C. Cherryh - Rusalka

But Pyetr pulled away and started up the river, the same direction they had gone to find the ghost that first night.

“Does he know where she is?” Uulamets asked, catching Sasha’s arm.

“He says so,” Sasha said on a breath, not quite a lie, and broke away after Pyetr, quickly, because Pyetr was going faster than was safe in the thicket, along the river edge, through reeds and through a low place that they had to wade. Sasha struggled to overtake him, and Uulamets came close behind him, warning him mind his step, wait, listen to someone who knew the ground.

Pyetr climbed to dry ground and suddenly vanished into the trees and the dark over the ridge.

“Pyetr!” Sasha cried, shoved the sack at master Uulamets and ran after Pyetr in acute fear that with every moment wasted, they risked losing him. He heard master Uulamets far behind him shouting at him to wait, come back, and he paid no attention. He could see the pale gray of Pyetr’s coat at the bottom of the wooded hill, and he simply locked his arms in front of his face and charged downhill through the thicket heedless of the thorn branches. “Pyetr, wait, I’m coming!”

Pyetr seemed not to hear him. Pyetr appeared to move with woodcraft he had never had, evading thickets, never choosing a false way. By that alone Sasha guessed Pyetr had a guide who did know the ground all too well, and he tried only to stay close enough to see which way Pyetr chose. Wherever that failed, he simply took the short way, breaking through brush, scoring his hands and face, snagging his coat and tearing through by sheer force.

He wished Pyetr to slow down and use good sense. He wished the rusalka to leave Pyetr in peace. He wished himself to keep Pyetr in sight and he wished that Uulamets would find his track and so find Pyetr’s. Common sense said that was too many wishes at once, and that half of them might wish away the others, or do something terrible, but he was too frightened to think things through with any clarity. In a doubtful case, master Uulamets had counseled him, wish only good, and he did that with all the force he could muster, while he was tearing his way through the thickets. He saw Pyetr at the top of a ridge, and dived breakneck down a ravine, clawing his way up the other side in the dark, climbing with the help of roots and branches and coming muddy-handed to the crest in time to gain a little.

“Pyetr!” he cried. “I’m with you! For the god’s sake, wait for me!”

Pyetr was already going down the other side, toward the river again—in the gray dim light that Sasha realized was the breaking of the day. Sasha held his aching side and kept going, down the hill of mouldering leaves and down again, by a rill-cut path which ran down to the river.

Something was amiss here. Sasha felt it before he was aware what was so strange in that place to which Pyetr was going: the trees gave way to open ground, a knoll grown over with grass and living moss—or it seemed that way, in what little light they had, in the way the grass gave underfoot: it was some sort of demarcation Pyetr approached, following what sort of illusion Sasha did not know. He only reasoned that if this was the boundary between life and death in this woods things were surely backwards, and that whatever threat there was, was strong here. He ran, vaulted over an upthrust rock and with Pyetr in reach made no attempt at reason: he flung himself at Pyetr’s back and knocked him sprawling, caught Pyetr’s arm across his forehead as Pyetr rolled and was, the next he knew, flat on his back with Pyetr’s hands on his shoulders, both of them gasping for air.

“She’ll kill you!” Sasha gasped.

Pyetr leaned on him, catching his breath, looking about him as if he had no least idea where he had gotten to; and said then, between gasps, “Where’s the old man?”

“I don’t know! You ran off. I followed you.”

Pyetr looked the more bewildered. “ You were the one who ran off,” he said, as if there was no sense in anything. He rolled aside and sat down, leaning on one hand, looking about, while Sasha sat up holding his side, feeling the discomfort of damp ground soaking cold through his breeches. He dared not move. The whole forest seemed too still, no whisper of leaves: those all were dead; no dawn sounds: those were dead, too. There was only the river rushing by the bank.

Then the slow, heavy movement of something dragged by stages over the leafy ground.

“Father Sky, what’s that?” Sasha breathed, edging closer to Pyetr, scanning all the wooded ridges that encircled this smooth-sided knoll.

Pyetr got up to one knee and began to draw his sword as quietly as possible, but at the first whisper of steel the sound stopped, and Pyetr stopped, in a hush so still not even the wind seemed to breathe.

Sasha clenched his hands and shut his eyes a moment, wishing their safety so hard it made him dizzy; and opened his eyes to a woods that looked no different. Pyetr was getting to his feet, sword still a quarter drawn. He pulled it rasping from its sheath and walked a few investigatory steps up to the summit of the knoll

—and vanished with a yell, straight into the earth.

“Pyetr!” Sasha scrambled forward and flung himself flat as he would on pond ice, crawled to the edge and looked over into the deep, shadowed pit with what might be Pyetr’s sprawled body half-buried at the bottom. He could in no wise be certain in the dim light. “Pyetr!” he called.

The gray shape moved, developed an arm and a leg as Pyetr shook himself free of the dirt and the rock, and a flickering length of metal appeared, the sword in Pyetr’s other hand, as Pyetr attempted to gain his feet.

“Can you climb up?” Sasha asked.

Pyetr sheathed his sword and tried, climbing up the rocks and the dirt of the slide, only to have more of the pit cave in.

“Look out!” Sasha cried as the ground underneath him dissolved. He yelled and scrambled backward as his hands went out from under him and he slid into a choking flood of dirt and rock.

The next he knew it had stopped, he was head downward, spitting dirt and fighting to get clear, and Pyetr was hauling him to his knees in the spongy earth.

“Sorry,” Pyetr said. “Are you all right?”

He blinked dirt from his eyes, stood up and looked despairingly at the circle of sky above the pit, with the irrepressible thought that if he had used half his wit he would not have stood on the edge. He might have found a dead limb or something to put over the rim for a ladder. He might have let down his belt for a rope. He thought of a dozen ways to have done better with the situation, now it was too late.

“Uulamets is following us,” he said, the best hope he could think of under the circumstances, and he earnestly wished for Uulamets to find them.

“Small hope in him,” Pyetr said glumly, dusted himself off and looked around the pit they were in. Something seemed then to take his interest. Sasha looked, where a darkness marked one face of the pit.

And seeing that darkness he had a very bad feeling, the more so as Pyetr walked over to it, into the shadow of the rim.

“Smells odd,” Pyetr said.

“It might cave in,” Sasha said. “Master Uulamets will find us. Just be patient.—Please don’t go in there! What if it caved in again?”

“It looks solid,” Pyetr said, and ducked down. His voice echoed out of closed spaces, like a well. “It might go all the way to the river. Probably floods here in the rains.”

“Don’t go in!” Sasha cried, with an oppressive feeling like smothering or like drowning. “The whole hill might cave in. Pyetr! Don’t!”

“I’m not going in. Just trying to see. Maybe when the sun gets higher—”

There was that sound of movement again, the sound of a weight moving slowly over the earth. A few clods rolled to the bottom of the pit beside them, but the sound came from somewhere behind the earthen wall of the slide.