Chapter Text
The mud gave an unpleasant squelch and yielded beneath his cold feet as he stepped down. Clinging to the protruding planks for support, Nikolai slowly lowered himself onto the damp ground; then, moving carefully so as not to lose his footing, he stepped aside and looked around.
At first, he was utterly bewildered to find himself not in his own home—where he had fallen asleep only a short while ago—but rather in this dark, damp little hut. Once he had stepped outside, a thought flashed through the young man’s mind: someone, for some unknown reason, must have carried him to a house on the outskirts of the village. But why? That was a good question. The *volkhv*—the village seer—lived in a similar sort of dwelling. Had he been taken to him? Yet that guess proved incorrect; judging by the soil and the trees growing nearby, there had to be a body of water—or, more likely, a swamp—right around the corner. The nearest stream to the village lay a considerable distance away, and there certainly shouldn't be any water this close to a hut.
Strange.
Turning around, Nikolai finally realized exactly what he had just walked out of. The young man could scarcely believe his eyes; he recoiled, covering his mouth with his hand in sheer astonishment. Standing before him was a small, wretched hovel perched on slender stumps—windowless, and with a door that hung askew, knocked off-kilter by a mere touch of a frail hand. Moss had sprouted across the dilapidated roof, and the timber used for its construction had turned black and sodden with damp.
Still backing away in terror, Nikolai suddenly broke into a run. His feet churned through the wet mire, while his long, knee-length white tunic snagged against the birch branches that drooped low toward the ground. Fear screamed an echo in his temples: "You must reach the village! Find your father! That is where you will find help!" Although Nikolai did not know exactly which part of the forest he had been buried in, nor how to find his way out, he could sense the direction he needed to take to reach the village. He placed his blind trust in his inner instincts, and they led him onward—past small clearings, gentle hillocks, and massive boulders as tall as himself. He was pursued by an endless succession of identical trees; the scenery barely changed at all. The young man stepped on a patch of red lingonberries, and they burst beneath his foot. The soft moss felt like something magical after the sharp, jagged stones.
And then, just as Nikolai was beginning to lose hope, something resembling the houses of his home village appeared in the distance. As he headed toward the silhouettes of those familiar huts, the young man shuddered; he was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—swamped by a tidal wave of despair and joy, hope and disillusionment. Panic pounded heavily against his temples. The ground beneath his feet grew wetter and wetter. The young man lowered his gaze and realized that he had been running for some time through a vast, shallow pool of water—and the closer he drew to the village, the larger that pool became.
The air reeked of decay and rot. Upon finally entering the village, Nikolai glanced around in alarm; never before had it been so deserted. Usually, one could hear the ringing laughter of children, the chatter of men, or the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith at work drifting in from somewhere nearby; from the neighboring clearing, the bleating of sheep would always carry over—shepherd Dobran, a good acquaintance of Nikolai’s, would always lead them out there to graze. But now, absolute silence reigned supreme.
The young man ventured deeper into the village, emerging onto the main street, yet even there, not a soul was in sight—nothing but utter stillness. His feet were still submerged in water; the liquid now reached up to his ankles. Nasty mud clung to his feet, but Nikolai no longer paid it any mind at all.
What had happened to the village?
The question that sprang into his head made him quicken his pace. Nikolai ran toward his home—toward his father. Their cottage stood at a distance from the forest, closer to the heart of the village; it was quite old, yet sturdy. Scrambling up the logs—softened by the rain—that served as their steps, the young man yanked at the door, and it swung open with a soft creak.
The cottage was empty.
Only now did Nikolai notice how ragged his breathing had become from the run. Gasping for air, he slowly stepped inside and called out:
"Father?"
There was no reply. His call vanished silently into the stillness, unheard by anyone.
Everything around him looked as if the house had been abandoned ages ago. The stove was cold, belongings lay scattered across the floor, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling.
"Father?" the young man called out again, though this time noticeably softer.
