Page 21 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

It was as if the wind saved its breath, and the clouds their bounty of rain, for the times that Clara stepped foot outside of the gate. For such a placid landscape, Friesland could be a wet, dreary place. The land had secrets it wanted kept, and took great pains to hide them behind of veils of rain and mist.

Hendrik had been right about one thing: her walks were immeasurably more enjoyable with a dog. With Pim stopping every few steps to investigate an intriguing scent, or followthe sticky train of a snail, Clara’s walk was transformed into an adventure, a welcome reprieve from the stifling expectations she endured in the house. She noticed flowers she had overlooked for years, saw the birds with new eyes as Pim excitedly barked after them. If only there was the exciting possibility of a chance meeting with Maurits.

Without Helma worrying behind her, there was little reason for Clara to stay within the gardens and surrounding grounds. Let Piet tell her father that she strayed, what could he do to her now? Let her mother kick her like a dog. She had lost all and was soon to leave anyway. If she wanted to go beyond the gatehouse and explore forbidden territory, she would.

Pim hung back, a whimper in his throat as Clara tentatively passed beneath the stone arch of the old gatehouse. Unwilling to be left behind, Pim eventually trotted to catch up with her, staying close to her heels.

The breeze wrapped itself around her, the clouds growing dense and heavy. Clara shivered, invigorated as much by the cool air as the knowledge that she was doing something forbidden. She was not yet a wife, and could still enjoy snatches of freedom where she may.

She had only ever been on this road from the safety of the carriage, and hadn’t expected it to grow so remote so quickly. The trees were wilder here, caring not if their tangled limbs obscured the path or what little light the sky offered. The chatter of birds had tapered off, with only the occasional rook sending out a cutting rasp into the damp air. Moss grew thick along the tree trunks and old stone wall. Clara pulled her cape tighter as the breeze whipped up. As if sensing the change in atmosphere, the hair along Pim’s back rose, his lips curling.

“Come, you can’t be so scared of a little wind as all that, can you?” Clara asked the dog, as if he could understand her. But the truth was, a prickling sense of foreboding had begunto creep down Clara’s back, and she wondered if she had been too rash in coming here.

If the old road beyond the gatehouse had been a landscape painting in her father’s hall, the artist would have included some little touches of humanity, perhaps a windmill in the distance or a drainage ditch, to allude to man’s mastery over nature. But man had no sway here, and the only sign that humankind had ever set foot here was the overgrown path that was growing fainter by the moment. Even the canal had broadened into a stream with a current that sent leaves rushing past her.

“Perhaps we had better go back,” Clara murmured to herself, and reached down to scoop up Pim. The dog’s warmth and strong heartbeat against her chest gave her fresh courage.

But when she turned around, the path seemed to have closed up around her, brambly plants tangled where there used to be clear grass. Unease sat heavy in her chest. The clouds were growing darker, as if in preparation for a reckoning, and the wind bit at her cheeks.

She was not alone, she was certain of it, yet there was no sign of life save for her own shallow breaths and Pim’s growling. He struggled to free himself from her grasp, and landed by her feet with his hackles raised. Oak trees stretched out before her, and though she caught glimpses of the carriage house roof in the distance, she was not sure how to reach it. Where was she that there was such an expanse of woods? She had lived on this land her entire life, and could think of nowhere so thickly grown with trees. The water here was not the lazy, lily pad–flecked water of the canal; this water moved swiftly of its own accord, flowing to or from some place of which only it knew the source.

Despite the cool nip of air, she grew drowsy, lightheaded. Oh, why was everything so still, so quiet? Clara leaned her head back against the rough bark of a tree and closed her eyes.The air conspired to suffocate her, blanketing her in never-ending fields, black skies as thick as velvet, stagnant canals. She thought of the beached whale, how terrible it must have been for the creature’s life to end in painful gasps of breath, so close to its home yet so far away. She took a deep breath, as if making certain that she was still capable of such an act. What was it like to live under the water? Her mind filled with briny sea air. Behind her closed eyelids, sunlight filtered through green kelp reaching ever upward, searching for the same sustenance as the plants on land. It was not so different from her own world, perhaps.

A flash out of the corner of her eye and she spun around. Trees stood silent, passive yet with a heavy watchfulness. There was no one, though she could have sworn that she’d seen the sweep of hair, a long arm disappearing behind a trunk. She thought of Helma’s stories of mist maidens and little folk. But it was not misty out, and Clara was not a child who believed in such tales any longer. Another movement out of the corner of her eye, too fast for her to catch, and then a rustle. Pim’s ears lay back, his teeth bared as he protectively circled Clara’s ankles. “Who’s there? What do you want of me?”

