Season of the Witch part 19

Morgan and Xen had been digging for half an hour through ancient transcripts and texts.  When the little ones complained of hunger, Morgan gave them packets of fruit snacks and told them to go play again.  But she knew that sooner or later they would have to go home.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat.  She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose.  Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes!  Look down there!”  Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless.  But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.

“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden.  But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was.  They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple.  They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly.  “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”  After a pause, Xen became perturbed.  “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…”  She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy. 
She nodded slowly.  “You’re probably right.”  Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table.  “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”

***

It was quiet up here.  Nothing but the wind, and the occasional bird, and the repetitive motion of paddling the mortar through the air (Calla’s arms had finally stopped aching after every trip she took in it), and wisps of clouds overhead.  No need to think.  Just row, and stare out at the vast Russian landscape.  Focus on what you can control, not on the fact that you’re a useless weakling who can’t even stand up to the most powerful witch in Russia.
Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga.  But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once.  Sort of.  She’d pushed him into a cage.  Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power.  Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga.  Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it.  Useless.


I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed.  New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.*  Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case.  He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.


Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water.  The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.


Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked.  Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.


But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time.  She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong.  It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water.  Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere!  Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.”  After a second, Calla added, “Please.”


She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished.  Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of.  But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help.  Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?


Pavel froze.  He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear.  But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells.  Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there.  It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use.  She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still.  She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief.  Yes.  Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was.  He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree.  He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant.  If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences.  Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.

*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.

Season of the Witch part 13

Even though she was afraid, and remembering that even though she could swim a little, she was not very adept at it yet, Calla was not willing to give up that easily.  Before the creature could go very far from the surface, she kicked out; even though the water forced her to move more slowly, she felt her shoe connect hard with something.  There was a bellow of pain in her ear, and one of the hands started to release her.  She took advantage of it, and wiggled her left arm free of the lasso, sending a concentrated blast of power over her shoulder at whatever had ahold of her.  Much to her relief, despite it not being a lethal or even hurtful blast, it enabled her to break free, clawing her way to the surface.


She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up.  However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again.  Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place.  In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*


Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky.  And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was.  Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.


It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man.  He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands.  Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair.  And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.


After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes.  And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions.  They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now.  And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy.  It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive.  When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.


Drown her!  He had no such intention!  The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship.  He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy.  She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail.  Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked.  He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…


She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel.  He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it.  And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.


Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now.  Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them.  But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.


Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.

*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better.  It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions.  A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs.  Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something.  A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.