Mist on Water (2 page)

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N
ature wields a powerful force, a power that holds an overwhelming allure, an unstoppable temptation. For some the temptation is in the destructive force of fire—the need to behold the flame as it smolders and burns, to watch it grow and consume until even their own safety is at risk. For others it’s the power of a storm—the whip of wind, the lash and sting of rain, and the loud crack of thunder punctuated by a dagger of lightning.

For me, the temptation lay in water. I felt the pull of the hypnotic lap and ebb of the lake outside my parents’ house. It projected innocence with the gentle slap and roll of the waves, its fresh scent. Yet sink below its surface and the potential for death awaited with one indrawn breath.

“Ryne,” the boom of my father’s voice filled the crisp morning.

I tore my gaze from the morning light dancing across the ripple and gurgle of the waterfall. I’d come to this quiet nook, as I had since my fifteenth year, where water met air and earth, where the mist hung thick and moss and fern grew a rich green and the water sparkled like stardust. I was not supposed to be so near the water. For as long as I could remember, my parents told me I must stay away. Evil lurked within its dark depths.

Lately, I’d begun to wonder.

My father had walked far in search of me. I didn’t even want to think what would happen if he found me here. I pushed myself from the tree I’d been lazing against and grabbed my bow and arrow before dashing into the forest.

Stealthfully, I made my way through the trees, trailing my father like a hunter would his prey. I stopped short of the clearing where my father had built our house. I could hear my mother’s worried voice.

“Did you find him?”

“I told you I would not,” the strong timbre of his voice answered. “His bow is missing. He has gone a-hunting.”

“Again? He hunts every morn.” This was said with slight irritation.

I paused. Between the thick growth of vegetation encircling our home, I gained a position where I was fairly certain to see my parents without being seen. My father, a thick-bodied and handsome man, stood beside my petite and handsome mother. His gaze swept over the forest, touching on my hiding place without recognition before quickly moving on. I released a ragged breath. With one look, I could tell he wondered where I went every morning, but he was not worried.

He turned his attention back to her. “Hunting is a good skill to possess.”

She worried her apron as her gaze shimmered overly bright. “You checked by the lake. He is not there, is he?”

“No, my sweet. He would not go near the lake. He is near full grown. He knows better than that.”

Guilt squeezed my heart. My father had so much faith in me. If only he knew…

From my hiding place within the thick brush, I saw my mother’s brow wrinkle. “I tell myself that, but I cannot help but think he no longer listens, that the story has become more a bedtime tale than fact.”

My father gathered my mother to him, and she laid her head against his chest. He petted her hair with even, calming strokes. “He knows we speak the truth. He knows.”

Shame at my deception lashed at me, but it was too late to turn back to the lad I’d been. I turned away and crawled deeper into the forest, my bow now slung across my back alongside a full quiver of arrows.

Truth.

It was a fickle thing. Soren swore that when the moon rose full, mice dressed in trews and shirts and danced before his fireplace.

The truth? Once a month, the pub—full moon or not—brought out a new batch of ale yet to be watered down. My father, along with a handful of stout men, carried Soren home, delirious and babbling, and laid him on the floor before the fire, for his wife would have nothing to do with him when he smelt so badly and kicked at shadows.

Then there was Kilen. His eyes were crossed. Not because he awoke to find a faery perched on his nose three years ago as he claimed, but because he’d had wonky, weak eyes ever since he was a lad.

I would like to say my family was not the type to dabble in local superstition. But of them all, my family was the worst. And the story they shared since the day I was born was a story of legend as much as it was of ridicule. It defined who I was and who I would be. And I could not shed its affects no matter what I did…for in my parents’ eyes I was doomed.

1

G
host stories always start out the same—bad blood, bad choices or bad beginnings. Mine encompassed all three. It was told to me that when my parents were young and newly married, my father took all his money and built a house within a stone’s throw of the lake. Remote and private, it sat like a pearl above the pebbles lining the shore. People told him it was unwise. What need did a stonemason have with so much water?

“Your house will flood,” one helpful friend said.

“Wild animals will overrun your garden,” another offered.

True, he risked much so near the cove that would shelter his home. Animal trails littered the ground and flooding was a possibility, but the various reasons his friends gave would not dissuade him, and my father only laughed. “I will hear no more, my good friends. Your advice falls on deaf ears for there is one reason and one alone that steers my labors.”

The men waited in anticipation for that reason, and my father gave it willingly. “It pleases my wife to see such beauty.”

A groan of understanding rose from the group. “A wife will be a man’s downfall if he is not careful,” Soren the thatcher replied, a hidden warning ringing within his words.

My father only smiled. “Not
my
wife, or have you not noticed? She is the prettiest, gentlest, sweetest woman God has ever placed on this earth.”

