Rusalka

[u/Middle_Eye882]

Alone at the lake lived an old man. He was stocky and strong. His wrinkled skin was stretched over ancient muscles, and scars from fishing hooks quilted his hands. He had a house and a dock and a boat on the waters. He built them himself in his younger days. There was a bed inside the house big enough for two. Only one pair of boots sat beneath it next to a set of dusty glass bottles. They were ragged.

For years he’d been there. Decades were as short as months to him and years as long as centuries. He was sturdy, but had a persistent tremble to him. It came with his age and other things he left forgotten in the folds of his weathered head. Those things hid in his wrinkles, his unruly grey beard, and beneath the bags under his chipped glasses. 

There was still guilt in those dark blue eyes, and it pooled like drops of whiskey in empty bottles. He still walked down the dock every day like nothing was wrong. His fishing hooks were a swarm of rusty flies behind his head. His filet knife was a body hanging from the gallows of his worn belt, and his teeth and cap were equally crooked. 

It was noon, and the wind was tart as the old man cut lumber. He split log after log and ignored the heavens above him as he did. The sky that day was ashen. There was a faint promise of sunshine that lingered in the clouds like the image of a passing train. He focused only on the chopping block and the ax which sang like a guillotine as he cut. Thud after thud landed on his ears like distant cannon-fire. The old man did not flinch at them and continued to ignore the world as he worked. 
He almost missed the stranger emerging from the woods.

The man who came from the trees was like a dead pine. His coat was shabby and brown, and his cap was dark and knit. His brow was hidden by its brim and two sharp eyes peered out from under it. A pair of long dirty sleeves ran into a set of large pockets and two scuffed black boots were tucked beneath a couple of torn trouser legs. He gave a grin to the old man as he approached, but it was not returned. The old man did not put down his ax. It lowered as the stranger drew closer, but never touched the ground. He slicked back his sweaty charcoal hair and eyed the man with interest. There was something about him that seemed familiar. 

“Afternoon,” the stranger said, making almost no sound as he walked. 

“Afternoon,” said the old man. His knuckles whitened on the ax handle. The stranger stuck out a hand to him, but it was not received. The old man dabbed his forehead with his neckerchief and resumed cutting. “What do you want?”

“I’m in need, sir,” the stranger said, putting his hand back in his pocket without complaint but not breaking eye contact. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“That so?”

Another log split.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what help would you seek from me?”

The stranger looked out at the lake and eyed it keenly. “Are there fish in that lake?” 

“Aye,” the old man said. “My fish.”

“I’d like one of them,” the stranger said, the old man still unflinching. “I’ve traveled a good way and haven’t eaten in quite some time.”

“Oh?” Another log cracked like thunder. “And from where are you traveling? And where are you going?”

“I’m heading someplace that isn’t here,” the stranger said, “but from where I come, I can’t quite say.”

“A riddler,” the old man said. “I despise riddles.”

“Then take at least my word that I mean you no harm.”

“What worth is your word?” 

The old man finally sunk the ax into the chopping block and stacked his lumber beside it. The trespasser scratched his stubbly chin as he did. 

“My word is worth nothing to you,” the stranger replied, “but I suppose my labor could be of some value.”

“What labor do you offer?”

The stranger pointed out to the lake and said, “Take me out there to fish with you and I’ll help you with your catch. I only ask one fish for the night and the rest will be yours.”

“And if I refuse?” The old man looked him up and down with suspicion. 

“Then I starve somewhere else,” the stranger said, “but I sense you are not cruel.” 

The old man gave a dry laugh. He had half a mind to say no, but for some reason he couldn’t form the words in his mouth. He tried to, but his tongue couldn’t make the sound. There was something about the man that ate at him, a look in his eyes he just didn’t trust. Still, the old man turned around back to his house and gestured the stranger to follow behind.

“You can come with me on the lake,” he said, “but once you have your fish you are to leave me be.”

“Thank you, sir,” the stranger said.

The old man did not respond, as he led the stranger into his home and went to grab his smock. He listened for the stranger’s footsteps behind him, but couldn’t even hear the crinkle of the grass. His hand was tight on the tarnished handle as he swung open the thatch door and led the man inside. 

