floor was cushioned by leaf litter aged to a warm gold. Birds were coming in to roost, twittering softly to each other as they settled in for the night. In the far distance, he caught a glimpse of a stag slipping warily between the trees.
On the other side of the path—
The last light of early evening was swallowed by shadows that were just a little too dark, just a trifle too cold. The air was damp and chill, and felt like the air of the last days of dying autumn. The forest floor was covered in the blackened skeletons of leaves, scabrous grey and charcoal, that shattered like ancient bones when walked on. There were no birds, no animals in sight, and the air smelled of rot and mildew.
So the battle lines were drawn.
Sasha pulled his balalaika around to the front and began to strum it.
The first song he sang was for his own benefit; it was a riddle-song that was designed to tell him exactly what sort of creature it was that he faced. Was it some evil thing out of legend, was it a demon, or was it a very powerful ghost? He sang the riddles and read the answer in the rattle of the dry branches, the sighing of the wind, and a glimpse here and there through the trees of something moving.
Rusalka came the answer, and he sighed. This would be both easy and hard. Easy, because the Rusalkas were quite single-minded and at the same time, not very tenacious. Hard, because the Rusalkas, whether they were ghosts or water-spirits, by and large were born of the anger and despair of young women who had drowned themselves, usually over a young man. And he, of course, was a young man. The Rusalka would try to seduce him in order to do him the same favor, and when she could not…
Well, now, this was where he had to be clever, persuasive, and if need be, ruthless.
But first he had to find her pond. Because a Rusalka always lived in a body of still water.
To do that, however, he would first have to get through the forest. The forest knew what he was, even if the Rusalka was not aware that he was here.
This could be very tricky.
Sasha stood on the bank of the Rusalka’s pond, picking twigs out of his hair. The forest had not wanted him to get through. It hadn’t been strong enough to actually prevent his passage, but it had made it as difficult as possible, trying to protect its progenitor.
But of course, it wasn’t all that intelligent, and couldn’t know that it was actually telling him the way. When it yielded, Sasha knew he was going in the wrong direction. When it blocked him, he knew he was on the right path. The more it tried to prevent his passage, the closer he knew he was.
There was no doubt that this was his goal. The pond and its surroundings were a curious mixture of ethereal beauty and shadowy menace. The pond itself was bathed in moonlight. Or at least, what appeared to be moonlight. The only trouble with that was that the moon wasn’t up. The water was crystalline clear, so clear that it was easy to see the gracefully waving streamers of water plants and the tiny silver fish that darted among them. Of course, the moment anyone entered the water, those harmless-looking plants would wrap themselves around the victim and pull him under, and the little silver fish would strip him down to the bone.
Everything here told him that she was here, and thought she was here to stay.
Now what Sasha did to her was going to depend entirely on what she was. If she was a ghost, and there was any vestige of humanity left in her, he would try and touch it, to awaken her conscience and maybe, just maybe, persuade her to leave on her own.
If, however, she was nothing but hate…
Well, in a lot of ways, that would be easier. Harder, in terms of a fight, but easier in terms of reducing the problem to a situation of pure black and white. She would be evil, he would be good, and he would have no compunction about singing her into oblivion if he had to.
“Who are you, who lingers at the water’s edge?” came a voice from
On the other side of the path—
The last light of early evening was swallowed by shadows that were just a little too dark, just a trifle too cold. The air was damp and chill, and felt like the air of the last days of dying autumn. The forest floor was covered in the blackened skeletons of leaves, scabrous grey and charcoal, that shattered like ancient bones when walked on. There were no birds, no animals in sight, and the air smelled of rot and mildew.
So the battle lines were drawn.
Sasha pulled his balalaika around to the front and began to strum it.
The first song he sang was for his own benefit; it was a riddle-song that was designed to tell him exactly what sort of creature it was that he faced. Was it some evil thing out of legend, was it a demon, or was it a very powerful ghost? He sang the riddles and read the answer in the rattle of the dry branches, the sighing of the wind, and a glimpse here and there through the trees of something moving.
Rusalka came the answer, and he sighed. This would be both easy and hard. Easy, because the Rusalkas were quite single-minded and at the same time, not very tenacious. Hard, because the Rusalkas, whether they were ghosts or water-spirits, by and large were born of the anger and despair of young women who had drowned themselves, usually over a young man. And he, of course, was a young man. The Rusalka would try to seduce him in order to do him the same favor, and when she could not…
Well, now, this was where he had to be clever, persuasive, and if need be, ruthless.
But first he had to find her pond. Because a Rusalka always lived in a body of still water.
To do that, however, he would first have to get through the forest. The forest knew what he was, even if the Rusalka was not aware that he was here.
This could be very tricky.
Sasha stood on the bank of the Rusalka’s pond, picking twigs out of his hair. The forest had not wanted him to get through. It hadn’t been strong enough to actually prevent his passage, but it had made it as difficult as possible, trying to protect its progenitor.
But of course, it wasn’t all that intelligent, and couldn’t know that it was actually telling him the way. When it yielded, Sasha knew he was going in the wrong direction. When it blocked him, he knew he was on the right path. The more it tried to prevent his passage, the closer he knew he was.
There was no doubt that this was his goal. The pond and its surroundings were a curious mixture of ethereal beauty and shadowy menace. The pond itself was bathed in moonlight. Or at least, what appeared to be moonlight. The only trouble with that was that the moon wasn’t up. The water was crystalline clear, so clear that it was easy to see the gracefully waving streamers of water plants and the tiny silver fish that darted among them. Of course, the moment anyone entered the water, those harmless-looking plants would wrap themselves around the victim and pull him under, and the little silver fish would strip him down to the bone.
Everything here told him that she was here, and thought she was here to stay.
Now what Sasha did to her was going to depend entirely on what she was. If she was a ghost, and there was any vestige of humanity left in her, he would try and touch it, to awaken her conscience and maybe, just maybe, persuade her to leave on her own.
If, however, she was nothing but hate…
Well, in a lot of ways, that would be easier. Harder, in terms of a fight, but easier in terms of reducing the problem to a situation of pure black and white. She would be evil, he would be good, and he would have no compunction about singing her into oblivion if he had to.
“Who are you, who lingers at the water’s edge?” came a voice from
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