C. Cherryh - Rusalka

Eveshka was not all right. Nothing seemed to be, not the house, not Uulamets’ daughter. Nothing that Uulamets had planned seemed to be turning out the way he had intended.

And Uulamets wanted them, he even wanted Pyetr, quite badly, for that matter, despite his offer to let Pyetr go—Sasha had a deep, worried notion that Uulamets had had that string firmly tied to his finger before he ever made the offer—that Uulamets had known Pyetr would refuse, not least because Uulamets wanted him to. There were undoubtedly wishes loose, powerful ones: five wizards, Pyetr had said, constantly pushing things back and forth among themselves; and Hwiuur’s wishes and Hwiuur’s cunning were not to disregard.

“Conspiracies?” Uulamets challenged them suddenly, looking in their direction.

“No, sir,” Sasha said, and walked over to get his bowl and Pyetr’s, to fill them, but Eveshka did that, and he stood there waiting with his hand out, looking at what looked like a live girl, with wonderful long hair that she had simply caught back with a ribbon this morning; with a smudge of soot on her hands from the pothook; and with tears in her eyes that she was trying not to spill. He felt sorry for her. He wanted to do something.

“After breakfast,” Uulamets said, at his elbow, “there’s packing to do—things to take to the boat. We’re not finished.”

“Finished,” Sasha echoed, not because he did not understand that word. He was afraid he did.

“Chernevog,” Uulamets said.

“You know where he is?” Sasha asked.

“I’ve always known where he is,” Uulamets said.

IN THE WAY of such things, the hand had not hurt until everyone began to make a fuss over it. Now it did; and Pyetr gave it surreptitious, anxious glances between trips back and forth to the boat, fearing he had no idea what—some sudden change, corruption—for the hand to turn black and rot, he had no idea what kind of venom a vodyanoi’s teeth could carry. The creature had scratched him before, in the set-to at the knoll, or roots or bones had, and no one had worried then; but Sasha fretted over the wound and made a nasty-smelling concoction of chamomile and wormwood and vodka—which stung, for one thing. More, Sasha himself insisted he had no idea what he was doing, and Pyetr was unhappily constrained to believe Uulamets could ill-wish them at any moment.

Think of the cup that broke, Sasha had said, daubing his hand with his smelly potion. That could have been your heart, Pyetr…

Gruesome notion.

…or he could use the vodyanoi, Sasha had said—just let it loose on us. And it’s one thing to fight it when he wants us to win, but if he’s helping it …

So Pyetr carried loads to the boat. A little trip across the river, Uulamets had said. Hunt down a former student. And Uulamets ordered multitudinous pots hauled out of the cellar, packed into mouldering baskets and ported downhill; after which he loaded them down with huge coils of rope and tackle and a furled sail and spar Pyetr and Sasha together had to manhandle down the eroded slope.

So the old man did know boats. One could learn from him… all of which said to Pyetr that it was only well to keep his head down and be polite to grandfather, however bad it got.

Grandfather wanted the boat loaded, grandfather wanted this and grandfather wanted that: Uulamets and Eveshka were waiting on the porch when they came trudging back up the hill, Eveshka standing in the midst of a number of baskets—food, one guessed, the door of the house being shut, as if that was the last they had to take—food not having figured in the previous levels.

Uulamets loaded them down with baskets, five and six apiece, and they went down the hill to board, after which Uulamets plumped down on a basket on the leaf-strewn deck and announced he would tell them how to rig the sail.

The hand hurt worse since hauling the sail and the tackle down, but it seemed unlikely Uulamets would have any sympathy. Pyetr gave Uulamets a sullen look and followed Sasha forward where the mast lay on the bow in a tangle of mouldering rope.

“I don’t suppose grandfather could somehow magic this up,” Pyetr muttered, pulling at a rope to see where it was connected.

“He’s tired,” Sasha said.

“ He’s tired,” Pyetr cried.

“Don’t—”

“I’m not,” Pyetr said under his breath, “I’m not, I won’t.”

“I’ll crawl out there,” Sasha offered, and scrambled up astride the mast, hitched himself far out over the water to cut the first rotten rope free, then worked his way back again to take the sound one, sweating and panting all the while Uulamets sat on his baskets and told them do this and do that and how they should tie the knots.

Pyetr thought about knots around Uulamets’ neck, mostly, and made the knots tight, biting his lip until it bled and suspecting very strongly why the hand was aching worse and worse and what the load was on Sasha besides the weight of the rope.

He wished he could wish—wish Uulamets right into the river, he would, wish the venom into Uulamets’ veins. Don’t ill-wish, Sasha kept saying, but that never stopped Uulamets, he was sure of that the way he was sure it would get worse, and that it would i go on getting worse until Uulamets got what he wanted from Sasha.

It was rig the sail then; more knots; and then haul the mast up and settle it—

“Are you all right?” Sasha asked when it thumped down and settled.

“I’m fine,” Pyetr said between his teeth, while Uulamets was ordering them to take the ropes aft and to either side.

It was hitch the spar to the trailing ropes after that; haul it aloft, heave by painful heave, and secure it.

“Cast us off!” Uulamets called out to them, then, for the first time on his feet, as he headed back for the tiller.

Sasha jumped ashore to throw the ties aboard, jumped back again as the boat began sluggishly to drift free in the current. Uulamets stood at the tiller and swung it hard as far as the rail, after which the bow of the boat came slowly about until it was broadside to the current.

Then the wind which had been fitful and indecisive billowed the sail out, tilted the aged boat alarmingly, so that Pyetr grabbed Sasha and lurched for the nearest rope, with certain visions of drowning and becoming prey to the River-thing and all its relatives.

But the boat kept turning, the sail cracked and snapped and filled again, so strongly it threatened the aged canvas.

The boat drove steadily after that, boiling up froth away from the bow, froth that went away into white bubbles on murky water. On either hand forest passed, leafless trees, gray bark peeling here and there to white bare wood, and never a touch of life.

Sasha sat on the bow beside Pyetr with his feet tucked up—| he was afraid to dangle them over, however tempting it was,’ because he did not trust the river in any sense. Pyetr leaned against the bow rail and stared ahead of them, with now and again a glance aft, where Uulamets and his daughter stood—but one could not see their faces from here, with the sail in the way.

Maybe that was why Pyetr chose to sit here. Pyetr had this bruised, utterly weary look—Sasha was sure his hand was hurting, but Pyetr would not admit to it. He only kept that hand tucked beneath his arm, sitting with his shoulder against the rail, staring out at the passing forest. Sasha tried to wish his pain away, tried until he quite lost track of where they were, or that it was daylight on dark water he was seeing, and not mud, roots, and shadows—

But he became aware of the water of a sudden, of a dark shape gliding just under the bow where they were sitting, a shadow beneath the surface—water scattered with yellow willow leaves.