Tea with a Vodnik

This is not my best work. But I'm already 3 days late, for my self-imposed short-story deadline and I want to get back to working on my novel, so here it is. Consider it a rough draft; in process. Look, I'm revealing my writing process! That's something people want to see, right? ...Except it mostly reveals that my rough drafts are pretty lousy....

A vodnik is a monster who bears remarkable resemblance to a man. Not in looks; if you meet one sitting by the bank of the river, you will at once notice the green tint to his skin, the algae dripping from his forked beard, the gills slitting the sides of his neck. His mouth is too large, his eyes bulge unpleasantly. When he clamps his hands around your throat to drown you, you will notice his fingers are webbed.

No, he resembles mankind in that he has no weakness. A vampire can be killed with a wooden stake. A werewolf with a silver bullet. A dragon has a soft spot in its scales. But a vodnik—they are faster and stronger than a human, they are master watermen and can swim underwater indefinitely—but there are no clever tricks to get around them, no magical back doors. If you don’t want him to trap your soul in a teacup and leave your body to the mercy of the currents and fish, it’s best to just keep away. But sometimes circumstances bring a person into the presence of a vodnik. And very few depart from that meeting whole.

.

On a sunny afternoon an old man sat on the grassy bank of a river, the sparkling line of his fishing rod stretched taut to the water. His eyes glittered green under his straw hat, and his beard dripped, wet and green, down his chest. Despite the ratty tweed coat he wore, anybody who lived in the village thereabouts would have known exactly who he was and what he was at a glance. And with that glance, they would have immediately gone in the opposite direction. Nonetheless, the vodnik, alerted by some quiet sound that there was someone nearby, looked up to see a village boy standing just out of arm’s reach, regarding him silently.

“Be off!” He growled. His voice was like wet rocks tumbling together. “Be glad I’m in a good mood; you won’t get a second chance."

“Is that your teacup?” The boy said. He was a thin child, with neatly combed dark hair and a pack slung over his back.

The vodnik looked down at the small porcelain cup sitting beside him on the grass. “Yes, it is my teacup, young man. I have a lovely set. Would you like to look inside?”

“No, of course not. I’m not three.” The boy said with scorn. “I’m here because I would like to bargain for one of your teacups.”

The vodnik raised an eyebrow “And what would you do with my teacup, young man?”

“I’d keep it for my mother.”

The vodnik chuckled nastily. “I’m afraid I don’t give away my teacups, young man, even as gifts for as wonderful a mother as I’m sure yours is.”

“She is. My Dad thinks she’s dead and my Gramma says she’s a no-good, but I know better.”

“However she got herself gone, it seems silly to save a teacup for her.” The vodnik eyed the boy up and down and a thin smile crept across his face. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of your own? An extra small one, just the right size for you.”

The boy’s grey eyes were somber and serious. “No thank you. I’d rather get my mother a teacup.”

The vodnik, who was in an expansive mood after a morning of successful fishing, now felt like he might enjoy a bit of sport. “Tell you what, my boy. I don’t know about giving away my teacups. But I do like tea-time, and I can tell you’re an intelligent young fellow. What would you say to coming to see my collection of teacups and having tea with me? Then we’ll see about getting a teacup for you.”

“For my mother.”

Some green teeth appeared in the vodnik’s face as his smile widened. “We’ll see. Come, you can have a ride in my little coracle, wouldn’t you like that?"

And the vodnik slid a wooden coracle into the water, where it bobbed and tugged in the current, just itching to be floating downriver. The boy, his face pale and grim, nodded.

“I thought you would.” The vodnik said. “There’s a good boy. Climb on. Easy does it. Keep your body low—and now let me just step on behind you…”

Downriver they went, the vodnik standing up and guiding the coracle, the boy crouched by his feet, unbending to the impulses of boyhood enough to trail his fingers in the water.

They reached the vodnik’s grotto; a hole in the riverbank, lined in soft green moss that dripped off the rocks and melded with the vines that dangled over the dark opening.

“In we go,” murmured the vodnik, cupping his paddle so that the water rippled around them.

“We went to the seaside this summer before my mother left.” The boy said, as they passed from sunlight into the cool green darkness.

“Hmm?” The vodnik said. His eyes were alight with a selfish gleam and he paddled quietly but quickly forward, threading his way into the dark.

“My mother says saltwater tea is the best.”

“Your mother maybe not have been as pleasant a woman as I assumed,” murmured the vodnik. But he was too engrossed in pulling his coracle up against a ledge of rock, tying it up and lighting a lantern to follow the boy’s conversation any further. The green glow of the lantern light reflected against the water and cast a rippling pattern over the cave walls.

