The Musing of R. L. Frymire

That night, when Yakiv finally fell into an exhausted slumber, fragmented dreams flashed one after the other.

Wool fibers, delicate fingers twisting. A spinning wheel. Innocent. Peaceful. Until a presence loomed behind him, clutching him. Darker flashes. A kiss smothered him, facial hair chafing.

Trapped. No escape.

A cord being untied. Trousers falling down.

Helplessness. Horror.

Nightmare claimed Yakiv.

He jolted awake, arms flailing, fighting blindly. But he was home, alone. Safe. And covered in a cold sweat. He grimaced. His skin was clammy, but cool—as though a fever had broken sometime during the night. Ignoring the acrid taste of fear on his tongue, he latched onto the simplest explanation as a man drowning. Convincing himself that last eve’s phantasms hadn’t been real. He’d been sick. Delusional, nothing more. Any other explanation was too terrifying to contemplate.

For either he’d lost his mind, or evil was able to desecrate the holy grounds of the Most High.

Impossible, he thought.

Shoving the disturbing—terrifying—incident from his mind, he readied to depart for another morning of river fishing, but as he dressed for his journey, his thoughts rebelled. His mind sought to identify the couple in his vision. The man’s face sparked no recognition, and there was no knowing what the woman even looked like. And yet…her voice. He’d heard it before, he was certain. But where?

Torturous images intruded.

A chafing kiss. Trousers falling.

Yakiv shook his head. Stop thinking, he told himself firmly. Focus on what’s important. On what’s real.

Please, Lord, let it all have been a dream.

Just before the dawn could crest over the mountain, Yakiv was back at the river’s edge, where he found his precious rod. Still half-submerged within the gently flowing current. Still unattainable, caught on a chunk of ice.

His breath released on a cloud of vapor as he lifted his gaze above the trees to the highest peak outlined by the coming light. A thought came, unbidden. Stepan had been like this mountain, steady and steadfast, while Yakiv was more like the ice frosting the river. Hard, yet brittle.

Denial was instantaneous. He was a rock. Unyielding. Resolute.

He would catch his fish, and thereby win his girl.

He had to.

Against his will, Yakiv cast another wishful glance at his father’s fishing rod. To gain his heart’s desire, the beautiful Elena—but secretly, validation, he subconsciously sought his father’s help.

Yakiv had never shunned hard work, but everything of worth he possessed had come from Stepan, both his fisherman’s trade and his life-altering boat. Whereas his father had had to hone a new craft and establish himself within an unfamiliar community all on his own merit, after fleeing oppression.

Stepan was a reflection that life rewarded those who exerted themselves. Values Yakiv had come to share. He knew that if he was diligent, Elena would be his. Forcing himself to turn away from his precious rod, he began preparing the one he’d brought, ignoring the unease churning his stomach.

After his horsehair line was cast, he crouched quickly, careful not to create a threatening shadow and scare the slow-moving trout. Letting the bait sink, he kept his rod high, preventing the line from dragging. The wait was long. To tempt the lazy fish, he periodically flicked his wrist so his bait would mimic a weak creature struggling in the cold depths.

As if sensing his urgent need, his desperate hope, the forest stilled. Not a creature stirred, no bird sang as the sun’s first rays peaked between misting clouds. So deep his concentration, Yakiv was oblivious.

After a time, his line trembled. His heart stuttered, and the tree branches rustled. Patiently, lest he unhooked his catch, he walked backwards, drawing the fish nearer the shallows.

The air became charged, as though a thunderstorm was imminent, but there were no storm clouds approaching. Believing the sensation stemmed from his own excitement, Yakiv ignored it as a brown speckled trout flopped onto the riverbank. He froze, staring. Then a mighty roar ripped from his throat, no doubt scaring the other trout, but he only needed one.

Triumph suffused him, along with profound relief.

Around him, tree branches slapped together in a merry breeze, seeming to congratulate his victory, but Yakiv had eyes only for his catch. Being swift, he wrapped his trout in cloth and tied a rope around its head, before slinging it over his shoulder. Gathering his supplies, he started back towards home—when he heard the snap of a twig.

Startled, he turned. Despite the dawn, the forest was cast in deep shadows and veiled by a wisping mist, a haunting contrast to the pristine snow blanketing the ground and dusting the pines.

Another twig broke, closer than before.

Yakiv jumped, eyes darting. All at once, he sensed them, eyes watching, but seeing nothing, he cautiously began his descent, staying alert. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being stalked. Apprehension gripped him. Reaching for his knife hilt, he knew there were larger predators than he prowling about the mountain, hungry for the unwary.

Snow crunched. Footfalls.

Behind him.

Yakiv jerked around, only to stare into the wide eyes of a deer. Mere paces away, the animal stood stiller than the swaying pines. Yakiv couldn’t look away from its eyes. They were large, round pools of impenetrable darkness that seemed to draw the very breath from his lungs the longer it remained motionless, its gaze fixated upon him. Long, nerve-wracking seconds passed, causing the hair on the back of his nape to lift, when the doe startled him by abruptly turning tail and fleeing deeper into the forest.

