Rusalka

On this midsummer morning the lake is a sheet of silver under the rising sun and the air smells of lingonberries and wild roses. Water laps at the sides of Dima’s little boat as we glide across the lake, eyeing each other like two wolves circling a kill.

I know. And he knows that I know.

Just about this time last year, on a bright morning like this one, Dima the ferryman walked out of the shallows on the lakeshore with a face like stone and a sodden bundle in his arms. People muttered and whispered and crossed themselves as he carried Lyuba up the path to the village, her hair trailing over his hands like sea wrack and her dress dripping water on his heavy fisherman’s boots.

She was waiting for him by the shore, he said, when she slipped on the rocks and fell in. But he, returning from carrying a couple of laborers across the lake, was too far out to save her.

After the service, people milled and chattered in the churchyard.

“An accident, they said. You think?”

“Course it was. They put her here in hallowed ground.”

“And with her wedding next Sunday too. So much to live for.”

“Poor Dima. Got his house all ready for his new wife.”

“Poor Dima.”

“What will Father Kiril do for a housekeeper now?”

“Maybe now she’s a - you know,” murmured Vanya the carpenter, glancing back to be sure Father Kiril had gone.

“Rusalka,” whispered Oleg’s granny, and the other old women nodded in unison.

“Hush now!” hissed Alyosha the carter’s fat auntie. “We don’t talk about those things. We’re Christian people.”

“Her soul’s in heaven now,” said the butcher’s sharp faced daughter. “Not down there in the bottom of the lake.”

And now and then, somebody would think to pat my shoulder or squeeze my hand - “your only sister, dear, how sad.” But I was left to drown alone in my grief and rage at the unruly hand of God.

As that awful summer faded into fall, I took Lyuba’s place, cooking and cleaning for Father Kiril. It made me feel somehow closer to her. As for Dima, I saw him rarely as winter laid a sheet of ice across our lake and he traded his boat for sledges and skis.

But I remembered what Oleg’s old granny had said, and once in the market I stopped her to talk.

“Babushka, do you remember?” I began. “At my sister’s grave, you said -“

The old woman peered up at me, black eyes sharp as a crow’s. “I remember. Rusalka.”

Every child in this oblast has grown up with stories of the rusalki, the spirits of the lake. The old tales say they’re made from the souls of unwanted children - or young women drowned in foul play.

“But - ” I said, drawing her further into the shadows by the stable. “They aren’t real. And even they are - it was an accident.”

Oleg’s granny clutched her cloak tighter against the wind. “Maybe. Maybe not. How can we know for sure? My Oleg sailed with Dima the day before. When Oleg spoke of the wedding and how happy he must be, Dima scowled and turned away. Then he spat into the water.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come. I kissed the granny’s withered cheek and walked slowly back to Father Kiril’s little house behind the church. I needed to tidy his rooms before starting supper.

The priest’s spartan bedroom was easy to straighten and sweep. But dust was gathering on the little table by his bed, and so I took a cloth to the pile of books and papers there. I moved the stack gently to one side, but a bit too far, and the books slid onto the floor.

The cover of the topmost one flew open, and a white thing fell out from between its pages. I picked it up: a small square of white cloth, embroidered round the edges with my clumsy stitching. I pressed it to my nose and inhaled the scent of Lyuba’s soap.

Click of a latch: the door swung open on Father Kiril’s stricken face. We stared at one another in grief and sudden understanding. Then he plucked the kerchief from my fingers and tucked it into the pocket of his habit. “My books have taken a tumble, I see,” he said briskly, and set about gathering them up.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not about the books.

Father Kiril nodded. “I’m going to the church. I’ll be back soon.”

We never spoke of that moment again. But all through the winter, I watched, and I waited, and pieced together memories: Lyuba’s face, bright with laughter as she told me something Father Kiril had said, Dima’s glowering look as she walked over the hill to her workday. Some days, I took Oleg’s granny fresh baked bliny and lingonberry jam, and we talked of the rusalki.

And so, on this shimmering summer morning, I am the sole passenger in Dima’s boat, riding across the lake to visit Artem’s mother’s cousin who’s doing poorly. As we skim along toward the other shore, we stare each other down, waiting for what comes next.


I decide.

“It was just about here, wasn’t it?” I say. “Where you pushed her in.”

Dima glares but doesn’t bother to deny it. Why should he? He’s sure I won’t be coming home.

“I was going to give her everything,” he snaps. “Everything. What did that priest have to offer? Vow of poverty, his nose in a book all the time. She laughed. Always laughing! And she said if I doubted her love, how could we be married! And so —“

The boat begins to rock, for all the water’s still and the day calm. Dima grips the oars tighter, fighting for control. “Bitch,” he snarls. “Go meet your sister in hell!”

He swings the oar up, aiming for my head. The boat slews sideways. Caught off balance, Dima pitches over the side. Cursing, he paddles furiously. But something sleek and white ghosts up beside him, and then another, and another, drawing him down into the dark waters beneath.

Streaks of blood spiral up, spreading across the lake. As I reach for the remaining oar, a pale hand, cool as a fish, clasps my own. I glance down into the face of the rusalka. She smiles, with just a drop of blood at the corner of her mouth.

“Well done, sister.”

Behind the Scenes: This story is based on the legend of the rusalki, or water spirits, from Slavic folklore, with just a couple of tweaks. The main story does take place on a boat, with help from the extended flashback in the middle!