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Mamka* would tell him not to go to the old dam. Kept telling him since he was old enough to understand. She would point to the trees trembling in the evening breeze towards where they formed the arch leading deeper into the woods and would crease her brow as she looked at the child next to her who was idly picking a scab off the freckled knee.
"You hear me, Tim? Stay away, nyechyst** lives there! ” She would spit over her shoulder three times and then pat her son's head, messing up the fiery owl’s nest her son called hair. "You’re all I have left."
He was all she had left and that was the responsibility young Timofey took to carrying around on his skinny shoulders from the moment he could walk. She ran the household and soon enough he was helping, cooking and bringing her food when she worked the fields and taking care of the horses after a hard day of work.
He would stay a while, provided the house was tended to and when the day was done, he’d take Arrow and Apple to the lake. The water soothed the insect bites and Tim would scrub off the dirt and the sweat from the shiny coats. Later, when he got older, he would work the fields and it was his mother who brought him dinner. Told him he was a good boy and that he was all that she had left.
Sometimes mamka wondered if mayhap he needed to find a good fair girl and Tim would laugh, rubbing his neck awkwardly and tell her that there is no better woman than her to find. And despite the zenith of her years that burdened them both, the answer would always please her. She would run her hand through the copper curls, if her son was nice enough to bow down and lovingly tell him that he was all she had left.
One could say he led a sad and lonely life but Tim knew no better and these little respites, as he bathed with the horses after a hard day of work, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon and feeling blissfully alone, were the moments Tim lived for.
He first heard it on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. Early in the morning, as Tim led the horses to the field watching the mist creep along the ground and around his feet, a silver laughter reached his ears.
Like silver bells in the icy air.
It came from the woods. From where the old birches and pines formed an opening, beckoning weary traveler to come in.
Deeper.
To the dam.
Nyechyst.
He felt the hair on his neck stand up, hands clutching the reins so hard old weary leather creaked pitifully in his grip. The horses felt his fear as well, hitting the dirt with their hooves restlessly and flashing the whites of their eyes.
“Come,” Tim pat Apple and then reached out to Arrow, gently stroking the grey mare. “Let’s not dally.”
That was the first time. The first of many to follow and for a while all he ever heard was jovial laughter.
Until one warm evening, when whatever it was, it came closer. The last rays of sun were illuminating the horizon in the most magnificent colours of red and yellow as Tim finally arrived at his usual bathing spot, throwing off his sweat soaked clothes and clicking his tongue for the horses to follow him. It took a while, for the mares were awfully skittish, so unlike how they usually were but with some coaxing and promises of fresh apples from the garden, Tim finally led the horses into the still cool waters of the lake.
You can never truly describe the feeling of being watched. It crawls along and under your skin, it curls up in your chest just to unfurl again and become spiderwebs in your lungs, taking away your breath.
“Who’s there?” His voice is barely above a whisper but it carries far over the evening lake’s calm, getting lost in the creeping mist. The reeds, those that are the closest towards the woods move and he knows it ain’t the wind. Two amber dots light up in the gloom and as sudden as Tim sees them they disappear again, followed by a splash.
The horses whinny and Arrow dashes out of the water and away, disappearing in the undergrowth.
Tim panics but there is little he can do, he needs to get Apple back to safety, lest he wants the wolves to get her and the moment the old mare is in the stables he leaves again, heading out and throwing last glance at the small window basked in the candlelight. Mamka’s waiting but he can’t go in. Can’t tell her what has happened and see her be disappointed and distraught. They cannot afford a new horse and the heavy plough requires two to work.
The night wood is something else. It’s an entire new world Tim never ventures into, save for Ivana-Kupala*** celebrations. It’s then, on the shortest night of the year, when the forest is alive with the voices of young men and women, searching for the fern’s flower when they drown nature's own with their presence.
Right now, as he steps under the dark canopy Tim is greeted by rustling and chirping of the night critters. The forest is not as dark and impenetrable as it seems from the outside, its mossy corners are illuminated by teeming fireflies. Despite the fact that he is in a hurry Tim can’t help but slow down and soak this image in. It's beautiful. It’s otherworldly. It’s like the fairy-tales mamka told him before bedtime when he was still a child.
Somewhere further into the woods he hears a horse whinny and huff and it must be Arrow so he calls to her, hoping she will come out on her own. Yet when she doesn’t, Tim has no other choice but to go deeper in.
The sound of the hoofs is suddenly to Tim’s left, so close it feels he would be able to touch Arrow’s salt and pepper side if he reaches out but when he does, there is nothing and the sound is leading him deeper into the heart of the forest.
Time stands still but it also skips, rushes and drags and as he walks he notices that the moonlight begins seeping through the branches, chasing the fireflies away. The pond before him appears as if out of thin air and Tim, who has never seen it, not even once, knows.
The dam. It’s where nyechyst lives.
The pond is small and overgrown, luscious willows sorrowfully bathing their branches in its murky waters. The water is still, so still it’s like a darkened mirror in which the upside down moon reflects. There is no wind and Tim notices there are no sounds either, the night critters have fallen eerily quiet.