No man could say different, for my mother had indeed been the most sought after woman within our corner of the world. That my father, a man of good nature, keen wit, and a ready smile, won her heart made him the luckiest man alive. Surely if any dared fate by building by the lake and prospering–though it was well known prosperity was not in God’s plan for our village—my father was that man.

As his friends turned to leave, one tarried. Old man Tiller’s face wreathed in worry. “Stay clear of the water. ‘Tis cursed.”

Old man Tiller was touched in the head, and my father gave the warning little credit. “I am not surprised. Beauty always has a wild side,” he said with a laugh. He knew of the ancient curse that had kept men away from the lake, but my father was not a superstitious man.

Tiller would not be put off so easily. “I am serious. There are things unknown, forgotten in time, but I know. I remember. If you are smart, you’ll heed my words.”

My father’s handsome features grew somber, for he did not wish to seem rude. “I have always treated God’s creation with utmost reverence. I am not worried.”

Old man Tiller eyed my father for a moment and seeing the stubborn streak carved into his character, he shook his head. “Good luck to you then.”

“I’ll not need any, but thank you all the same,” he said, giving the old man’s hand a hearty shake.

That was how most of my father’s conversations went. He announced his intent, his friends issued warnings and my father proved them wrong. He was a man with an abundance of confidence, and rightly so. Not only was he skilled with stone and chisel, but he could use saw and nail as well as plow and hoe. But the soil was poor and yielded little, and a stonemason’s craft is only needed in times of wealth. Our remote village had no claim to money or power. Stubborn as he was, my father would never dream of leaving the place of his birth. So it surprised no one when a few years later, his talents and the lake led him to build a skiff.

The villagers whispered and worried and kept their distance thanks to Old man Tiller and his stories of curses and mysterious sages and unhappily-ever-afters. One drunken word of warning and everyone thought the lake was cursed. Superstition ruled their lives and left them wary. It made no sense to them to court death in a lake no boat in their recollection had ever touched.

All too soon, my father brought my mother to the shore, and to a boat as beautiful as any house he had made.

“What have you here?” my mother said, her hands resting on her gently swelling stomach, a bud of promise, a child desired, but as yet unborn.

My father straightened, the look on his face sober, though hopeful. “Our future.”

She patted her abdomen. “Here is our future.”

He bent and kissed the swell. His gaze locked onto hers. “A certainty, but this will give us security.”

“A boat.”

He stood back and waved to the skiff balanced on sturdy piles of wood. “What say you?”

She tilted her head and ran a hand along the bow. The wood gleamed new and perfect in the damp air. “It’s almost too pretty to put to water. Are you sure it will float?” she asked, a teasing glint to her eye.

He grabbed her aound the waist, pulling a squeal of delight from her and swatted her bottom playfully. “It will. In fact, so pretty is my boat, the fish will jump in just to admire it up close.”

Her eyes shone with love as she brushed a fallen lock from his brow. “Am I to be a fisherman’s wife, then?”

“Aye. And a huntsman’s, and a stonemason’s and a farmer’s.”

“Next will you learn to weave?”

“Find me a loom, and if it brings me pleasure and profit, I see no harm in it.”

She hugged him close. “What did I do that God would bestow such a man on me?”

“Something very good, indeed.” He nuzzled her neck and breathed deep of her sweet scent.

She sighed contentedly, for their life held more than the normal thimble of promise. “Indeed.”

It took my father no time at all to learn his new trade. Lean and smooth, the skiff glided over the water like a whisper, sneaking up on the fish so that he became almost as masterful a fisherman as he was a stonemason. No harm befell him, and the villagers breathed a sigh of relief. Life was good.

One day, while my father cast and recast his net, a sudden pull nearly jerked the net from his fingers. The skiff dipped dangerously, threatening to overturn. Beads of sweat rose on his skin as he hauled the net closer to the boat. He strained and groaned; his nimble fingers working within the netting to bring the contents closer.

As he worked, the slight wind died, yet the clouds overhead grew thick and angry black. A strange mist curled over the water, surrounding his boat. The eeriness of the moment distracted him, and all of a sudden, pain pierced a finger on his right hand. He gasped, and struggling to keep hold of the net with his left hand, he let go with his right and examined the injury. Blood dripped from his finger, dispersing red rings in the dark water where they grew to ever widening swirls. The beasties in this lake had decided to put up a fight.

Irritated now, he quickly forgot the strangeness of the day, gathered the net in his hands and pulled all the harder. When the bulk of the net thudded against the skiff, he looked down…and into the face of a woman peeking through the netting.

He let go and fell back, landing against the opposite side of the skiff.

