The Musing of R. L. Frymire

Krym Mountains – 1704

‘I long for my dear beloved…’

Yakiv Stepanovych Rybak—the son of Stepan the fisherman—jerked his head up and around at the unexpected disturbance, feeling the fine hairs at the back of his neck prickling. He stood at the river’s edge, surrounded by forest and scattered rocks. Wisps of mist caressed the mountainous terrain, and in the low, gray light of predawn, the source of the sound lay hidden.

‘If only he yearned for me.’

A voice on the wind, singing. Faintly heard. Yet the words carried, penetrating deep to wrap around his senses, when a denser shadow darted in his peripheral.

Adrenaline surged.

Yakiv spun so fast his foot slipped on the slick snow of the riverbank. Heart in his throat, his arms pinwheeled, fighting for balance. He heard the splash and felt a profound relief when he didn’t fall into the icy river himself. The moment he righted himself, however, that feeling of comfort dissipated like the morning mist, revealing his rod. In the river. Far from reach.

Aghast by his unusual lack of coordination, he shouted, ‘No!’ but hesitated, realizing he couldn’t rescue the willow branch.

It wasn’t anything remarkable—just a simple stick, really. However, his father, Stepan, had gifted him that rod. Had shaped it with his workworn hands. It was the last gift he’d given Yakiv before dying the previous winter.

Staring at the curved wood helplessly, he knew it would be beyond foolish to go in after it. The dangers of frostbite were real and horrifying. Winter had come, and fishing season was over, at least along the mountain. River fishing, as he was currently attempting, was hazardous this time of year, and would only become more dangerous as the weather worsened.

Danger he’d dismissed. He had a woman to woo, for the lovely Elena had many admirers vying for her attention.

With her flaxen hair, clear blue eyes, and flawless, pale skin, Elena drew attention and adoration wherever she went. She could have any man, whether from their small settlement or from another further along the coast had she a mind.

Yakiv was set on making up her mind for her.

He wasn’t the tallest in their village, nor the comeliest or affluent of her suitors, but he was young and strong from years of hard labour, and, above all, determined.

Stubborn, his father had often called him.

With his favored rod out of reach, Yakiv would have to return to the village to retrieve his spare—made by him. It was just as good as his father’s but… It wasn’t the same.

A softspoken man, his father had been calm under pressure and capable in whatever he’d set his mind to. Yakiv had grown admiring and respecting Stepan, and strove to emulate him, but for all his efforts, Yakiv never felt as though he quite measured up. Where his father had conveyed a quiet confidence, Yakiv’s cool veneer hid tension, and while his father had been flexible, Yakiv was rigid.

He wasted daybreak.

The village lay only a few miles distance, but the path wound down rough, mountainous terrain in the ice and snow.

No time. He cursed under his breath.

Situated on the southern coast of the Black Sea, the village was nestled at the foot of the Krym Mountains. Spawning season was nearly over, and if he failed to make a catch today, he had mere daysbefore even he dared not brave the season’s snowfall along the mountain.

Leaving empty-handed was not an option—not without at least a singlebrown trout, a rare prize this late in the season. Proof of his prowess as a fisherman. His worth as a provider. His measure as a man.

Should he succeed, his father might have been proud, Yakiv thought. And perhaps, Elena soon would be.

Feeling the pressure to overcome this setback, he glanced around, contemplating. The recent snowfall had transformed the forest into an eerily beautiful wonder—but none of it compared to the beauty of large-breasted Elena. He noted the low hanging branches, when an idea struck. He could fashion a crude spear and thereby catch his trout before the dawn eclipsed into full sunrise.

Though he mourned the loss of his father’s rod, he yearned for his heart’s desire more, and without knowing, his longing stirred something in the forest—something fantastical. The trees seemed to lean closer, the mist thickened, and a subtle almost imperceptible whisper rustled through the branches, as if the forest itself had heard and answered his call.

‘Laa-laa, laa-laa, oo-oo.’

Yakiv shivered but not from cold. The lilting strain repeated, and his chest ached hearing the keening despair within. Hauntingly beautiful, the voice called to him, mirroring the yearning of his soul. A kindred spirit.