A shaky laugh escaped him as he continued down the path—and nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw a tall, white clad figure with hair of obsidian disappear behind a bare oak that was far too slim to truly hide behind, but somehow, had vanished.

Heart hammering, Yakiv took the doe’s cue and fled.

The trees seemed to crowd closer, dark and threatening, and for all the forest’s eerie stillness, he sensed an awareness—focused on him.

The wind whistled, whispering intimate secrets beyond his understanding.

Heart in his throat, he stumbled on. Panting from exertion—from a terror he could not name, he nearly collapsed in relief when he finally reached the village edge. He didn’t stop but continued on, his sense of urgency shifting now that he’d returned, before reality forced him to a halt.

He couldn’t just march to Ivan’s home expecting to speak with his unmarried daughter. Propriety had to be observed. Yakiv needed an intermediary to speak to Elena’s father. With his own father dead and having no other male relatives to speak for him, Yakiv needed to seek out Andriy.

Still, he hesitated. He trusted Andriy, but not Ivan’s response. But should Elena approach her father, their union was assured.

He cast his mind for a solution, when he noticed a pair of women walking side by side, carrying their laundry. Inspiration struck like a thundercloud. On the outskirts of the village lay a gentle stream where the women congregated to gossip while washing clothes. Men were forbidden to join them, but Yakiv was desperately short of time. Thinking to hide and wait for an opportunity to draw Elena away, he snuck around a rocky bend and into the surrounding forest.

As he went, the wind moaned a mournful refrain.

‘Laa-laa, laa-laa, oo-oo.’

The enchanting warbling ensnared him, subtly manipulating him to change course, until he emerged from the tree line much further upstream nearer the mountain’s base than he’d intended. Bewildered by his error, the sound of voices distracted him. Curiosity, and an awful premonition, drew him to an outcropping of large rocks.

‘Not here, Loukas.’

‘I need you, Elena. Don’t deny me.’

‘Someone might see.’ A giggle ruined the maidenly protest.

‘No one’s here.’

Heart pounding, Yakiv carefully peered around a boulder, and witnessed a devastating sight of Elena in Loukas’ arms. Both were wearing thick, woolen coats, making their embrace appear somewhat awkward, but there was nothing clumsy about the way Loukas kissed her. He devoured Elena’s lush mouth in a manner that spoke of much practice.

Elena giggled again, turning away shyly, but she made no attempt to break free of Loukas’ arms. ‘Wait until after the ceremony.’

‘You didn’t say that yesterday. Or the time before,’ Loukas refuted with a lecherous grin. ‘Besides, we’re as good as wed. No one would care if I sampled my betrothed beforehand.’ Saying so, he lifted her, making her squeal in surprise, before laying her on the ground atop a bedding of soiled laundry from a knocked over basket.

Yakiv watched in frozen disbelief as Loukas shoved Elena’s coat and long dress up her stalking clad legs to her hips, before fumbling with his own clothes. Flirtatious giggling. Impatient grunts. Thankfully, Loukas’ long coat hid everything from Yakiv, but there was no denying the rhythmic thrusting of his hips, or the moans of delight the two shared.

Without thinking, Yakiv took a step back, and accidentally disturbed a pile of small rocks.

‘What was that? Loukas, stop! I think I heard something.’

Yakiv didn’t wait to be discovered. He turned and ran, uncaring that he made too much noise. Distantly, he heard Elena’s fearful cry, ‘Someone saw us!’

Blindly, he followed the wide stream, mind racing, emotions roiling. Shock. Outrage. Betrayal.

Suddenly, the weight on his back felt like an unbearable burden. Halting, he yanked the trout off his shoulder and threw it into the water with a ragged shout. He stood there, chest heaving, staring at the floating carcass that was as dead as his dreams. Without warning, his knees buckled, and he collapsed beside the stream.

There were no tears. Anger smoldered, overshadowing his hurt.

Yanking off his gloves, he splashed ice cold water on his face. Once. Twice. Before submerging his hands up to his wrists. His sleeves became soaked. Foolishness, yet he fisted the pebbles along the slope of the stream bed, holding on while his world tilted. The frigid depths were bracing. Grounding him. The wind began to wail through the trees, crying its sympathy.

Yakiv grasped for composure. He couldn’t stay here. He had to leave before he was caught.

Let them, vindictiveness whispered.

His pride shouted a fierce denial.

Heeding the latter, he went to remove his hands from the stream, when several, long, pale worms burst from the muddy soil. Yakiv choked on a gasp and went to pull away, when they curled over the backs of his hands and held on tightly.

Then he felt it. Palms pressed beneath his own.

He gaped at the water. At worms—recognizable now as bloodless fingers—intertwined through his, refusing to let go.

Alarm. Disbelief.