Had someone murdered the woman and left her to a watery grave? No. Her skin held a creamy perfection and her gaze had stared straight at him and blinked. As the net skittered out of the boat and flopped open beneath the gentle lap and pull of the water, he wiped the blood from his finger and saw six cleanly imprinted teeth marks on the top and bottom of his finger. No fish made those impressions.

He lunged for the side of the skiff and peered overboard. The water slid glassy smooth all around him, clear turquoise for many feet until the depths darkened to midnight. He stared, probing the water for any movement…and then…a strand of raven black hair floated out from beneath the boat. Delicate fingers slipped along the hull, and then the face came into view. A beautiful face. Exquisite in every way. A fantasy. A dream. That’s what this was. He could only stare, bewitched by the beautiful woman staring back at him.

Without thinking, he reached out his hand. He just wanted to touch her, to find reality in the impossible, but as soon as his fingers slipped beneath the surface, she latched onto his hand and pulled. The sharp tug brought him halfway over the edge of the skiff, but my father was no weakling. Stonemasonry had built thick arms and legs, and a broad, heavily muscled torso. He yanked back, understanding her intent immediately.

A nix. A water sprite. An ancient creature of myth. His mind told him such a creature didn’t exist, but his eyes were telling him differently, that he had caught one in his net. He’d dared hunt in her waters and now she wanted revenge–mayhap to make him a slave or feast on his flesh. Those were how the old stories always unfolded. Whatever she wanted, it did not bode well. He had a beloved wife who was heavy with child and a bright future. He would not yield. Yet, no matter how hard he pulled, she would not let go.

Slowly, her dark head crested the water. The mist swirled about her like a living creature. Droplets beaded against her spiked eyelashes and dripped down her skin. Her full, red lips parted and in a singsong voice she said, “It is useless, human, to resist. Come away with me.”

Her silent promise spoke to his heart, but his mind stayed firmly focused on his true love. “I will not give in.”

His unexpected defiance angered her and the nix dug her nails deep into the skin of his forearm, like talons into a helpless rabbit. He grunted back the pain, but would not yield. He focused on his love and prayed for deliverance. Their tug-of-war recommenced, until my father’s shoulder burned and his breath labored. At one point, he managed to pull her against the skiff and snarl into her face, “Rip it from my body, wench, for I will not relinquish the rest.”

As the sun broke through the mist and touched the horizon, it briefly highlighted the doubt that entered her honey-colored eyes. She quickly dove beneath the water and pulled harder. After many long moments, the water caressed her skin as she resurfaced. “There is but one way for you to win.”

Trust a nix? Did she think him a simpleton? “Your scheming will get you naught,” he grunted. Yet, for all his bravado, he was tiring and his arm ached with a deep fire. His whole being was engulfed in the effort to keep himself in the boat. He knew not how much longer he could hold on.

She gave his arm a quick tug as if to gain his attention. “Give me a boon from your cottage, something most precious to you, and I will set you free.”

His frown deepened. Most precious? He owned very little of value. What shiny bangle did she mean? “I have nothing you would want.”

“It is a risk I will take. Promise me, human…and I shall let you go. But be true, for to promise a nix and then not carry through will curse you forever.”

The burn intensified. A groan filled with pain escaped. He saw no clear way of refusal. What cared he if she took a bracelet or his favorite knife or even this skiff, which he prized above all he possessed? He would be free. “Done.”

A sudden smile flashed across her face. A jolt of energy surged up his arm and through his body a second before her nails sprang from his forearm, and he fell to the bottom of his boat. He cradled his arm to his side. Pain seared his mind and blood flowed freely. Gulping deeply of the coming night air, he ripped his shirt and bound his arm. This was all a dream. It must be. He had stayed on the lake too long. Exhaustion and lack of water had infected his mind. Yet, when next he looked, his skiff skimmed roughly against the sand and rocks. Somehow, his boat had drifted ashore. He looked behind him and to the water that had grown dark and menacing.

A head rose above the lake. The sun caused a fiery halo to surround the wild hair whipping in the wind. “Remember your promise. I shall come for my boon soon. Amid the mist hovering above the water, I will take it from you.”

And with that, she was gone. Almost instantaneously, the sky cleared and the mist receded.

His heart pounded within his chest. He laid back, his skin oddly hot, his vision unfocused. No one would believe him, not even his wife. He lay there for untold minutes. Time rippled past until he gathered enough strength to look toward the house. Its masonry walls gleamed like polished marble in the setting light and seemed miles away instead of only a few yards. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled from the boat and fell to his knees. The world swam before him as he hugged his limp arm to his side. He bent his head to his chest and willed himself to move, but his body would not obey. Light flickered in the window of his cottage, drawing his attention, and again, he gritted his teeth and lunged to his feet. As night extinguished the light of day, a small cry filled the night.