“You are going to look for girl?”
“Yes.”
Piotr’s grandmother evidently asked Piotr what I’d said. The boy translated. The old lady leapt up from the table, glanced at me, then let out a tirade at her grandson, who was looking more and more embarrassed.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Piotr.
“Tell me, please.”
“It’s rubbish. Stupid story.”
“Piotr!” I pleaded, and the old lady interjected on my behalf.
“Okay,” Piotr finally gave in. “My grandmother says your girl is Rusalka.”
“Who?”
“Rusalka. A bad spirit.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s an old story that the peasants tell.”
“Go on.”
“They say that if a girl dies before . . . her wedding day . . . she becomes Rusalka. They live in water and in trees.”
“Like nymphs?” If I hadn’t been in such a sorry state, I probably would have found Piotr’s story entertaining.
“Yes . . . Typical stupid story.”
“Yes,” I agreed. Then I noticed Piotr’s grandmother still staring at me and nodding her head gravely. “But please tell your grandmother not to worry. The girl I saw isn’t a . . . Rusalka. She’s just a girl, and I’m worried that something might have happened to her. I need to find her.” I got up and headed out, stopping Piotr from following me with a staying hand gesture.
The day passed much as the previous one, except that the sadness and feeling I can only describe as emptiness was even more draining than before. It was as though I’d lost a limb, but could still feel the ache of where it had once been.
I went home when it got dark, and went to bed without speaking to Piotr. I couldn’t face his questions or his grandmother’s look of concern. I lay awake for a long time, looking at the ceiling. When I finally closed my eyes, the full moon rose outside my window, its light unnerving me even through closed lids. I could swear I heard someone whispering my name, and I turned to the window. The moonlight was silver-blue, like the girl’s hair. The whispering came again and the sighing of the wind in the branches of the tree outside. Eventually I could lie there no longer. I got dressed, crept as quietly as I could over the creaky wooden floor, and headed for the river.
The fields were a pale gray, and beyond them the river sparkled silver. I planned to start at the makeshift bridge, then work my way upriver and into the forest. I walked along distractedly and didn’t notice that I was approaching the water a little upriver of my chosen starting point. In fact, it wasn’t until I was at the river’s edge that I noticed I’d come out amidst the willows—in almost the same place as I’d seen the girl. Startled out of my stupor by that thought, I looked across to where she’d stood. I thought I heard my name whispered on the wind, and then I saw a willow move in the pale light. No, not a willow—her! Standing on the opposite side of the river, now as she had the first time I’d seen her, but even more beautiful in the moonlight, even more heart-stopping. A shiver ran down my spine and goose bumps appeared on my skin despite the warm June night. The girl’s hair was so pale that it glowed blue in the moon’s rays, and her lips were the color of coral. I tried, but I couldn’t see her eyes. She smiled at me and waved, beckoning me to join her on the other side of the river. Mesmerized, I took a step forward, then stopped as my foot slipped on the soft mud of the riverbank and I nearly lost my footing. I looked down at the rushing, roaring current and felt dizzy. But I would get to her somehow.
“Wait!” I pleaded. “I’ll cross over the bridge!” But she was already moving off in the opposite direction. “Wait, please!” I ran a few steps towards the bridge, then turned quickly and ran after the girl, keeping track of her across the river as she moved in and out of the willows, smiling wanly and motioning to me. Each time her slim form disappeared from my field of vision, it was like a stab to my heart. I’d missed my opportunity to cross the bridge to her side of the river, but I wouldn’t let her out of my sight for more than a split-second.
“Hey, slow down! Please!” I followed her upriver. The solitary willows gave way to clusters of birches, oaks and pines, and soon we were in the forest; the river between us all the while. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen; she was a silvery-blue angel, shining among the dark monoliths of the trees. I panicked as she disappeared from view, and quickened my pace.