Nikolai rushed back out of the house, letting the heavy door slam behind him, and headed for the neighboring cottage—that of Zareslav the blacksmith, with whom his father had always been close. Knocking nervously, he burst into the cottage without waiting for the owner to answer. He was met only by emptiness; neither Zareslav nor his wife was there. The stove had collapsed through the floorboards. The floor itself was damp and rotting; when the young man took a careless step, one of the planks gave way easily beneath him, yielding like soft clay.
Sniffling, the frightened youth ran on. Dobran’s house, too, proved to be empty and abandoned—just like the Elder’s house, toward which Nikolai headed next. Silence reigned over the village. Everything here was submerged; the paths had turned into muddy rivulets in which Nikolai’s cold feet sank deep. The young man shivered, wrapped his arms around himself, and—nervously adjusting his fair hair—hurried toward the sorcerer’s house, clinging to his last shred of hope. The dwelling stood slightly apart from the other houses and was the only one facing the forest—for it was believed that in this way, the sorcerer would more quickly sense any danger emanating from forest spirits and demons, and thus be able to take action. The villagers held the sorcerer in awe—even feared him a little—yet they never doubted his powers; he served as both a healer and a warder against dark forces, protecting the inhabitants.
*Knock, knock, knock.* Nikola tapped cautiously, but heard no response. Expecting to find the same scene he had witnessed in the other cottages, the young He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior of the house was cleaner; the dampness and grime had barely touched it. Wooden talismans hung upon the walls—round wooden plaques with runes neatly burned into them. Among them, the young man recognized the *Kolyadnik*, the *Rodimich*, the *Molvinets*, Perun’s Axe, and the Star of Lada—it seemed the *Volkhv* had hoped to shield himself from every conceivable calamity at once. Several dolls lay upon a bench. These were the kind the villagers crafted when they wished to offer thanks for a favor received. Mikola himself had recently fashioned a similar one for the wedding of an acquaintance—it was tradition. Near the stove lay a scattering of flowers and fern fronds. "Volkhv?" Nikolai called out hopefully, but his only answer was silence. The air was foul; remaining inside the *Volkhv’s* home was difficult—a headache was already beginning to throb—so the young man hastened back outside. Once back in the street, he surveyed the village once more. He surveyed the empty, abandoned village. Nikolai no longer paid any heed to the mud beneath his feet or the puddles scattered about. Deafened by the silence, he noticed nothing else around him. It was unclear what to do next—where to go, or how to go on living. A multitude of questions swarmed through his mind: where had the villagers gone? What had befallen the village? And how, exactly, had Nikolai himself ended up entombed within a plague-house? Behind him, something rustled. He turned to look, but saw nothing. Sitting down on a bench beside one of the houses, the young man drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them tight. Darkness was gathering all around; a thick mist hung in the air. His fair, damp hair had become tangled, and his blue eyes grew misty with tears. Despair gave way to utter desolation, and Mikola shuddered. A rustling sound arose behind him once again. The young man sprang abruptly to his feet and ran toward the sound. Perhaps it would lead him to some answers? Following the sound, he dashed out of the village and hurried after its source. He certainly hadn't imagined it—he could clearly see someone running ahead of him. Yet, amidst the trees and dense foliage, it was nearly impossible to make out who it was. All the young man could tell was that this person was short in stature—perhaps just a mere boy. The mud beneath his feet grew scarcer; the vast puddle in which the village stood was left far behind. Dusk was falling; the trees grew taller—more mighty, more ancient. Some were already rotting away and looked as if they might topple to the ground at any moment, meeting their final end. The rocky terrain gave way to lush moss, into which his feet sank deep. Upon reaching the bank of a small river, Nikolai realized that, no matter how hard he had tried to keep a close watch on the figure he was chasing, he had lost sight of him nonetheless. Adjusting his white shirt and brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, the