Petrified, he was jolted from paralysis when he felt himself being pulled into the stream. Unbelievably, the rocky soil rippled like wet oil as his hands sank into the mud. He tried to yank back, and nearly pitched head first into the stream. On his knees, bent over, he had no leverage against the potent strength reeling him ever downwards. The earth oozed over his hands to his wrists. He could no longer see the hands that gripped him, but he felt them. Pulling him deeper.

A shout built in the hollow of his chest, but before he could release the pressure constricting his lungs, the water erupted in large, frothing bubbles between his submerged hands, releasing a choir of melodic crooning with each air pocket that burst.

‘I long for my dear beloved; if only he yearned for me.’

The tender singsong seeped into Yakiv’s senses, wrapping him in tendrils of warmth. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the encroaching fog, but thought escaped him when a haunting lilting followed, mesmerizing his heart and mind. Mirroring a longing now forever denied.

‘Laa-laa, laa-laa, oo-oo.’

The hands clasping his pulled harder, insistent. Slowly, he sank through the stream bed, the rocky soil parting as easily as the water. He hardly felt the slime or the scrape of stones against his knuckles, lost to the compelling refrain.

‘Return to me, return to me…’

There was no fear, only beguiled wonder as the mud swallowed him passed his elbows, until the water’s surface tickled his nose, where his face remained just above the water. Uncaring, he was lulled by kind understanding, along with another’s desire focused solely on him.

‘Our destinies entwine.’

The feeling of being wanted… Wondering if he’d ever be good enough… These feelings were his—yet not. Captured by his own desperate yearnings, awareness faded.

A sound penetrated the void.

A woman, weeping.

Soul wrenching sobs tore from his own throat. He could hardly breathe for the tears he shed. Yakiv sat huddled in on himself, hugging his knees as tortured thoughts overwhelmed him, of making a surprise visit to his sister and finding only devastation.

Only, he didn’t have a sister.

Jarred from his dreamlike thrall, terror struck.

The woman! He sensed her, somehow recognizing the stranger’s mind who’d melded with his own last eve. Vaguely, he wondered who this woman was. What was her name? Did her beauty match the lyrical voice that haunted his dreams?

More alarming, where was her husband?

His panic melted under the melancholy pervading him. The woman’s anguished thoughts were so loud they crashed through him, revealing the bitterest of betrayals—her husband lying with another woman—her own sister. Heartbroken, she’d ran.

Any relief Yakiv might have felt knowing he was in no imminent danger from her unfaithful spouse eluded him. He felt this woman’s world splinter as though it were his own. Because it was his own. Elena’s betrayal overwhelmed him, amplified by this woman’s crushing grief.

He hugged himself, crying endless tears—when he felt it. Inside her mind, something…broke.

The stranger surged to her feet, and Yakiv’s breath caught at the sight before him, where a waterfall raged. Staring over a cliff ledge, he saw a protruding rock shelf halfway down, before the falls erupted into a small pool, to race along the river that continued down the mountain. The summer day was gorgeous, but inside the woman’s mind, all was desolate darkness.

Suddenly, he was surging into the river, the water shockingly cold, with sharp stones cutting into his bare feet. The water rose knee-deep, but that wasn’t what worried him. They were nearing the edge of the falls. Terror seized him when the woman didn’t stop. Yakiv wrestled for control, shouting to be heard. Deaf to his presence, the woman threw them over the falls!

She made not a sound, until they struck the rock shelf. Jarring. Agonizing.

The shelf was slick, the river powerful as it dragged them over. Falling. Spinning. Her midnight black hair suffocated him as it wrapped around her face.

They hit a second, hidden ledge.

Bones broke.

Pain exploded along his left leg and hip. Then his skull as her head bounced off the rocks. Mercilessly, they were dragged down. As he was praying for the end, they struck the pool below with bone shattering intensity. The woman screamed, and Yakiv along with her. Water flooded their mouth, their lungs. Regret stabbed through the woman as she tried to claw her way to the surface, but unable to swim with her broken body, she drowned, forcing Yakiv to experience every harrowing moment of her death.

Until blessed darkness dragged them under.

Yakiv was pulled from the stream by frantic hands, and a voice screaming his name. Disoriented, gasping, he stared up into clear blue eyes, blonde brows drawn together in worry. The woman?

No, Elena knelt beside him, shouting at him. ‘Heaven’s above, what are you doing?!’

Mind reeling, he stuttered, ‘I…I don’t…’

Compassion softened her sweet features. ‘Are you alright?’

Was he alright?

He’d been thrown off a cliff. He’d died.

He couldn’t tell her these things. He couldn’t even look at Elena without remembering her in another man’s arms, caught in passion’s throws. Or ignore the sickening revelation that she’d been doing so for quite some time.

Without answering, he shoved off the ground and fled. When she called after him, he ignored her, running not only from the sting of failure, but the terror that he’d quite possibly lost his mind.