The wind rushed in reply, the sound of water running on fish scales, musical and old. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, beautiful yet terrible. If she hadn’t run from the canal that fateful day, would this have been the eighth sound she heard? Clara reached down to pet Pim, her fingers tightening in his fur.

The rushing came again, carrying whispers that folded over each other like bolts of silk. Hairs on her neck stood on end, and her hand instinctively went to the little gold cross at her neck. If Helma were here, she would have known a protective charm or prayer to say. If Helma were here, Clara wouldn’t be by herself in the middle of the woods.

She closed her eyes.Deep breaths. Count to seven.

The wind stopped, the rushing water calming, yet the feeling of being watched had only grown stronger. Heart pulsing in her throat, Clara slowly opened her eyes.

A woman, as green and downy as moss, stood among the poplars, her eyes boring into Clara. Pim was pacing now, putting himself between Clara and the woman, a dangerous growl low in his throat. Every instinct told Clara to flee, yet she could not look away. The woman was beautiful, ethereal with her long, silver hair twined with glittering crystals and ripe red berries. Her eyes were as clear and sparkling as diamonds, and seemed to stare right down into Clara’s soul.

Was this what Fenna had seen? Was this graceful woman who had yet to utter a word the siren that had lured an innocent little child into the water? Clara could hardly resist taking a step toward her, what chance would Fenna, a child, have had? But the woman was not of water; she was most definitely of land. Moss grew up her legs, patches of lichen and tree bark on her arms showing from beneath her gauzy white gown.

Clara’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. This woman was not of her world, but she could not begin to imagine what world shedidbelong to. What did she want of Clara? It was only when the woman extended one pale arm draped in squirming worms and beetles, did the spell finally break. Turning, Clara stumbled back through the bracken, Pim close at her heels, barking all the while.

Interstitial

Known as gnomes in some lands, we know these diminutive creatures as kabouters. One of the gentlest and most sensitive of the Old Ones, kabouters are nocturnal and are seldom seen by humans unless one leaves out an offering of food. Most kabouters make their homes under the roots of trees, and for this reason, are often associated with moss maidens and other creatures of the woods. Because of their gentle nature, kabouters make easy prey for stoats, rats, and adders. To save a kabouter from an encounter with a wild animal is to earn its goodwill and luck for the rest of your life.

Chapter Fourteen

There was a fire in the hearth, and a now-cold bowl of broth on the table beside the bed. Wind rattled the windows. Maurits watched the steady rise and fall of Clara’s chest as she slept, taking inventory of every golden hair on her head. He nuzzled under her hand, smelling her lovely warm, sweet scent. Some of it was perfume, but most of it was just her. Just Clara. He pressed himself a little closer. She allowed him liberties that no unmarried young lady would have ever allowed a man. Would she have still allowed him in her bed if she knew who he was?

He was not proud of the deception, but then, he’d had little say in the matter. His mother had thought giving him the form of a dog to be an exceedingly clever punishment. If he were stronger perhaps he would not have come to Wierenslot and ingratiated himself into Clara’s life. But the pull to be with her was too strong, and if he were to ever break the bonds of his mother’s spell, Clara was his only hope.

And it was a good thing he had come; she needed protection. The encounter with the moss maiden had unnerved him, and not just because of his new canine sensibilities. The land and air creatures had an agreement with the water folk that they would not interfere with the humans, unless it was in upholding the treaty. What had the moss maiden been thinking, showing herself to a human like that?

The bed was soft, and Clara was so warm. He was loathe to let her out of his sight, but there were pressing matters to attend to. Gently nosing her hand, he gave her a small lick. She stirred, but rolled over, her sleep unbroken.

His coat was thick at least, and the rain beaded off his fur. But it was cold and unpleasant all the same, and he dreaded the audience he was about to hold.

At the edge of the canal, he stopped. The water flowed fast and smooth, and for a moment he longed to dip his paw in, to let the current sweep him away. Let his mother win. He need not suffer the indignity of this form anymore, need not live with the crushing failure that he was to his own people. But then Clara would never know his true feelings, and he didn’t think that he could live without telling her what was in his heart.

“Fur does not suit you,” his mother gurgled, rising to the surface.

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