young man approached the water; crouching down on the bank, he dipped his feet in, trying to catch his breath after his run. Surprisingly—despite the time he had spent wading through mud and puddles—his feet were absolutely spotless. His dash across the rocks had left not a single scratch or abrasion on his bare soles. A miracle—nothing less. Spotting a small lingonberry bush, the youth began plucking the tiny red berries from its branches. As expected, they were tart—yet delicious. "Hey there, handsome! Why the long face?" a voice called out from somewhere behind him. It seemed to Nikolai that he was utterly alone here; thus, upon hearing someone nearby, he instantly spun around in fright. Standing close by—crouched low and smiling sweetly at him—was a young woman. The first thing that caught the lad’s eye was her enormous black eyes, devoid of any whites. What stood before him was no human. Nikolai let out a cry and leaped into the water—there was simply nowhere else to retreat to. "The Unclean love the water," the words of the sorcerer immediately flashed through his mind; terrified out of his wits, the young man surfaced and struck out toward the opposite bank. Scrambling out of the water, he collapsed onto the ground and fixed his gaze upon the girl, gasping for breath. "Where are you going?" the creature asked; she smiled slyly at first, but then her brow furrowed, as if sensing something unusual. "Don't come any closer!" Nikolai shouted at her, instinctively scrambling further away. The maiden sat down on the bank, dipping her slender legs into the water. "Why do you fear me? Would one such as you truly be afraid of us?" "Who are you?" the youth asked in a steady voice. The girl before him looked very young—and distinctly *other*. It was plain to see: she was one of the Unclean. It seemed that her curling hair had once been as fair as Nikolai’s, but now it had taken on a greenish hue. Bits of fine algae and silt were tangled within it, and the very first thing she did upon sitting down was begin to comb them out with her fingers. She wore a wet, semi-transparent white shift. Were it not for those terrifying black eyes, one might well have taken her for an ordinary girl. "Can't you tell just by looking at me?" — She blinked in surprise, drawing her fingers away from her hair. — A Kupavka? — Nikolai answered his own question, and, startled by the simple truth of it, he scrambled even further away. — Yes, a Kupavka, — the spirit nodded. — You may call me by my name—Gita. — Gita swished her legs through the greenish water and smiled. — And what is your name, handsome? — Her question went unanswered, so the Kupavka added: — I won’t hurt you; don’t be afraid of me. "Nikola", the young man whispered, tensing up even more. "You won’t hurt me? There are all sorts of rumors circulating about your kind in the village—oh, yes. Your hands reach not only for young men but for young women, too. You even lay hands on the girls." "Nikolai…" Gita smiled, as if savoring the name on her tongue. "I won’t take yo..my soul." “Really?” The young man shivered. “I could cast my spells upon you, but they wouldn’t take effect.” “But surely...” “You are not human—you cannot give me your soul,” Gita continued, cutting him off. “Come now, give me your soul, Mikola; give it to me...” Gita dove into the water and slowly swam toward him. Without leaving the water, she continued to gaze at her guest, smiling all the while. “Give me your soul...” Nikolai shivered. “I *am* human...” “You?” Gita laughed. She stepped out of the water and sat down on the bank, still making no move to get too close to her new acquaintance. “You are undead, Nikolai—undead. Today is the Day of Karna. I am still young—not even thirty yet. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen the dead become something more than just a listless wraith on this day...” “What are you talking about?” Nikolai flinched, hugging his knees to his chest. He understood what Gita was getting at. The Day of Karna—the day of the goddess of grief and sorrow. When it arrived, the villagers would make their way to the *morovye izby*—the burial huts where their relatives lay interred—and leave two flowers on the threshold: one for Karna, and the other for her sister, Zhelya. Afterward, they would proceed to the shrine and light bonfires so that the souls of the departed might find warmth amidst the gloom and cold of Navi. At night, they would leave bowls of wheat *kutia* mixed with honey upon their tables, wishing to offer their gratitude to Karna for all she did on behalf of the