C. Cherryh - Chernevog

He sat there in the smoke with the book open in front of him and felt colder and colder despite the sweat on his face: he thought of Eveshka out there on the river, Eveshka wanting Pyetr safe with all her might—

Uulamets saying: A rusalka is a wish—

A wish to live, a desire so strong it stole every life in its reach, up and down the river, leached life out of the woods, destroyed everything but what her father could keep from her grasp… until her wishing set itself finally on Pyetr—

Things change that can change—Always at the weakest point.

That was, they had always thought, Pyetr… but—

God—no, he did not want-Leaves moved, the bubble burst, dark water swirled aside from the bow —

What have I wished? he wondered, cold through and through. Father Sky, what did I just wish besides her getting home again?

He shut Chernevog’s book, he took up his own, desperate to recover his wits and remind himself of his own recent wishes. He opened it to the page last written.

There was Eveshka’s fine writing, the very last line. Take care for Pyetr. I know you’ll follow me. But I beg you don’t.

The spookiness from the bathhouse came and went. Pyetr took to glancing at the ground, talking to Babi, soothing Babi’s upset with a constant touch, then abruptly stealing a glance in the direction of the bathhouse, in hopes of surprising whatever was lurking in the shadows of its doorway, no matter that the door was shut.

Banniks, Sasha had said. Magical things. He had no pressing desire, in Sasha’s absence, to go over there and open that door: he did very well at believing in magic these days, even in dealing with it face-to-face—but this thing, bannik, ghost, whatever it was, made him sure if he opened that door it was going to dash out at him, and maybe get away from him altogether—along with everything it might tell them if he could only keep it for Sasha to deal with.

But it might be what Sasha was trying to raise with his magic, it might be the very answer he was conjuring—and in the completely unreasonable way of magical creatures, it might not stay long enough for Sasha to realize it was there.

He stood up, uncertain in the persistence of that feeling; he walked a few steps toward the bathhouse, stopped then in an increasingly unreasoning dread of that door, asking himself, on second and third thoughts, what a bannik might want with an ordinary man—the one of them hardest to bespell and most vulnerable if something actually got its hands on him—

Of a sudden something hit his leg, strong arms locked tight about his knee, Babi clinging to him and growling deep in his throat—while as strong as the terror of that closed door now was the idea the bannik might not intend to talk to anyone else, it might not wait for Sasha, it truly might not wait and they might lose every wisdom it might have for them.

But just then he heard the door of the house slam open, heard Sasha running hard down the boards, calling out, “Pyetr!”

He waited, while Babi let go of his knee and growled, with stay and go shivering through his exhausted wits. Sasha reached him, out of breath and he said, “There’s something in there.” He pointed at the bathhouse, expecting Sasha to find that of major significance, but Sasha caught his arm, saying,

“We’re going. Right now. Come inside, help me get the packs sorted out.”

“There’s a bannik!” Pyetr said; and Sasha:

“Let it be!”

Perhaps he was entirely muddled from lack of sleep, perhaps he expected Sasha to make clearer sense than he was making. Sasha held him painfully hard by a slack arm and drew him back to Volkhi’s pen, Babi growling as they went. “Just let it be! Don’t ask me anything, don’t argue, just get Volkhi around front.”

“What’s wrong, for the god’s sake? What did you find out?”

“Hush. Just bring Volkhi. Now!”

“Sasha, for the god’s sake—” Pyetr stopped and made a furious gesture back toward the bathhouse. “Did you even hear me? Are you listening? It wants something. It’s been trying to talk to me and I was waiting for you, before I did anything— Why are we suddenly scared of it?”

“Never mind! Just do it. Come on!”

There were times the boy showed a disturbing tendency to Uulamets’ habits—or it was wizardry that made one sit for hours and then, of course, immediately, the moment an ordinary man just momentarily began to believe the last piece of advice was gone—it was face-about in the other direction, and hurry about it -even though he had a gnawing feeling now that he truly wanted to open that door yonder, and he truly wanted to know what was in there and hear what it had to tell him. Eveshka was in trouble and that Thing in the bathhouse was the only creature in the world who knew precisely what was going on—it wanted to tell them—

“Come on!” Sasha hissed at him, and pulled at his arm. He hesitated, looking back—

But in any case of magic, he did exactly what Sasha asked.

The wind sang a steady song in the rigging, shifting only as the river turned, and Eveshka sat on the bench Pyetr had made beside the tiller, her arm over the bar, her eyes on the dark ahead. She distracted herself with recollections and precise reckonings, wished herself calm: Fear lends a certain strength to your wishes, papa had been wont to say, but does it ever make them wiser?

Papa’s advice. Always. She said, coldly, to the rushing wind and the dark, “Does arrogance, papa?”

And the dark said back, “You’re right, of course. You couldn’t possibly have that fault yourself.”

The answer disturbed her. There were ghosts aplenty in these woods, ghosts mat haunted her solitary walks, ghosts she met in anguish and in guilt—but of all the ghosts that could exist, this one she had decided by now would never come back.

And it had no right to turn up now, god! he did not, slipping up on her quiet as a memory. She still was not sure the manifestation was not exactly that: overwrought imagination—and dammit, she refused to flinch. This ghost owed her an apology by the god he did!

It said, so faintly it might have been the wind, Do I owe one to a fool? Just what are you doing up here, daughter?

She tossed her head, shook the blowing hair out of her eyes-aware in the same instant that the wind was changing, the pitch of the deck decreasing, the sail about to slat, uncertainty in every motion, her wishes all overwhelmed.

“Papa?” Fear struck her for a moment, her heart tottering unstable as the boat, but the wind came back to the sail, steadied the deck, carried the boat on its way, a wish as sure as the arms that had used to carry her. Her heart settled with a familiar, infuriating confidence—fluttered then, the whole world seeming to reel and pitch in the smothering silence and the humming of the ropes and the hull. One could sleep in that sound.

Going north? that whisper said to her. The tiller rocked and swayed beneath her arm, and the water hissed under the thrumming hull. —Young fool. I expected this. Sleep now. I’ll keep us steady.

She did not want to sleep. She hated her father taking things out of her hands, damn, he always did that to her; and she hated the quiet tone he took, as if she were a little girl again—god, she had even forgotten he could use that voice: papa tucking her in at night, kissing her on the forehead, walking away to bank the fire and blow out the light, in the single room the house had been in those years.

Good night, he would say then, out of the dark. Good night, mouseling. Safe dreams.

She tried to keep her eyes open. But the hiss and the hum ran through her bones, made her eyes heavy. Her head began to droop, the motion of the tiller rocking her to sleep.