Arrow isn’t here and he shouldn’t be here either and so Tim turns around, ready to head into the suddenly much more welcoming woods. The splash behind him makes Tim freeze where he stands, rabbit heart beating against his ribcage so violently it almost hurts. The moon disappears behind the clouds, robbing him of his sight and any courage he could have had.
Move
Please move
Please please please
“You just got here. Rather rude to leave again so soon, wouldn’t you agree?”
The voice from behind makes him straighten his back, fine hairs on his arms and neck standing up in fear. But the voice is deep and soft, near velveteen in its nature. Inviting.
Inviting enough for Tim to turn and as he does, the moonlight breaks through the clouds once more. But there is a split second in which he sees something . Something so terrifying his mind discards it, trying to preserve its own sanity. What he sees now , under the moonlight, is a young man, sitting on the shore, half turned and running fingers through his wet hair that curls playfully at the tips and at the nape of his long pale neck.
“Ah, that’s a good lad,” the man singsongs when Tim faces him and a pair of bright amber eyes size Tim up, one long finger tapping the chin as the man smiles. “My, you’ve grown these past few summers.”
“You were - ”
“Watching? Nah. ‘Observing’, more like.”
“There is nothing about me that is worth observing.” Tim says gingerly and it earns him a dismissive scoff.
“Ah, Timofeyushka, Tim… This is where you are oh so very wrong! Come,” the man gestures and when Tim doesn’t move sighs in near exasperation. “ Come here .”
The way the other speaks just now, it makes Tim’s legs move much against his will but there he goes, getting closer and closer to the stranger until he is next to the man, so close he can see the small droplets of water glistening on the almost translucent skin.
“Take a look,” the man touches the surface and it ripples but once the water falls still, Tim sees himself working. Taking care of his mother. Shaking his head apologetically when he can’t join the village festivities.
Day after day. Month after month. Year after-
“But you are her everything, aren’t you?”
Stranger’s voice startles him. The words uttered scare him even more because how would the man know? How would he know his name and any of what was just said?
“Who… Who are you?” He waffles, terrified but the stranger chuckles, looking thoughtful for a moment. He leans back, craning his neck and looking at the stars and then Tim sees it, a jagged faded line running across the neck and just underneath Adam's apple.
“I had a name, once. It has been quite some time since I used it.” Some more humming and the stranger turns towards Tim, flashing him a bright smile akin to a midday sun. “Rysiu, you can call me that.”
“Is that your name, truly? It sounds… Foreign.”
“It is. I didn’t die where I was born.”
That catches Tim by surprise and he eyes the other man, soaking in the beautiful features and desperately trying to replace the sheer terror that is still wiggling in the back of his mind. Of what he thinks he saw. Of what truly sits in front of him.
Nyechyst .
…. Rusalka.
“How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you. More than you yourself, perhaps, do,” Rysiu curls one cold finger under Tim’s chin and lifts the human’s face up, piercing amber eyes roaming the freckled face and lips a gentle smile. “Are you happy?”
Yes.
But the simple word doesn’t get past his lips, the reflections in the pond stirring the thoughts he didn’t think he had. It was about a life he led. It was simple and he thought… He thought he was happy. But the three letters aren’t rolling off his tongue, becoming larger and more uncomfortable with every passing second and eventually Tim does the unspeakable: he swallows thickly and shakes his head.
“Do you want to be?”
A small nod as he presses a hand to his mouth. Scared. Embarrassed. Desperate. Everything comes at once and rusalka’s touch that felt so cold not a moment ago is suddenly warmer than a summer’s day.
“Let me help you,” Rysiu is on his feet, unnaturally graceful as he looks at the human crouching on all fours, trembling like a leaf. He walks into the pond, until the water reaches his narrow waist and beckons slowly. “Come.”
“What… What will you do?” He can’t. Above all he shouldn’t. But the horror is already erased by the way thin lines crinkle around Rysiu’s eyes when he smiles.
“Nothing that you don’t want me to,” rusalka responds, his smile warm and promising exactly what Tim needs. Exactly what he wants. “Now come, Timofeyushka, come to me.”
Freedom. Freedom he didn’t know he didn’t have.
The wet clothes are dragging him down as he slowly wades closer. A lot less graceful than the other man. He remembers the candle in the small window. Someone is waiting for him out there but all of a sudden it’s a burden more than it’s a blessing and the thought gives Tim the final push, stumbling into the outstretched arms that are waiting for him too. Right here. Right now.
Someone who knows him more than he knows himself.
“Tell me what you want.”
“... You.” The tiniest of whispers leaves his mouth as he cuddles up to the chest bereft of a beating heart, head pressed into the cool nook where the neck meets the shoulder. Rysiu laughs jovially and Tim recognizes it, the silver bells in the icy air. Tim’s head is, once again, being lifted by his chin and rusalka is so very close, their noses almost touching.
“As you wish, my sweet little human,” the words land onto Tim’s lips.
Greedy. Longing. Hungry. No breath carries them as Rysiu leans backwards and into the water.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Where the moonlight doesn’t reach.