dead. Ever since childhood, this festival had raised many questions in Nikolai’s mind. Chief among them was this: how had his mother died, and where was *her* burial hut? "Just like that," Gita chuckled again. "There’s nothing human about you." Nikolai could not tear his astonished gaze away from the water nymph. Furrowing his brows, he pondered her words, while she neither interrupted nor drew any closer. "Prove it." "Prove it?" The rusalka widened her dark eyes in surprise. "If I told you to try drowning yourself, you’d assume I was trying to kill you and claim your soul." She watched Nikolai’s reaction closely. "But you wouldn’t drown. The undead do not sink." The young man remained motionless, hesitating to make a move, while Gita tactfully refrained from rushing him. Something rustled in the bushes, causing them both to turn around. From somewhere within, a small, hunched-over creature—resembling a dark-green ball perched on long, crooked legs—scurried out. Nikolai let out a sound of disgusted surprise. "Voy!" the water nymph called out. The creature ran up to her and nuzzled against her slender hand, demanding to be petted. "Hey, you—don't be afraid," she laughed. "This is Voy; he’s a *shishiga*." Nikolai had heard tales of *shishigas* from his elders many times, yet he had always dismissed them as mere fables—nonsense used solely to frighten children. It was said that *shishigas* could dwell in bathhouses, behind stoves, or near bodies of water. His father had often warned him that *shishigas* would carry off disobedient children—and, furthermore, that they could lure a traveler deep into the woods and leave him to wander lost, much like the *leshy*. Perhaps it was just such a creature that had led Nikolai here. "Oh, don't be afraid of him, handsome," Gita smiled. "He won't hurt you. Go ahead—give him a pat." Voy was very affectionate. With his crooked legs, Voy hopped over to Nikolai, who cautiously extended his palm toward him. The *shishiga* immediately slid beneath it and rubbed his crown against it, as if he were not a slimy creature, but a fluffy cat. The young man jerked his hand back—to the touch, the *shishiga* felt just like a wet toad. Voy snorted, baring his crooked, sharp little teeth; then he flopped onto the ground and began rolling around like a rag ball—the kind little children usually play with. Gita laughed again. "Look at that—he likes you." "Is he... your pet?" Nikolai asked, warily inching away a little further; he had no desire for this undead creature to brush against him during its antics. "Something like that," the *kupavka* nodded, then abruptly changed the subject, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes. "How did you come back to life? Did someone help you?" The young man frowned, hugged his knees, and rested his head upon them. The *kupavka* neither touched him nor approached him, which brought a measure of calm to his soul. Yet, one thing still troubled him deeply. He did not want to listen to—or believe—the mermaid’s words; after all, she could easily be lying. The Plague Hut... the Day of Karna... Gita’s claims seemed entirely logical and well-founded, provided one viewed things from a certain perspective. How could one trust the Unclean? Gita had strongly implied that Mikola had been buried some time ago, but that, just today, someone had resurrected him. Who? And what, exactly, was Mikola now considered to be? One of the undead, as the *kupavka* had claimed? But what *kind* of undead, then? Was he a mermaid, too—or something else entirely? Perhaps now he was simply a spirit, destined to wander for countless years to come... Noticing the pensive look on her new acquaintance’s young face, Gita asked: "How did you die? Perhaps the answer lies there?" "I don't know," the youth admitted, for some reason dropping his voice to a whisper. "I don't remember. All I recall is falling asleep in my hut and waking up here, in the Realm of the Dead." "It is curious what must have befallen you, that you cannot recall your own death. All spirits of the departed remember how they perished." "And do *you* remember?" the young man asked, lifting his gaze to fix it upon the water nymph. "I do remember—but that is none of your concern." Nikolai nodded in understanding. He had heard that water nymphs were, in fact, the spirits of drowned maidens. Perhaps the memories of her death were something deeply painful for Gita—something she had no desire to revisit. Suddenly, the young man even felt a pang of regret for having asked the nymph such a question. Slowly rising to his feet, he turned to head back...