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 days before even he dared not brave the season’s snowfall along the mountain.  

Leaving empty-handed was not an option—not without at least a single brown 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. To anyone who knew the forest’s old tales, a Mavka had come to ensnare him.

Yakiv, lost to the song’s pull, felt only its irresistible call.

‘Our destinies entwine.’

Compulsion overcame him. He turned to follow the Mavka’s 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.

###

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 blessings. 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 he wanted 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.

###

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.

###

The next morning, the stars were still visible in the predawn sky when Yakiv—unable to sleep, afflicted by memories of hallucinations he couldn’t explain and left bereft of his heart’s desire—set off towards the mountain. This time, he left his fishing rod at home and brought only a hemp cord. His stride was long and purposeful, while on the inside, a storm raged, threatening to tear his sanity to pieces.

Don’t think, he chanted, desperate. Don’t think. Just act.

When he reached the outskirts of the village, he nearly jumped out of his skin when an urgent whisper startled him from behind.

‘Yakiv! I must speak with you.’

Terror abated, realizing another apparition hadn’t come to claim him. Something far worse had come for him. Or rather, someone.

‘Now isn’t a good time, Elena.’ And never would be.

‘It can’t wait.’ She grabbed his arm. Recoiling, he jerked away without looking at her. After a heavy silence, she murmured, ‘So it was you. You saw us. Loukas and I.’

Caught. Humiliated. Denial came swift. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You’ve always been a poor liar, Yakiv.’

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘I know I hurt you.’

Emotions choked him into silence.

‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ Elena said quietly. ‘I know you have certain feelings for me—’

Pride smarting, he snorted rudely. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

She didn’t relent. ‘I know you made an offer to my father—’

Unable to bear her words of rejection—or her pity, he interrupted. ‘Our families have been trade partners for decades. Our union was just good sense.’ Now, he turned to her. Angry. Heartsore. ‘Except, a harlot wouldn’t make for a good wife, would she?’

Instant regret. And shame. Never had he spoken to a woman in such a disrespectful manner, but his ego demanded to be assuaged. He’d convinced himself the Divine had done him a kindness by revealing Elena’s immorality. Her rejection hadn’t been his failure. She’d been unworthy.

She slapped him. Hard.

Rendered mute, the shock he felt was reflected in her wide eyes. His cheek stung, but it was nothing compared to the injury of love spurned. Before she could speak, he pivoted, and marched away. Fast.

Running. Again.

Coward, he castigated himself harshly.

Elena chased after him. ‘Yakiv, wait! Please, I still have to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t wish to talk with you.’

She persisted, frantic. ‘If you would just keep what you saw between us… My family would be so disappointed.’

Just the thought of anyone discovering his humiliation made him recoil.

Without breaking his stride, he assured, ‘What you do with your betrothed—’ How he loathed that word when not attached to him. ‘—has nothing to do with me. Now, leave me be. Unless you wish to be caught alone with another man.’

With that parting insult, she finally—blessedly—stopped following him.

Hours later, he was back at the river, and his father’s rod was where he’d left it. Elena’s loss had been a brutal blow to his heart, savaging his ego. But to lose his father’s gift as well?

Intolerable.

It would forever be a reminder of his failure to secure Elena’s devotion.

Determined to fish his rod from the river, he began wrapping his hemp cord around a sizable rock, when the water’s surface rippled. A dark head emerged, slowly revealing a face of impossible perfection.

He blinked, disbelieving. 

The raven-haired woman continued to rise from the river. She was tall, lithe, and indecently clad. His breath caught, heart pounding, and ran further south. His cord fell from nerveless fingers as his gaze dropped. Dressed in a simple, white shirt that fell to mid-thigh, the fabric was soaked through. Translucent, it left nothing to the imagination, the garment clinging to her generous curves.

She came to him, her voice drifting like mist over water.

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

Captivated by her ethereal beauty, her melody entrancing, the strangeness of her arrival was lost on him.

‘Return to me, return to me…’

Halting directly in front of him, she cupped his face in ice cold hands, and felt them warm as though touching him made her catch fire. Just as she made him burn—for her.

‘Our destinies entwine,’ she continued crooning, while lifting onto her toes. Then her lips brushed his, as soft as butterfly wings. Her voice penetrated his mind. ‘To a handsome young fisherman, I offered him my heart.’

They were kissing, deeply. Passionately.

A powerful shudder shook him, and his arms clamped around her. Never before had he held a woman, only to chafe at the bulk of his coat separating her from him. Unbearable. As though she felt the same, she shoved at his coat, until it slid to the ground, forgotten.

Distantly, he knew what they were doing was wrong.

They were strangers.

Unmarried.