Kindred spirit? The thought made him frown even as his eyelids drooped.

His confusion was fleeting, his attention ensnared by the lyrical beckoning.

‘Return to me, return to me…’

Yakiv felt the song spiral through his mind, soft and insistent. A warning tried to surface, slipping through his dazed thoughts like water through fingers—a memory passed from man to son. Something about the forest… Something ancient and wild, and born of old magic.

‘Our destinies entwine.’

The thought scattered. Compulsion overcame him. He turned to follow the beguiling lament—when another sound penetrated the fog clouding his mind.

‘Yakiv! Yakiv, where’d you run off to?’

Awareness returned with a jolt of graceless energy.

Yakiv jerked so violently he misstepped, and slipped in the snow. Unable to right himself, his shoulder hit the water first. His head submerged, the icy river a slap to the face. He gasped, and breathed in water. Pushing off from the rocky soil, the frigid river was replaced by cold air, the gentle breeze now harsh and unforgiving on his wet skin. He spluttered, coughed, and flailed to get out of the shallows of the river. Hands were suddenly on him, helping haul him out onto the riverbank.

‘Yakiv! Devil take you, what were you thinking?’

Chest heaving with violent hacking, Yakiv was unable to respond. His lungs were on fire from flames colder than frost. A hard thunk on his back surprised him. He sputtered.

‘Yakiv!’ Another hard thunk as Andriy pounded his back. ‘Are you—’ thunk! ‘—alright?’

Yakiv threw his shoulder into his friend’s thick chest, recognizing Andriy Ivanovych Rybak’s deep voice. Waving Andriy away, Yakiv relearned how to breathe. Every inch of skin felt as though he were being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles!

‘Are you trying,’ Yakiv wheezed, ‘to kill me?’

‘Seems to me you’re doing a fine job yourself,’ came an annoyed growl. ‘Come on. Off with your clothes or you’ll catch your death.’ Then a dark mutter, ‘If you haven’t already.’

Knowing they had to act fast, Yakiv tried to help Andriy remove his clothing, but his fingers were stiff. Andriy slapped his hands aside when he proved more hindrance than a help, and before long, he was as bare as the day he’d come squalling into the world. After Andriy draped his overcoat over him, offering Yakiv blessed warmth, he grimaced when he forced his feet into his soaked boots, but was grateful when Andriy handed Yakiv his gloves.

‘Come on, you fool. Back to the village with you.’

A wintery breeze blew across his bare, hairy legs, making him shiver. They set off into the trees, moving quickly.

‘W-why a-are you h-here?’ Yakiv demanded, teeth shattered. Irritation warmed his chest, if not his extremities, as apprehension of his predicament seized him.

Had Andriy not startled him, he wouldn’t now be in this situation!

Hearing his anger, Andriy scowled at him. ‘Saving your ungrateful arse. What were you thinking, fishing this time of year?’

‘Y-you kn-ow w-why-y,’ was all he could grit out.

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Andriy cleared his throat in obvious discomfort. ‘There’s news. About my sister. I thought you should hear it from me.’

Elena!

Unlike his sister, Andriy was dark haired and dark eyed. His too-wide jaw, bulbous nose, and pock-scarred cheeks made his face far from the delicate beauty of Elena’s. Yet Andriy’s heart was big. Larger than Andriy himself, and Andriy was no small man. Tall and burly, the village women adored Andriy for this reason, Yakiv thought with some jealousy.

When Andriy didn’t immediately continue, Yakiv demanded, ‘T-tell m-me-e!’

Andriy sighed, long and heavy, heightening Yakiv’s anxiety.

‘Elena has chosen a husband.’

‘What? Wh-who-o?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Y-yes-s!’

Another heavy exhalation. ‘It’s Loukas.’

Yakiv’s breath caught.

Loukas. All three of them had been friends, until Yakiv had learned that Loukas was trying to woo Elena. Behind Yakiv’s back.

The snake, Yakiv thought.

In his anger, he forgot about the haunting melody that had called to him on the wind as they continued down the mountain in silence.