Leda

Chapter Fifteen: Night Fishing

The finest of cloud breaks would have done it ˗ a sliver of moonlight to pierce the gloom. Sometimes that was enough to reveal the knots of tench or trout swirling beneath Lev's coracle. But not tonight. If anything the wind had picked up, his tiny boat listing drunkenly over stray wavelets and loose spray. Moon or no, Brennac wouldn't be giving up any of its secrets.

Lev shivered, his hands chapped and frozen, the damp seeping through his tanned leather cape to paw at the skin beneath. But the thought of facing Yaga empty-handed stopped him from reaching for the oars and steering back home.

I told you so, she'd say. I told you you'd be back here dripping half of Brennac through the croft with nothing to show for it but thin air. You and your night fishing. Why d'you have to sit out there like a blind old mole anyway, when you could be back here beside the hearth with me?

Then she'd turn her back and he knew there'd be tears. And he'd touch her shoulder and she'd shrug him off. And they'd sit by the fire anyway, him dripping and her weeping, thinking on what they'd lost.

So no, he decided. He wouldn't go back. Not till the dawn, though his fingers break off with cold. Not to see her face so stony and hurt again. He couldn't bear it.

Lev burrowed his hands into the pockets of his trousers and closed his eyes. Sleep might find him eventually ˗ if not, he'd drift for the night and make for home with the dawn. An owl howled into the darkness from the trees on the eastern bank. Then came a bark of laughter and a weighty splash as something was hurled into the lake. Voices passed him on the wind, only to be snatched away again before he could make out distinct words. He froze.

So they were back ˗ those night devils, those misery-makers. Scarce a week went by now without some tale of horror from the eastern shore of Brennac ˗ of travellers dragged from their horses and hacked to death for the sake of a few coins or a skin of wine. Of the fisher folk forced to hand over their day's catch at knife point. Of victims driven into the lake and left to drown. Brennac was fast becoming a tomb. And it was only a matter of time before the hunters sought out fresh game on the western shore.

A wiser man would have stretched out his oars and headed for home. But as Yaga often told him, no wise man ever fished at night. And Lev had made enough mistakes in his life for a whole army of fools. So he sat there shivering, puffing out fine clouds of breath as the voices taunted, threatened and demanded. A horse wailed ˗ there was the thud of pounding hooves, a screech of carriage wheels. Rich pickings then, this night.

"Find her! Get her!" A man screamed out this time ˗ his voice contorted with rage and what might have been pain. Had one fish slipped their net, then? Gravel crunched on the shoreline; bracken and branches broke beneath running feet. And against the dark mass of trees, a paler shadow moved ˗ hovering, wraith like on the lakeside. Lev sucked in his breath. The quarry ˗ cornered at last.

With a few light splashes their victim was already waist deep in water before disappearing altogether; perhaps already drowned, or diving in the vain hope of reaching the western shore.

A few careless arrows were fired from the bank, piercing the air before plunging into the lake.

"Leave her," someone called. "She'll drown anyway."

So their prey had been a she. Some luckless lady, widowed for a handful of minutes before she followed her husband into death? Or an aging aristocrat, denied all dignity in the last hour of her life?

The voices faded; footsteps retreated up the bank and away, and out on the choppy waters a head broke the surface, gasped and sank again. Still alive, poor soul. Still foundering. He should leave now, return home with nothing more than guilt. There was barely enough food for himself and Yaga after all ˗ they'd only had his catch to rely on since the hunger set in. Another mouth to feed? He imagined Yaga's face and flinched.

Spluttering, her arms flailing uselessly, the woman struggled to the surface once more only to be dragged back down again by the weight of her own clothing. Lev could bear it no longer. Let Yaga quarrel all she liked. She'd a softer heart than he, after all. He'd seen it break. And he knew she'd understand.

Stiff with cold, Lev stretched out the oars and powered his way eastwards. But on a night of shifting shadows such as this, he had as little a chance of finding a drowning woman as a fish. He rested for a moment, panting, oars upright and listened. Nothing but the wind sifting the trees, the suck and gurgle of water around his boat. He slumped forward, burying his face behind cold, aching fingers. Not a chance. Another one he'd lost.

His back sore, he forced himself upright, clutched the oars again and scanned the lake once more. No one could survive but a few minutes in such weather. Numb with grief, he sank oars to the water and pulled, the left one cutting keen through the wavelets, but the right...something had snagged on the paddle, pulling it down.

Lev leaned over the side to observe a swathe of material caught around the wood.

He pulled backwards. The cloth unravelled and shrank away. Frantic, Lev plunged both hands into the icy water, grabbing the material before it drifted from reach. He pulled and it unwound, spooling out to reveal a sash. Lev followed it: a smoky trail floating upon the surface. And at its end, her face glazed with water, eyes closed and skin the colour of milk, rested the girl.

Rested ˗ she seemed asleep, her hair fanning out around her face like fronds of lakeside plants. Choked with grief, Lev levered his hands beneath her armpits and dragged her over the side, the coracle tipping, water spilling inwards until she was resting on its floor, no sign of life and her forehead cold as ice.

He turned the drowned girl face down, pushing the heel of his hand into her back. Water jetted out from between the bluish stains of her lips, but she remained limp and lifeless as a sodden rag. He tried again and again, and each time water pulsed from her nose and mouth.

"Swallowed half the lake." Grunting, he turned her onto her back, having remembered something Yaga had once told him ˗ that there were times when one person might breathe life into another. Tilting back the girl's head, he pressed his mouth to hers and blew again and again. He stopped. She'd moved ˗ he felt her twist beneath him. And as he bent down to try once more, she squirmed, threw herself onto her side, and retched into the bottom of the boat.

Lev flung himself backwards, suddenly tired, allowing himself a brief moment of selfishness. For, was that redemption? That spluttering, freezing mess now lying in his coracle? Had he salvaged more than one woman's life from the lake?

She tried to rise but fell, then rose again. Lev tugged at the cloak around his shoulders and laid it over her, propping her up against the hard board of the seat. She said nothing ˗ merely stared with the eyes of one reborn, bewildered, still half ghost.

A sudden break in the clouds and the moon thrust through, revealing a young woman of fragile beauty, dark curls plastered to her cold face, her dress clinging to long, slim limbs. The same beam of light hit the water. He spied a trout's fins flicking through the depths. With a shake of his head, Lev slid his oars back down and rowed for shore.