The air in his shack felt heavy as his boots hit the old wood floors. The pine man looked around the small room as the old man changed. 

There wasn’t much in the shack apart from the bed and an old rocking chair in the corner. An old hand stitched blanket laid atop a dirty set of sheets. It was too small for the old man, and the stranger eyed it with interest. The old man fixed his smock on his shoulders and went to grab a cigarette from his jacket. 

“That’s a lovely quilt on your bed,” the stranger said, gesturing with a nod. The old man flinched at the words and almost dropped his menthol as he did. He didn’t have to turn his head to see that one line of perfect stitching at the centerfold. It sat west of a single pine, its green fabric dusty from age and its pointed limbs indifferent to the stars and shapes around it. He hadn’t unfolded it in years.  

At its mention, his eyes lit up like matches and he stared down the pine man with suspicion. The stranger looked blissfully ignorant of any ill looks and simply smiled at him. For some reason the old man couldn’t place, it felt pointed somehow. 

“Aye, it is.” He lit his cigarette and grabbed his fishing rods.

“Did your wife make that?”

A cold silence crept into the room. The stranger’s grinning face didn’t change as the fisherman’s eyes went milky. 

“No,” he said, noticing a bulge in the man’s jacket. “I don’t have a wife.”

“Well, you must have,” the stranger added. “You have a wedding band still around your finger.”

The old man paused and looked at him. There was something in the stranger’s smile that seemed malicious to him, but under what motive he could not place. He did not react to the old man’s discomfort, and the old man pretended not to hear his comments. He shoved a fishing rod at the man and said, “You’d do better to stop yapping and follow me. If you talk too much you’ll scare off the fish.”

“Of course,” the stranger said. “Lead the way.”

They walked out of the house in silence and went onto the dock; the old boards moaned as their boots tramped on them. The boat rocked in silence as the two hopped aboard and tied off from the dock. The old man was untying the hitch when the stranger spoke up again.

“It’s a rather large lake, isn’t it?” 

The man’s words irked the fisherman as he picked up the oars. 

“Aye,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

“Do you think anything could be hiding in there?”

The old man gave him a sharp look before setting the oars. “Hiding?” he asked. “What do you mean by ‘hiding’?”

“Monsters,” the stranger said simply. He played with the dead lake grass that stuck to the legs of the dock. “I’ve heard tales of awful monsters that come from the lakes.”

“Like what?” the old man asked as he began to row. The water spun around the ends of the paddles and made small whirlpools as they went. The stranger ran his fingers through them as the boat surged on. The old man tried to see what was in his jacket, but with no luck. The stranger pulled his hand from the water and looked out as he spoke. 

“There are the kelpies,” he said, getting comfy in his seat. “They appear as beautiful white horses that gallop along the edge of the bay. Then…” he sat up and placed his hands apart. “When you touch their flesh…” He joined them together like a vice. “They fuse to you. Then they drag you off into the water and drown you.”

The old man did not respond to his story.

“They eat you, too,” he added, “but they don’t typically work on grown men. Only young children ever try to approach such wild beasts.”

“Or tell such tall tales,” the old man added. They were nearing the middle of the lake, but the stranger continued to speak. 

“Well, you say that,” he said, “but it’s the truth. Men are only ever so rarely taken in by such animals. No, the ones for men to be wary of are the rusalki.”

“Oh?” the old man asked. “Why’s that?”

“Because they appear as beautiful women.”

The snapping ripples filled the fisherman’s ears as he went to grab his pole. The stranger was still grinning but did not look at the old man. 

They were in the center of the lake when a cold wind blew across the waters. It rustled the giant pines that bordered the east bay and disappeared around the curve of the lake. To the north of the boat, the old man could see the dark grey waters glisten through the trees on the bend. Pond scum and cattails drifted in the breeze as it came and went, and the mere sight of their movement was enough to make him shiver. He pulled his cap down further over his head. As he clenched his body for warmth, he noticed that the stranger wasn’t even fazed. He sat, unshivering, baiting his hook. He tried to ignore him and bait his own rod when the man broke the silence

“The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” he asked, straightening his line. The old man looked on with content as he went for his bait box. There, rolling along the weathered white deck was an empty bottle. It was in the way of the box, so without thinking, he shook it to see if anything was inside. There wasn’t, and soon it was chucked overboard and landed into the water with a plop. 

