Witch of the Lake

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The fairies fled, bolted in myriad directions among leaves and trees. Brygida spun toward the voice, which carried across lilac bushes and ramsthorn shrubs before the black glass surface of the lake.

A young man stood before a wooden stand of some kind. His light-blond hair was disheveled, tousled by either his paint-speckled hand or that of the wind. His broad shoulders tapered down a long, lean frame to narrow hips.

Her gaze dropped to the sword belted at his waist. A warrior? Who else would dare venture here, to her lake, to her witchlands, to ancient Iga Mrok’s grave and home, where worship and vengeance slumbered beneath the water?

None but witches and the occasional monster hunter walked here, or warriors who did not yet understand whom they pursued.

Was this—was this a village man? The danger Mama had always warned her about?

Her fingers clutched the vial of lake water at her neck. If he posed a risk, she had but to venture into the Mroczne waters to be at her full power.

As his gaze followed her line of sight all the way to his sword, his eyes widened. Slow as moonrise, he reached for the weapon, untied it from his belt, and set the sheathed blade on the ground.

“Friend,” he enunciated slowly and loudly, holding his hands palm up. “Not here to”—he shook his head—“hurt you.” He indicated the sword upon the ground and pushed it farther away with his booted foot.

With an exasperated breath, she crossed her arms. “I’m not deaf. Nor am I ignorant of the common tongue.”

His mouth curved in a half-smile. He tilted his head and raised a pale eyebrow. “My mistake. Forgive me.”

Mama had warned her about the manipulations of men, most especially village men, and she wasn’t about to trust his honeyed voice or exaggerated gestures just because he had a handsome face.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He tipped his head toward the wooden frame, upon which sat a board of some kind.

Squinting, she could discern a few splotches of color… No, the silvery glass-like surface of the lake, the greenery of the ramsthorn, grasses, and hints of lilac blooms beneath a blue-gray sky.

Foliage crunched beneath her boots as she neared, the image coming into focus. It was vibrant, more beautiful than any drawing she’d ever seen.

Mamusia had taught her to make pigments and paints, and together, they’d painted flowers inside the cottage, on the walls, on the doors, even on the shelves in the cellar. But never anything like this.

“It’s not finished,” he said abruptly, eyeing her with a sparkling blue gaze, “but I’m to receive more paints tomorrow, so it won’t be much longer.”

More paints? “The ramsthorn,” she whispered under her breath.

“Hm?” The low hush of his voice was close, and as she glanced over to him, he was only a couple feet away. Like an enchanted fool, she’d come right up to him. Or rather, his painting.

With a few steps back, she looked him over. It was not often a man sought the wares of the Mrok witches, and certainly never in her presence, but this man’s cloth was finely woven, his coat a rich celandine yellow, many shades deeper than his golden hair. And around his neck, a silver chain dropped to a large stone of dark amber, a ward against the evil eye and other dark forces. Well to do, and a believer in the craft. And most certainly from the village.

“Your song,” he said softly, pensively. “It was lovely.” His blue eyes equally soft, he met her gaze. “If you keep singing, I’ll keep painting.” He winked.

What was—? Did all strangers speak so freely upon first meeting? Most of the villagers never saw her, and those who did either pretended they hadn’t or fled. The only time any Mrok witch walked among their kind was in service of Iga Mrok, first of her name, hand of Mokosza, mistress of Mroczne Lake, and lady of the rusałki on these witchlands… when a woman died at the hands of injustice, and vengeance would have her say.

Holy Mokosza was the protector of all women, and since the first Mrok witch had called this lake home, the entire line had served Mokosza in Her aspect as the goddess of death. Although Czarnobrzeg worshipped Her as any pious settlement did, most people were doubtless disturbed by the hermit witches who were tasked with sacrificing murderers to the lake. This painter included.

Fortunately, no women had been murdered in her lifetime, by the grace of the Mother.

The sky clouded over the early evening grayness, and Brygida swallowed over the lump in her throat. No one but Mama and Mamusia had ever heard her singing, much less deemed it lovely. But it didn’t take all day to gather honeysuckle and ramsthorn… the latter of which she’d already forgotten.

