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.
Showing posts with label water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label water. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Season of the Witch part 11
Three days.
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
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