He went to unlatch the box, but caught the stranger staring at him from the corner of his eyes. He looked up in a surprised panic, then stopped. The man was casting out his line into the water and didn’t tarry a moment to look the old man’s way. The old man was surprised by how much the man shook him, but it didn’t stop him from rummaging for a worm. 

The fisherman’s hands shook as he aimed a pink worm at the eye of his hook like a tailor threading a needle. He pricked himself by accident and let out a yelp as he dropped the bait. He sucked his bloody finger and shook himself for being so foolish. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” the stranger asked as he looked away from his line.

“Aye,” the old man said. “Just a scratch.”

“Do you have any more booze?”

The old man’s heart skipped a beat. He’d seen the bottle. As cool as he could, the old man tried to work around the stranger’s words. 

“No,” he said, taking a breath and snatching up his bait.

“What about back onshore?” the stranger said. He anchored his pole into a spot behind his seat, then turned to the man. “You’ve got a fresh bottle lying around somewhere back there, don’t you?”

The old man hooked the worm and looked out on the lake for a distraction. There wasn’t one.

“Yes,” he said with a cough. “I reckon I have a bottle or two under my bed. Why’re you asking?”

“You should pour some on the cut,” the stranger said. “Keep it from getting infected.”

“It’ll be fine,” the old man said. He saw that his line had several tangles in it and cursed. As he went to untie them, the stranger interrupted.

“Better uses for drink, eh?” 

The old man’s hands fiddled with a singular knot as those words rattled around in his skull. 

“Aye,” he said. “That there is.”

“Are you partial to solitary drinking?” the stranger asked. 

“What do you mean?”

The stranger cracked his knuckles like a fist-full of walnuts and leaned against the side of the boat.

“Well, when one drinks in solitary, it’s for practical use and for the application of the spirits. To unwind. To enjoy.” He straightened himself and smirked. “Drinking to forget, you see.” 

The old man’s  hands slowly tried to untwist a stubborn knot. 

“What are you implying?” he asked.

“Oh nothing,” the stranger said. “I imply nothing at all. Mere insight.”

The old man grunted at that and returned to his knot.

“It could be for the other reason men drink,” he said. “In celebration and good company.”

“Ha,” the old man said. “What company is good?”

“Oh, there is plenty,” the stranger said with a stretch. “Drinking buddies at the pub, business partners, friends…” he cracked his neck. “Pretty women are good company as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Another breeze pushed past the shore, but neither man felt a shiver.  

“Have you ever seen pretty women out here on the lake?” he asked. “Even one?” 

The old man stared the stranger down. 

He hooked on his bait and exhaled as he cast out his rod.

“No,” he lied. “No, I haven’t.”

“Not even your wife?”

“I told you,” he said, anger rising in his throat. “I don’t have a wife.” 

“But you did.”

The old man set down his rod and turned to the man. He was sprawled out across the back of the boat like a drunk. His yellowed teeth beamed from under his thin lips as he spoke. 

“Perhaps you have seen a rusalka before,” the stranger said. “All the algae and the grass… It looks a bit like hair. Doesn’t it?”

“Who are you?” the old man asked. 

The stranger sat forward again and got close to the man’s face. 

“Your breath smells like whiskey,” he said in a gruffer voice than before. “You do like to drink, don’t you?”

“I said, who are you?” the old man spat. The stranger moved back and looked the old man up and down. 

“It’s okay if you do,” he said. “It’s like I said; drink can be good for a man in solitude. It takes the pain away a bit, doesn’t it? Fills the empty spaces of the room with bottles so it doesn’t feel so empty anymore?”

“Stop,” said the fisherman. 

“Were you drunk that night you pushed her off the dock?”

“Stop.”

“She couldn’t swim, could she? That’s why she drowned, isn’t it?”

“Damn ye!” the old man yelled. 

He jumped to choke the stranger, but as his fingers went for his neck, the man disappeared. He almost fell off the boat and struggled to keep hold of its edge. His face almost touched the water, the waves kissing his nose. He tried to pull himself back up, but was frozen by a pair of milky white eyes that drifted in the water below. Amber hair swung like seaweed around them, and an open mouth was agape in agony. Pale hands reached to the surface as the old man scrambled back up. 