“Where are you?” I practically begged, hurrying deeper and deeper into the forest. “Please! Where are you?” Lightheaded with anxiety, I stopped and peered across the river. For a while all was still and I was alone with my own heartbeat once again. That overpowering sense of loss assaulted me for a moment, and then I saw her. She moved from behind a tree and stood directly opposite me on the far side of the river. Naked. The moonlight reflected off her lily-white skin and blue-blond hair. Her body was perfection, and she stood quite still, gazing at me, frozen like the alabaster statue of a goddess. I heard my name whispered in the air, and the girl moved so gracefully that she seemed to float down to the water’s edge. She waved to me, beckoning me to approach the river on my side. I got as close to the water as I dared, then stopped and watched the girl go in.
“No!” I called out in alarm. “Don’t!” But the girl merely laughed and immersed herself in the river; the water covering her nakedness. She waved to me to join her, and I waved back, pleading with her to come to my side. The girl laughed and swam over to my side, then swam leisurely back to the middle of the river and floated there. The ease with which she swam and floated in that rushing water made me wonder whether perhaps the current was less strong that it looked and sounded. Perhaps the water wasn’t as deep as I’d thought.
The girl beckoned me again and I shook my head, indicating for her to swim to me and come out. I held a hand out to her, and eventually she swam towards me, stopping just a little out of my reach. I extended my hand out further, and she pushed herself up from the water and reached out to me. As she did so, the drops of water on her breasts sparkled. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She moved away again and I lost my balance, toppling into the icy water.
Fear—all the more dreadful for its long-forgotten familiarity—seized me as the dark waters closed over my head. I flailed my arms wildly, managing somehow to right myself and get my head above the surface. Eyes screwed shut against the lashing current, I coughed up water and finally managed to scream for help. Then I felt arms around me—arms colder than the river against which I fought.
“Help me,” I begged through the roar of the raging water—water that no longer looked silver, but black and threatening. I felt the brush of wet hair on my face and of icy lips against my ear—lips colder than the spray that blinded me. The girl whispered my name with tenderness, and her voice was the sigh of the wind and the murmur of the sea. For a moment I remembered my mother and how she would hold a large shell to my ear when I was little, and say, “Listen, my love, it’s the sound of the sea.”
The girl’s grip on me tightened and I prayed that she would save me, but the water closed over my he
ad once more.
I try to draw breath, but swallow river-water instead. I don’t understand. I kick and writhe, but cold hands pull me down and hold me firm.
Gradually I weaken and stop fighting. My terror subsides and I open my eyes. In the blackness, the girl’s face looms white before my own. She lifts her heavy lids and I see her eyes clearly for the first time. Fear seizes me once more; the last of my air escapes in a flurry of bubbles as I panic. She holds onto me and smiles, gazing at me with those eyes—a corpse’s eyes: milky, opaque . . . like pearls. My lungs swell with water. A strange calm descends on me and I stop struggling for the last time. The girl cradles me in her arms. I wonder if the current will carry me down to the sea.
The Mermaid Game
Chris Howard
Andy Kavanagh’s wedding ring hit the deck, rolled astern, and went over the edge into fifty feet of cold ocean off Gunboat Shoal.
The world shifted out of balance in that instant—with Andy watching the heavy band of tungsten and gold catch the boat’s tip in the swells. The waves lifted the bow and sent the ring into the hungry Atlantic. He jumped after it, a mad dive for open platform at the stern, sliding face-first for the edge.
Clawing at the air, he was seconds too late—the blur of shimmering metal vanished in the dark. Just out of reach.
Andy Kavanagh felt the weight and motion of the Atlantic through the hull of his boat, pulling at the anchor. The world tilted with every swell and crest, and he felt the passing waves like something cold in this bones. He felt the loneliness in his heart.
His wife Julia—Sergeant Julia Elenora Kavanagh—had died four years before in the wrong seat at the wrong time in a Humvee in Afghanistan. She had died with her ring on.
Time and despair had formed new habits; the most important was the reflexive tightening of his fist to hold onto that warm bridge to the past he still shared with Julia. Tungsten and gold kept at body temperature because he never removed his wedding ring.
How could it have come off like that? He’d simply been reaching for an empty lobster trap and his ring had slid off and gone flying.
Mermaids and Other Mysteries of the Deep Page 31