He had no right to the haven of her arms, nor the sweetness of her lips, but neither could he deny himself temptation, not while the taste of her desire appeased his wounded pride and bruised heart. Bespelled by her—by his own lust, Yakiv abandoned all he’d held sacred and embraced the forbidden. 

Maneuvering him backwards, he didn’t protest when the beauty pushed him against a tree, or stop her from encouraging him to sit on the ground. Rather than snow, he sat on his coat. How it came to be, he didn’t know. Didn’t even think about it. But when she took her lips from his, he wanted to object—until she straddled him. He nearly forgot how to breathe when she began loosening the cord at his waist.

Surely, this was all a dream? Just another hallucination. One he fervently clasped, willingly.

A harsh breath escaped him as her delicate fingers slipped inside his trousers…and groaned when she clasped him. Her fingers had lost all semblance of coldness. They were warm—and real. She was real. Stroking him, gently squeezing. 

Torment! 

Rapture.

His hips bucked into her fist. There was no shame, only heat and desire.

Needing to touch her, her damp clothing impeded him. Impatient, uncommonly rough, he tore her shirt, forgetting that it was winter—in the mountains. Hardly feeling the cold himself, his breath caught when her lush breasts swung free. As though kissed by moonlight, her skin glowed frost-white, but for the rosy hue of her nipples.

He hesitated, yearning. She enticed, unabashed. 

Taking his hand, she placed his palm over her heart. Unfettered, he squeezed. At her heated moan, his cock jerked in her palm. While she stroked him, he pawed both her breasts, pushing them together, creating a lovely valley that tempted him to kiss, to lick. He didn’t deny himself the pleasure, nor the allure to suckle on her peak.

The sound she made nearly unmanned him. Suddenly, she rose higher on her knees and angled his cock towards her entrance. The moment his cockhead kissed the soft heat of her desire, he nearly embarrassed himself by spending right then and there. Gnashing his teeth, he held on to sanity by a frayed thread as she began lowering herself.

Too damn slowly!

Throwing his head back, a tortured groan escaped. 

Tight. Hot. Wet.

Desperate, he grabbed her hips and forced her down, impaling her. She cried out. He shouted. And was lost. Even as his passion erupted from him, flooding her, Yakiv bounced her on his shaft, up and down, his hips flexing. Harder. Deeper. When he shouted again in completion, her feminine wail of joy echoed around him and seemed to ring through his mind in a melodious choir.

Boneless, he collapsed against the tree, and felt the woman nestle against him. Spent and filled with male satisfaction, Yakiv went to caress her spine. Expecting the smooth glide of warm skin, he met a dry column of…knots? While his palm grazed the uneven surface, his fingers collapsed inward. Without thinking, he wrapped his hand around the strange, bumpy segments rising along the center of her back. Simultaneously, he explored the empty cavern with his other hand.

Halfway up her back, he felt several rows of narrow ridges. Delving deeper, something…fluttered against his fingers. He grasped for it. A stone? It was cold as ice, but as soft as silk, and pulsed within his grasp.

Yakiv stiffened in dawning horror, the euphoria of release fading like frost in sunlight.

The woman leaned back, and for the first time, he noticed her eyes. They were so black there was no distinguishing between pupil and iris.

She sang to him. ‘I long for my dear beloved; if only he yearned for me.’

Her voice was heartbreakingly beautiful, but the compulsion of before was absent. Reality crashed into him. Beneath his fingers, there was no flesh, no blood. Just bones and a fragile heart.

Fisting both, he thrust her away from him with a terrified shout.

He heard a sickening schlurp, felt the wet pop, as his shaft left the warm clasp of her body. Nausea twisted his stomach. Aghast, Yakiv surged to his feet and fumbled with his trousers.

The woman came to him, arms raised to embrace him, singing, ‘Return to me, return to me our destinies entwine.’

With another fearful shout, he shoved her away. Too hard. The creature stumbled back, twisted, and fell with a helpless cry. And a faint, hollow rattling. On her hip, half turned away with her long, black hair obscuring her lovely face, she appeared as fragile as a bird, her shoulders curled inward, as though protecting herself from further abuse. A pang of regret clamoured within his chest for being so rough.

An apology burned on his tongue—until he saw the ruin of her back. 

A tremor shook his hands.

As though some mighty force had torn the very skin and meat from her spine and scooped out her organs, he stared at the corpse-pale stripes of flesh that hung along the edges of her back from nape to narrow hips. She should be bleeding from such a grievous wound, yet no blood pumped through veins that had long ago turned to dust.

She should be dead.