She’d definitely get the switch tonight.

With a furrowed brow, the painter tilted his head, watching her.

Her breath quickened. Mroczne Lake was home to the water-dwelling and deadly rusałki, but far more dangerous things walked these lands in the dark, and apparitions of the wood’s dream, leading wanderers astray or worse. It would be a pity for this young man to encounter them—if only because naive villagers had an unfortunate habit of pointing fingers at forces they did not comprehend.

If the wood’s dreams found him here, he’d be in trouble. But if her mothers found him, he’d be in even worse trouble...

“Don’t linger by the lake after dusk,” she said, by way of good-bye to the painter, and departed for the cottage.

“Will you be at the feast tomorrow night?” he called, turning from the painting. “You should come.”

She opened her mouth but did not answer. Both of her mothers forbade her approaching the village, let alone joining in their events. Ignoring him, she headed back for the cottage.

Two years ago, in a fit of foolishness, she’d sewn a linen dress of the Mrok violet but lined with a drab village brown lent by ramsthorn bark, along with a matching headscarf for her auburn hair. She had but to turn the dress inside out to blend in, or so she hoped, although there was no article of clothing that could hide her violet eyes.

Once, she had entertained the idiotic notion of venturing into Czarnobrzeg in disguise, but Mama and Mamusia had taught her better. That, and there wouldn’t be enough switches to deliver the punishment Mama would want to hand down. Mama loved her, but sometimes her protection could be stifling. The switch didn’t hurt anymore, not since years ago, but disappointing Mama always stung.

As Brygida traced the rim of the lake toward the cottage, she hastily plucked any ramsthorn in her path. Mokosza willing, it would be enough to content Mama.

A tiny flame winked in the distance, a candle set in the window to guide her home, and she followed it through myrtle leaves and overgrown grasses. All was quiet outside the ash-wood cottage.

Brygida froze. Mamusia always hummed or sang and Mama constantly murmured under her breath as she worked. Mokosza’s loom, they were already waiting for her. Had to be.

Brygida took three deep breaths, raised her head, and smiled. All was well. All would be well. She would just have to explain why she’d lost track of time… and not mention that she’d run into a man from the village that they’d warned her was dangerous and she should stay away from. Or that she’d been watching the village again… Or anything other than gathering ingredients.

With a brightness she didn’t feel, she opened the door and quickly turned to shut it. “The sun certainly set early today, didn’t it? One moment I was enjoying some honeysuckle, and the next, it was almost dark.”

Untying her apron, she faced the table, where Mama sat unamused with the switch on her lap, her frown and green-stained fingers in stark relief to her perfect posture and dark-red braid, with nary a single hair out of place.

“And while you spent the day dallying, guess who had to gather the ramsthorn?” Mama raised her eyebrows.

“I—”

“And prepare it?”

“Well—”

“And make the pigment?”

Mama did so much of the work around the cottage, and she should have been the last person tasked to finish additional chores. Although Mamusia tended the garden and animals herself, it was Mama who gathered and split the firewood, repaired anything and everything, dried the herbs, did the cooking and cleaning. It was Mama who spoke to any villagers seeking remedies, midwifery, or last rites.

“I’m sorry,” Brygida offered. “I got carried away.”

Mama shook her head. “Did you get carried away with the plants, or with the village?”

Brygida’s mouth dropped open. Shutting it quickly, she took the honeysuckle and ramsthorn she’d gathered to their workspace. “I would never set foot in the village.”

It was completely true, if not exactly the answer to Mama’s question.

Mama huffed under her breath.

Next to the workspace, the altar boasted all manner of offerings to Mokosza, from fine needlework to spools of woolen thread and clumps of rye. And above it were some of the many things that made the Mrok witches outsiders. The Scythe of the Mother and the Belt of the Golden Spider, with its long red linen yarns hanging loose, part of the regalia used for their duties as Mokosza’s Reapers of Death. In all her years, she had never seen their purpose bloom, but being a Mrok witch was isolating enough without walking through the village wielding a giant scythe and wearing a spider belt of red yarns.