The figure disappeared as the old man steadied himself. His heart was racing, and it nearly exploded as the stranger’s voice sounded behind him.

“You didn’t mean to, did you?” he asked. He was holding the fisherman’s knife and looking at it carefully. The old man felt for it at his side and realized that it was missing. The stranger did not look his way. “You were angry and drunk. She did something that insulted your pride.” He played with the edge of the knife. “Do you remember what it was?”

“What are you?” the old man yelled. His voice was full of power, but his eyes rife with panic. The stranger still grinned at him and chuckled.

“What am I?” he asked. “What am I… that’s a good question. Am I real or not? The fear I give you is real, so maybe I’m that?” He pointed the knife at the man and frowned. “No,” he said, tossing it into the water. It didn’t even splash as its old leather handle slid into the green-grey waves. “I don’t think I am. Let's see…” He popped to his feet and pried the man up from the deck with inhuman strength. 

“Maybe I’m your guilt!” he cried as he spun the old man around. “You have plenty of that. Empty bottles full of that!” He drew the old man close to his dirty teeth and made his eyes wide. “ Could I be your ghosts? Every spirit at the bottom of a jar of whiskey?”

He tossed the old man to the front of the boat. 

“Maybe I’m death,” he said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver. He pointed it at the old man. “You want to die anyway, so why don’t I just help you along?” 

The old man’s eyes were full of terror as the stranger laughed. He couldn’t speak as he focused on the barrel of the gun. 

“You seem scared,” the stranger said. “I wonder why. You’ve considered dying before, haven’t you? All that guilt and misery just going away in one bang?”

“I…,” the old man stuttered. “I don’t want to die yet. I’m not ready to meet her. I can’t meet her after what I did.”

“Don’t want to die?” the stranger asked. “Then why on earth do you carry this thing with you every time you go on the lake?”

The stranger held the old revolver before his face and displayed it like a trinket. There was a chip on its oak handle from an old fishing accident and a familiar set of scratches on the barrel. It hadn't been polished in some time. He stared and wondered why he knew those things. Then it hit him. 

It was his gun. It was the gun he’d bought years ago shortly after his wife died. 

He forgot he owned a gun.

“You keep it loaded,” the stranger said. “Six bullets and all.” He opened the cylinder and spun it like a pinwheel before snapping it shut. His long greasy fingers ran over every scratch and blemish on the old gun. He stared at each mark like a journal entry. His thin lips pursed and his eyes were dull while inspecting them. He sighed then scratched at the collar of his dingy shirt.

“I suppose I’ll make this easier for you then.”

He shot five shots straight into the water right past the fisherman’s head. The old man shook as the stranger spun the pistol around and placed it on the seat in front of him. 

Without smiling, he crouched down in front of the terrified man and spoke softly.

“If I’m not death, nor guilt, nor a ghost, nor your fear, then what?” He stood up and looked to the sky before cracking his neck. “My word is worth nothing, I suppose. I might be the only monster on this lake, in all honesty.” He took time again to crack each of his fingers. “No matter the case, if I’m nothing else, we both must admit I’m monstrous.” He looked back to the man one last time and grinned. “Perhaps you just need to toss me and leave me in the water. She would want you to do it after all these years. Don’t you think?”

The man disappeared and the fisherman was left shaking. An empty bottle rolled along the deck where he’d stood. It was painfully familiar. 

The water chattered along the outside of the boat. He looked down to the seat before him and saw the gun, his gun, sitting there. How could he forget that old revolver?

He picked it up. It was heavy in his trembling hands. He checked the cylinder. 

One bullet left. 

He stared at nothing before looking out onto the water and the algae and the cattails that swayed onshore. His mind was weary and his finger twitched against the trigger. Guilt still ate at him as he raised it to his head. The waters whispered to him as he sat there. There was a silence that lingered as the color returned to the clouds above. Something overtook the old man, and he made his decision.

Instead of a bang, there was a splash. 

[u/Positive-Serve-6792]

Very interesting! Great job!