Yet within the dark cavern of her body, where organs should have been mashed together, only a shriveled heart remained. Unable to look away, he saw it pulsate with supernatural life. In the poor light of the rising dawn, the sky was uncommonly cloudless, revealing the skeletal bones of her spine and the span of perfectly aligned ribs. So delicate. So white against the grey mass of a heart that should have ceased to beat.

All at once, the tales of old haunted him with portentous implications. Voice shaking, he uttered a single, terrifying word. ‘Mavka.’

Understanding slammed into him. The strange melody. The hallucinations. Or rather, memories—of a dead woman. Yet not. For she yet lived and breathed, old—evil—magic animating a soul that refused death’s peace.

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

Not an offering. An exchange.

A heart for a heart.

Petrified, he wheezed, ‘No.’

Love. Acceptance. These were things he yearned for. But not like this.

At his rejection, an ear-splitting shriek erupted. Pain exploding through his skull, Yakiv stumbled and would have fallen had strong hands not grabbed him. Pulling him—towards the river. Foreboding slithered down his spine.

‘No!’ He dug his heels into the dirt and snow, but the Mavka was stronger.

Yakiv fought desperately, when she turned on him with an animalistic snarl, her enchanting features now twisted and grotesque. He recoiled, but she spun him. As though he weighed nothing, she threw him into the river, where an unnatural current grabbed hold, and pulled him from the shallows into the deep.

Ice enveloped him, stealing his warmth. His very breath.

Choking, he felt arms and legs wrap around him, preventing him from pushing towards the surface. Opening his eyes, cold water stinging, obsidian entrapped him. The darkness of the Mavka’s eyes had bled into her sclera completely, revealing a black void filled with hate and spite—and deeper still, of hurt and grief.

He opened his mouth to scream, but only bubbles emerged, and the river flooded in, drowning him in the Mavka’s misery—as she once had drowned herself.

As with the visions she’d given him of her past human life, both at the churchyard and later by the stream, Yakiv was now compelled to reenact the end of cherished dreams—both his and hers.

And together, they sang the Mavka’s lament of loss and ruinous yearnings. 

###

Days had passed since Yakiv Stepanovych Rybak’s disappearance, and Andriy had all but given up hope of finding his friend who had vanished into the forest. Their village was small, and after that first night everyone had noticed Yakiv’s absence. Only Elena had known the general direction Yakiv had gone, knowledge that would have cast a poor light upon Andry’s sister had it been known she, an unwed—betrothed—woman, had been alone with a man. To keep her safe from scandal, Andriy had told the community he’d known Yakiv had been going trout fishing of late.

While not completely a lie, it was not wholly the truth, either, and the deception weighed heavily upon Andriy.

Overwrought with guilt, Elena had told him that she and Yakiv had had a fight before Yakiv had stormed off towards the mountain. Alone. Without any supplies, other than a hemp cord tied around his shoulder. A detail Andriy had not dared mention to anyone else.

Andriy shuddered at the dark thought that lingered at the back of his mind after hearing that.

No matter how hard he had pressed her, Elena had refused to speak a word of the conversation that had sent Yakiv fleeing, but Andriy could guess. Knowing his friend as well as he did, Yakiv would not have taken the news of Elena’s impending nuptials to another man lightly. He’d have been jealously resentful. Furious even, especially losing her to Loukas, a man who’d been a friend for years.

But surely Yakiv hadn’t been so miserable as to do anything truly foolish, would he…?

Andriy shook his head, jaw clenched. He wouldn’t believe it. He refused to accept that Yakiv had done the unthinkable with that damned hemp cord Elena was so certain Yakiv had had with him.

A groan of anguish, thick with despair, was pulled from somewhere deep inside Andriy. He fought a losing battle as insidious images flashed through his mind. Of Yakiv swinging from some unknown tree, limbs dangling. Limp.

Filled with remorse, castigating himself for not being there when Yakiv had obviously needed a friend the most, it was long minutes before Andriy was able to regain control over himself. It wasn’t until the subtle lapping of water penetrated the well of despair he’d fallen into. The sound was oddly soothing, as gentle as a lullaby. 

Abruptly, his hands fell to his sides, and Andriy stared vacantly into the river. He recognized the area, his feet having drawn him to the last place he’d seen his friend, where he’d fished Yakiv from the water so long ago it now felt. His eyes lightened on a willow branch stuck at an odd angle without recognition. To him, it appeared as any other curved stick, half-submerged and caught against a chunk of ice.

After a long moment, a deep exhalation shook his large frame. 

With nowhere else to look, and with winter setting in, lingering on the mountain was far too dangerous. Heart heavy, Andriy forced himself to turn away from the river and begin his trek back to the village, his boots crunching through the frozen snow.

As he went, the wind moaned, mirroring his forlorn sigh.