“Oh, leave her be, Ewa,” Mamusia chided gently from her loom, her voice airy and light as always. Tonight her attention swayed in the webs of her threads, leaving only a wisp of her to chime into the discussion. “We’ve taught her well. Now we must trust her.”

“I’ll trust her when I know she’s not ogling young men from the village,” Mama shot back, receiving an ephemeral, exasperated smile from Mamusia before she returned to her weaving.

Mama knew about the man at the lake?

Brygida’s breath caught in her throat, and her gaze darted to the switch on Mama’s lap. Mokosza’s golden spider save her. “I wasn’t ‘ogling’ him, Mama. I didn’t think any villager would dare linger by the lake, but he heard me singing and—”

Linen swished as Mama rose from her chair. The switch fell to the floor. “You did what?”

Brygida raised her eyebrows as she met Mama’s wide green eyes. “I—I…”

“You spoke with a village man? What was he doing here? What did he say to you?” The color drained from Mama’s face. “He could have hurt you!”

“No, Mama, he immediately put his sword down—”

“He had a sword? Here?” Mama took a couple steps closer to her, blinking over those wide eyes.

Brygida swung her head from side to side. “No, it wasn’t like that. He was only painting the lake, and—”

“Him.” Shutting her eyes, Mama took a deep breath and forced out a sharp exhalation. “I told you he was trouble, Liliana,” she called over her shoulder to Mamusia, who shrugged happily.

“A young man buying paints hardly seems a threat,” Mamusia answered lightly, in her singsongy voice.

So the painter had already been coming here, and her mothers had… had hidden him from her? Mama and Mamusia had been blessed with good fortune to meet one another, and yet they had made sure she couldn’t meet someone?

It was Mama’s perpetual fear that she’d meet a man and that the long years free of murder would be interrupted by the death of a Mrok witch. Brygida’s own. Mamusia had woken from a nightmare once, a vision of a man gripping Brygida’s neck, and that had been the beginning and end of the discussion.

But their protection hadn’t only isolated her from men. It had isolated her from everything.

“He could’ve bought paints in the village. Or ordered them from the city of Tarnowice, but he came here of all places,” Mama replied. “I told you he was suspicious. Now we know what he’s after.” Her face tight, Mama turned back to Brygida and pulled her into an embrace.

Brygida rested her head on Mama’s shoulder, although every protest in the world clambered like jasmine to escape. Mama wouldn’t hear it, and neither would Mamusia. They’d warned her about the villagers since she’d been a child, and even the most innocuous of encounters were considered risks and threats. They couldn’t see past Mamusia’s nightmare to acknowledge her dream, that maybe home wouldn’t be so lonely for her after all.

Maybe someday, someday, her fall would come, something beyond distant curiosities and every corner of the wood. She could never marry, of course, but… but she wouldn’t have to be alone. There could be someone for her to share her life with, the way Mama and Mamusia did.

“My child, this world is a dangerous place for our kind,” Mama whispered to her, hugging her tightly. “I know caprice is the lifeblood of youth, but please, heed the wisdom of our years, because we have lived the words we give you. And they are for your protection, Brygida.”

She loved them both, but their views would never change, even when confronted with facts to the contrary. She’d met a man from the village today, and he hadn’t been dangerous as her mothers had always claimed. That, and they’d said no one in the village would ever want her there.

The painter had invited her. If Mama and Mamusia had been wrong about those two things, couldn’t they be wrong to forbid her from going to the village? Perhaps the villagers would welcome her with open arms. Perhaps the wall of fear could finally be dismantled, and Mrok witches could pass the Perun-struck oak into the outside, to the others, to the unknown every day, not just when Mokosza’s justice had to be done.

If she did nothing, the witchlands she loved so much would someday become her cage, and the Perun-struck oaks her bars, and the ramsthorn-brown lined dress and headscarf would remain in a parcel under her bed.

Unless she proved to them the nightmare had been wrong.

By going to the feast.