The Musing of R. L. Frymire

With winter setting in, dusk came early. Night encroached.

Yakiv walked through the village, shivering despite his woolen coat. The biting gust was a harsh reminder of his morning’s misadventure in the river, a reminder that he’d wasted an entire day recovering. He had responsibilities to attend to. Lines and hooks in need of repair. Frayed nets to mend. Most important was the upkeep of a small fishing boat his father had bequeathed him, an inheritance that came with a partnership alongside Andriy’s father, Ivan, who owned equal rights to the vessel.

Ownership—even partial—that had elevated Yakiv socially by offering him a measure of financial independence he’d previously lacked. Pride swelled. He was no longer a fisherman with nothing.

Only four meters in length, the boat was operated by a two-man crew. The frame was made of sturdy oak, with side planks of light, easily-shaped pine, and bottom planks of water-resistant elm. Rather than resting, Yakiv should have boiled a new batch of pitch and resealed the boat’s seams.

The responsibility for the boat’s upkeep rested on both his and Ivan’s shoulders. Nevertheless, Yakiv strove to prove himself to his father’s partner.

Now his partner, Yakiv reminded himself firmly.

Over the past year, Yakiv felt he was slowly gaining Ivan’s trust and—above all—his respect. Yakiv was a damn good fisherman and, despite his earlier spill in the river, diligent, while never lacking initiative. When a task needed done, he did it without being told. Or had, until today.

All his life, Yakiv’s family had shared close ties with Andriy’s. As such, he and Elena had often played together as children. When had Yakiv stopped seeing her as Andriy’s annoying little sister to the attractive woman he now planned to marry? It seemed like he’d desired her all his life.

A desire that was now threatened by Loukas, the captain’s nephew.

Descended from a lineage of prominent Greeks, Loukas’ family was firmly established within their Greek dominated community, dating back generations. Unlike Yakiv, who was the son of Ruthenian—or ‘Rus’—immigrants, who had fled oppressive, Polish overlords two decades past.

And unlike Yakiv, Loukas’ father had sole ownership of two fishing boats, both crafted wholly of oak, which required far less maintenance. If that wasn’t enough, Loukas’ uncle—known simply as ‘the captain’—possessed a cargo vessel that transported goods along the entire coast. Their family was incredibly influential. Powerful.

Since the age of fourteen, Yakiv and Andriy had often worked for ‘the captain’ to help support their families, alongside other common fishermen. With Loukas being their age and sent to learn the family trade, they’d all had become friends despite Loukas’ affluence.

Until Loukas had decided to seek Elena for himself.

Undoubtedly, Loukas was the obvious choice for any would-be bride, but why had he chosen Elena? Regardless of her beauty, she was a lower-class Rus, whose parents had migrated to the coast just as Yakiv’s family had.

Elena had far more in common with him than Loukas, Yakiv thought crossly.

As Ivan’s only daughter, Yakiv knew Elena’s father doted on her, and should she ask, Ivan would give their union his blessing. Yakiv would make certain she would. He only had to prove his worth first. Though Loukas came from means, which consequently made him a better provider, Yakiv considered himself the superior fisherman, making him the better man.

Shoving aside any niggling misgivings, he marched through the village, fishing rod in hand. Not his precious rod but his spare.

Further doubts plagued him. Shaking his head, he set his jaw at a stubborn angle.

The church loomed before him. Built within the heart of the village, St. Nikolaos was a beacon of hope, a place to seek the Divine—and, more important, His blessings. Though the Rus’ and Greeks’ faith had their differences, they congregated together, as there was only one church. Both their people were piously religious—and superstitious.

Tonight, the shadows seemed denser, causing the sanctuary to appear uncommonly foreboding. Even sinister.

Ridiculous, Yakiv thought, shaking aside his unease.

He forced himself to step into the courtyard where he approached the large, stone basin out front. As reverently as possible, he broke through the sheet of ice on its surface, then removed a glove to dip his fingers in. Holy it might be, the basin’s water was freezing. Intending to rub the water along his spare fishing rod and offer up a prayer that tomorrow’s trout fishing proved fruitful, the wind suddenly rose, keening.

Unbeknownst to Yakiv, his desperate yearning was a powerful beacon, beckoning another lonely spirit.

A sound carried, whisper soft.

‘I long for my dear beloved…’

Though the wind stung his face, the soulful singing seemed to surround him in warmth.

‘If only he yearned for me.’

The song wrapped around his heart, enveloping his mind. With the strain of ‘laa-laa, laa-laa, oo-oo’ echoing around him—through him, his senses simply…fell away. The last thing he was aware of were fingers, entwining through his from within the basin. The impossibility of that was lost on him as he was pulled into darkness.

Humming, soft and gentle, disturbed the void of senselessness.

The sound came to him as though from a great distance, growing louder—a sound full of happiness and promise, when he felt it. An odd vibration tickling the back of his throat. Vaguely, he realized the sound came from him.

Befuddled, he tried to think, but the crooning continued, insulating him in a state of lethargy. He stared at his hands, at his fingers drafting wool.

Something wasn’t quite…right.

His hands were small, the fingers long and lithe. Delicate, but for the callouses. A woman’s hands, performing women’s work twisting thread. He heard it then, the creaking of wood as the spinning wheel before him spun with the peddling of his foot.