“She always says salt is like the promises people make to love each other. It doesn’t burn up, but it can burn. You can dissolve it in water but it doesn’t go away.”

The vodnik was not listening. A strange, stupid boy, nattering on about his fickle mother and her stupid ideas about salt. He would enjoy putting this one’s soul into a teacup if only to lighten the world of him. What truly captured the vodnik’s attention was the back wall of his cave. He lit the lamp and set it on a flat rock and felt a thrill of power.

Twelve long shelves had been carved into the wall. On the shelves sat rows and rows of teacups. Delicate, gold filigreed ones with roses trailing up the handles, opalescent ones that gleamed with simple beauty, rough pottery teacups, plain white teacups like you might get from a hotel or restaurant, brightly patterned and colored teacups, lopsided teacups, oddly shaped teacups.

And as the light hit the cups, each soul imprisoned inside cried out for rescue. It was a pitiful, barely audible sound, as muffled as if they were crying out underwater.

Behind him, the boy was crouched on the flat rock of the cave, bringing something out of his bag. At the barely audible cry from the imprisoned souls, he glanced up once, quickly, his eyes bright and keen. Then he busied himself with what he was bringing out; a tea set of simple grey pottery with a pattern of flowers embossed on one side. He put out the teapot and then two cups emptying a packet of something into each cup.

When the vodnik turned around, he spied the tea set. “What’s this?” He said.

The boy stood up and waved a welcoming hand towards the teapot. “I’m serving tea.”

The vodnik grinned a grin full of broken teeth and guile. “Oh deary me, no. This is my grotto; you must have my tea. I insist.”

The boy crossed his arms. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you drink my tea, you can put my soul in one of those teacups. But if you can’t drink it, I get the teacup I want.”

“My boy.” The vodnik stepped forwards, and in the dark damp of the cave, he seemed more monstrous and less human by the second. He put a webbed green hand out and caressed the boys’ face, every single one of his rotten yellowed teeth showing in an evil smile. “I can put you in a teacup whenever I please.”

“I thought you’d say that.” The boy said, unimpressed. “The old men in town say the faster you kill someone the more afraid of them you are. You must be a pretty horrible vodnik if you’re afraid of me. I figure all those teacups were mostly filled by your predecessor?”

The vodnik scowled and sat down. “I can still put you in a teacup whenever I want.”

The boy picked up the teapot and stirred it. “My mother always says to make pleasant conversation when you’re serving tea.”

“Not something I find necessary.” The vodnik sniffed.

Ignoring him, the boy said, politely, “Have you ever been to the seaside?”

There was a quiet burble of hot water being poured as he filled their cups. Steam rose between them.

“No.” The vodnik snapped. “Whatever your mother thinks, salt is unpleasant stuff.”

He picked up the teacup. “Stupid boy.” He sipped it. And spat it out with a howl. “Salt! Eugh!” He flung it at the boy’s face, but the boy dodged. “Come here!” Snapped the vodnik and leapt over the rock towards the boy. But he had anticipated the move and darted away, skidding on the damp rock, shouting, “I get a teacup! You didn’t drink the tea!”

“I drown idiots like you—do you really think I care about lying to you?!” The vodnik hissed, slithering around the rock and lunging again for the boy. But even as he flew through the air his growl turned to a shriek. The boy had run away from the cave entrance, towards the back—towards the teacups. Arms outstretched he swept every single one off the shelves in a cacophonous crash. And with the crash came a roar like a crowd cheering, and a hundred tiny lights rose into the air. They hung there for a moment, like glowing dust, and then as a mass they plunged into the water and vanished. The boy was left standing in the dim green light, panting, surrounded by shattered pieces of teacups. “Then I’ll take all of them!” He shouted, his eyes wild, chest heaving.

The vodnik let out a scream of rage and fastened his webbed hands around the boy’s neck. “I will put you in a teacup and I then will hunt down every single member of your family and fill my new collection with their souls!” He shrieked.

An arm, pale and wet, shot out of the water and clamped onto the rock. A head followed. A woman, her eyes bright with life, her hair dripping down her face, climbed out of the water. She was followed by a man, and then a small girl, and another woman, and two more men, and as they climbed up onto the rock, they fixed angry stares on the vodnik and started towards him. He let go of the boy and tried to escape, but too many were coming out of the water, too many angry souls reunited with their bodies. With a scream, the vodnik vanished under the weight of angry people. The mass of them plunged into the water and bore him away. Only one remained, a woman, her hair in draggles, her dress and apron dripping water on the rocks. She looked at her son with shining eyes and then with a sob of joy and relief, pulled him to her.