C. Cherryh - Rusalka

“Good lad,” Uulamets said, and took his hand and pressed a knife into it. “There, there, there’s a lad, right by riverside—that’s where to dig.”

“For what?” he had the presence to ask, although it seemed he must be thick-witted not to understand. Everything seemed distant from him, like a dream. He looked back and saw Pyetr standing distressedly behind them, in a clear space the trees left.

“For whatever you can find, lad,” Uulamets said, pressing on his shoulder. “Dig here. Mind you don’t fall in…”

Sasha edged down to the river margin and knelt there, as the damp of the earth soaked the knee of his breeches. The river-sound was strong in his ears. There was the chance of undermining on this earthen bank: he remembered that in a distant, cool way, only as a fact one must keep in mind—not to lean too close or trust too much to the ground. He began to dig with the point of the knife. He was aware of Pyetr asking: “Has everyone gone mad?” and Uulamets saying: “Hush, be still. Be patient—” as Uulamets withdrew, the river masking all sound but the sharp crack of a thorn branch as it snagged Uulamets’ cloak and broke. The incident seemed significant for some reason-perhaps that every incident was significant in this place, on this spell-bound shore, in this moonlight delving after things of magical potency—but he imagined Uulamets speaking to himself, in a soft, soft singsong.

Volkhvoi, Sasha told himself, wizard, magician holding them both with whispers and the hush and the river itself which sang to them in a murmurous voice and wrapped them in dead branches and moonglow—he could not wake: he could not want to wake. The earth and the leaves smelled of moisture and of rot, the silver of the blade caught the moon and sent dirt flying, laying bare a puzzle of roots which ran from the thornbush to the river edge.

But there was no virtue in thorn roots. He had never heard of any. It was something else Uulamets wanted…

What shall I find? he turned to ask of Uulamets. What am I looking for?—But he was amazed into silence, seeing some movement from the tail of his eye. It was gone when he looked. There was only Uulamets and Pyetr standing in the moonlight, both looking toward him—

And Pyetr’s sudden alarm telling him there was danger beside him—

“Sasha!” Pyetr cried, and Sasha glanced aside, saw that movement in the tail of his eye again, some white thing floating in the air near Pyetr which vanished as he glanced back, Pyetr standing there with his hands up as if it were visible to him and Uulamets leaning on his staff with both hands, his lips moving and no sound coming out—

Sasha hurled himself to his feet at the same moment he saw Pyetr slump bonelessly to the earth. He crossed that space at a run and felt something so cold, so dreadfully cold in the air he breathed, the air seeming dank and rotten.

“Pyetr!” Sasha cried, and cast a look to Uulamets for help. The white thing darted back into the tail of his eye, a wisp that vanished as he glanced toward it. There was only Pyetr—then Pyetr surrounded by that drifting white thing the moment he cast an anguished glance aside to see where the wraith had gone. He realized then he could only see it that way—only from the tail of his eye; and it was not moving: it was hovering continually about Pyetr, whirling and hazing him about…

“Stop it!” he pleaded, seizing Uulamets by the sleeve. “Stop it, do you see it? Help him!”

“ Help him?” Uulamets cried in outrage, and thumped his staff on the ground between his feet. “Damn him! He’s not the one!”

The white thing was still there, flitting about Pyetr—and Pyetr began to follow it as if he could see it in front of him. Uulamets plunged after, dragging Sasha by the coat sleeve, bashing dead limbs aside with his staff, saying, “Do you see her, boy? Do you see her at all?”

Sasha tried, turning his head, making himself victim to thorns and branches as they went. It was a ghost they were chasing… he was sure that it was.

“ Do you see her?”

“Yes,” he stammered, breathless, willing to go, trying to see, and giving up that sidelong view for the undeniable sight of Pyetr, alone, traveling with swiftness Pyetr had never had on his own in the woods. “Pyetr!” he cried. “Stop!”

But Uulamets shook him like a rat and hit him a dazing blow across the side of his head with the staff. “Let him follow!” Uulamets snarled. “Let him follow. Only say if you can see her!”

He could see nothing in any direction for the moment, being blind with the blow to his head, but he swore that he could, he gasped a breath and another and swore to whatever the old man wanted, for fear of losing Pyetr in the woods if they stopped now—certain that there was no help for Pyetr or him either except Uulamets’ magic, and Uulamets’ good will, however he had to buy it.

“I see her,” he lied, and lied again, when his eyes cleared and he could see Pyetr at least ahead of them, “She’s still there…”

The old man hastened him grimly after, shoving him through branches that scored his face and hands, Uulamets panting and swearing as they went, until Sasha stumbled and lost his footing astride a downed log.

And lost sight of Pyetr in the brush.

“Pyetr!” he called out in fright. “ Pyetr !”

“Shut up!” the old man said, wrenching at his collar, and dragged him up.

Pyetr was nowhere to be seen as he struggled to his feet with Uulamets’ fist holding his collar, as Uulamets pulled him along a slope of mouldering slick leaves. Sasha fell again, both of them sliding—

Then he saw something pale lying at the bottom of the ravine, and scrambled down the slick incline toward it, the old man panting after him and cursing him, the both of them scrambling for balance on the slope of dead leaves.

It was Pyetr, lying alone, Pyetr with his face so pale and his hands so cold—

“Where is she?” Uulamets screamed. “ Where Is she ?”

Sasha hauled Pyetr up in his arms and tried to find life in him, Pyetr’s hands falling lifeless and limp when he tried to warm them, his face wet and cold as if he had come from the river, although his clothes were dry. He had kept the cap somehow.

Sasha took it off and called his name, slapping desperately at his face and finally shaking him. “Pyetr Illitch, wake up—”

Uulamets shoved him aside, knelt down and laid his hand on Pyetr’s forehead. Sasha’s heart jumped then as if he had touched something burning hot; and there might have been pain, but he was not sure, because Pyetr had moved in the same moment. Pyetr’s eyes opened and Uulamets seized Pyetr by the throat and shook him, demanding, wildly, “Where did she go? Fool, where did she go ?”

Pyetr did not even struggle. Sasha flung his arms about him, turned his shoulder to get him away from Uulamets and cried, looking up and pointing up the ridge: “There!”

Uulamets rose and stared in that direction, and Sasha hugged Pyetr up against him, feeling Pyetr trying to catch his breath.

“Where?” Uulamets asked sharply, and the staff thumped down beside them.

“She’s gone,” Sasha said, and shielded Pyetr’s head with his arm, expecting the old man would strike them.

But Uulamets sank down onto a rotting log close beside them and let his staff fall against his shoulder. “ What did you see?” he asked wearily. “What did you see, boy?”

“I’m not sure,” Sasha said. He was shaking from head to foot. He had to lie and he was never good at it. He held on to Pyetr as the only source of comfort in this place and had this most terrible imagination that whatever he had seen could be Pyetr at this moment, shape-shifted, ready to rend them both with claws and fangs. That was what travelers said could happen: Pyetr could be lost somewhere and he could be holding a leshy or worse in his arms.