Strange…and yet, he felt happy, a deep contentment knowing that he loved and was loved in return.

That thought hadn’t been his.

Disharmony.

The fog wavered, loosening its grip.

Large hands settled on his shoulders, squeezing with subdued strength. Startling him, making him feel small. Fragile.

Instinctually, Yakiv recoiled at the unfamiliar sensation—of vulnerability.

Though wiry, he was hard-muscled from years of hard labor. He was not weak. His body betrayed him, however. Unable to move, he was stuck fast, seated on a wooden stool, when a traitorous sensation overcame him. A shiver—of pleasure. Abhorrently, he liked those big, hard hands upon him, felt a distant…yearning. To have them touch him more. All over.

Madness! Those thoughts—those shocking feelings—were not his.

Moist breath bathed his ear as an unfamiliar, masculine voice spoke, oozing heat. ‘What’s this? No kiss waiting for me? Have you no eagerness to greet your husband after his long absence?’

Husband?

His?

The humming had stopped and a lyrical laugh vibrated from Yakiv’s throat. ‘Long absence? Did I not see you off this morn? With a kiss, might I add.’

Yakiv felt his lips move. Sounds tumbled out.

But he hadn’t been the one to speak.

The veil enshrouding him trembled.

‘An eternity apart,’ came a deep rasp next to Yakiv’s ear.

Then lips grazed Yakiv’s neck. He felt the friction of harsh bristles. A man’s touch.

Kissing Yakiv.

Rage surged. Yakiv wanted to smash his fist into the stranger’s face for his temerity, but couldn’t. His will was no longer his own. Instead of jerking away as hewanted to, his head fell to the side. Baring his neck. Encouraging the depravity!

The last tendrils of fog obscuring his mind vanished, leaving Yakiv mentally reeling. Where was he? And what in the name of all that was holy was happening?

Beyond panicked, he commanded himself to move, to escape.

Nothing.

He couldn’t even lift a single finger.

He tried to speak but all that came out was a distinctly feminine moan as the stranger’s facial hair tickled down the side of his neck, creating a heat low in Yakiv’s belly.

‘My love.’ Yakiv spoke words that were not his, in a voice not his own. ‘Kiss me.’

No! He wanted to take the hideous plea back, and failed.

Helpless, he could do nothing when strong fingers grasped his chin, forcing his head back. An unfamiliar face stared down at him. Sandy blonde hair. Hazel eyes. Yakiv didn’t recognize the young man who manhandled him, but the stranger appeared to be around Yakiv’s age of twenty summers.

‘Sweet, sweet wife.’

Clarity crashed through Yakiv.

The man was speaking to him. Inexplicably, Yakiv found himself inhabiting another person’s body! And not just anyone. A woman. Somehow, Yakiv was aware of her in a way that he knew—without understanding how he knew—she was unaware of him.

Who was she? He knew that voice… But from where?

More important, how was he to free himself of this hell?!

Thin lips crashed against his, distracting Yakiv from his chaotic confusion. Those lips were hard and wet, seeking to dominate. With the harsh bristles of the stranger’s beard chafing Yakiv’s face, the experience felt unspeakably real.

Yakiv tried to shout, but only a womanly moan emerged.

The nightmare worsened.

The stranger moved around him. Suddenly, Yakiv was face to groin, staring at a prominent bulge that dented the man’s trousers. Without preamble, the cord securing the homespun linen was loosened by large, impatient hands. The fabric dropped, pooling around the man’s ankles.

While his thoughts raced, panic-stricken, Yakiv sensed the woman’s anticipation, felt her love and adoration when her husband took himself in hand and began stroking obscenely.

Apprehension seized Yakiv at the man’s husky utterance, ‘You know what I want.’

Yakiv felt movement along his mouth. His tongue, licking his lips. As though he were salivating for a taste. No! Not him. The woman’s desire pervaded his senses, forcing him to feel everything she felt, forcing him to do just as her husband ordered.

Yakiv found himself leaning forward, mouth open. Truly alarmed now, he fought desperately to take control of a body that was not his. When the unthinkable happened. For the first time in his life, he knew the intimate taste of another man’s passion.

Yakiv screamed. Horror. Denial. A silent shriek no one heard.

All at once, Yakiv grunted as his arse hit the ground, his senses flooding back. Before him was the stone basin, and beyond stood the church of St. Nikolaos. He felt the sting of winter air across his face and the cramping of his wet hand no longer submerged in water. He was back in his own body, but he remembered helplessness. The burn of carnal thoughts that hadn’t been his. The taint of another couple’s lust. Bile rose at the back of his throat.

The wind sighed, gentle and forlorn.

‘To a handsome young fisherman, I offered him my heart.’

His head swiveled, right then left. ‘Who’s there?!’

Only silence answered.

Had he imagined everything?

Perhaps he’d fallen ill, or he’d finally become feverish from his dip in the river and was now hallucinating. The explanation did nothing to soothe his turbulent mind. Yakiv jumped to his feet and raced out of the courtyard, away from the church. In his wild imaginings, he thought he sensed a presence saturating the house of the Divine. It was neither malevolent nor gentle, but filled with a gnawing hunger for a love long lost.

An impression that sent him fleeing homeward, like an animal seeking the comfort of its den, unaware that he gripped his fishing rod as he went.

But no matter how fast he ran, there was no escaping the nightmare chasing after him.