The Water Witch

I stand in front of the wellhouse, shaking with cold and fear. Goosebumps cover my arms and chest, exposed to the late autumn chill. Should have taken a coat, I think absently, curling my hands into fists at my sides, bunching the worn fabric of my dress in clammy palms.

Of course, I’d had other things to worry about at that moment. The village doctor and the women who’d found Joshua, face-down in the river, were still in my kitchen surrounding the lifeless body of my son. If they had known what I planned to do, they would have stopped me. I couldn’t allow that – my husband had died two winters ago and my little boy was the only family I had left. And now there’s only me. I push the horrifying thought aside, forcing myself to focus on the building before me.

The wellhouse sits low and squat in the tall grass, surrounded by trees with thick, solid trunks and dense canopies of leaves. They grow closely around the building, branches interwoven in a dark mass that blocks out the stars above me. Gnarled roots snake along the edges of the structure, creeping their way through small cracks in the mossy stone walls. It makes the wellhouse seem like a natural part of the woods, growing in the soil like the trees around it.

This is a very old place – part of the village that had stood here before my own. Though most of the other buildings have become crumbling mounds of loosely-ordered stone, the wellhouse remains mostly intact – weathered, but solid. My people believe it holds great power, for in it resides something far more ancient than even the abandoned village: the Water Witch.

My breath comes in a slight pant and my skin stings from the many cuts I accumulated running through the forest to the old village. But my physical discomfort is secondary to my main concern – the unspeakable tragedy that has brought me to this place. My baby, gone! A terrible ache fills my chest and sends hot, desperate tears of grief pouring down my wind-chapped cheeks. I must save him, whatever it takes!

Still, I hesitate, unwilling to enter the wellhouse. All my life, I have been told stories of the creature that calls this place home. She is said to be thousands of years old, the last of an ancient race that had once ruled this region. Some kind of spirit or nymph who inhabits the waters in the area. Part protector and part temptress, she guards the water and all who reside in it but also serves a much darker purpose. The “witch” is in fact, a siren, leading men astray only to drown them in the deep waters. She seems to particularly prefer those who have survived shipwrecks or near-drownings – men who escape watery graves, only to be lured back into them by a vision of beauty in the form they desire most.

While the Water Witch’s motivations are poorly understood, her power is feared. The nymph doesn’t just live in the water, she is the water. Not just in her well, but in every lake, river and stream from here to the next village, almost three days’ ride away. She also guards the stretch of coastline to the East and if the few survivors and witnesses are to be believed, at least some of the deep ocean beyond.

My people have always allowed her to live in peace and privacy, giving her wellhouse a wide berth. Some leave occasional offerings for her at the water’s edge, which go untouched until the animals take them. But tonight, I intend to do the unthinkable – to break the unwritten rules and try to speak to the witch herself.

As I stand there surrounded by shadows, crisp wind carrying the scent of decaying leaves and peat to my nose, my survival instincts scream at me to turn and run like a frightened rabbit. But the agony off my loss far outweighs my terror, so I think of my little boy and let the primal need to protect my child fill me. It washes away my fear and hesitation, lending me the resolve I so desperately need. The resolve Joshua needs. 

Steeling myself, I take three steps to the door and push my way into the darkness. After a brief moment of terrifying blackness, my eyes begin to adjust. Small holes in the roof let slivers of light through, casting a pale glow over the cracked stone and wood that makes up the structure. The old well sits in the middle of the room, as high as my waist. It’s made of rough-hewn grey and black rocks, cut into a circle at least the width of a man’s wingspan. The air is still and smells of peat and dirt, stale from years of neglect. The wellhouse is utterly quiet, save for my own shaky breathing. 

“Hello? Is anyone here?” When there is no answer, I begin to panic, certain I’ve been following a path to a dead end. Now what will I do? I cannot live without him! At the thought of my son truly being gone forever, a sob escapes me. It echoes off the walls, filling the room with the sound of my grief.

A soft noise breaks my rapidly-spiraling train of thought – a gentle splashing, coming from the bottom of the well. With baited breath and dread suffusing every ounce of my being, I slowly and cautiously approach. Stopping as far back as I can, I lean forwards to look over the lip of stone, down into the base of the well. 

There, just below the surface. A vague shape, spanning almost the full width of the well. Is it moving? I step forwards warily, poking my head over the edge, and a tear rolls off my cheek. It glimmers in the dim light as it falls to join the pool below.

As the teardrop reaches the water, sending ripples across its surface, the shape begins to move. It surges up toward me with incredible speed, a spray of water arcing up as it breaches. I jump back with a startled scream, shielding my face with a raised arm.  

The dark shape lands in front of the well with a surprisingly light thud, rising up to tower above my cringing form. Though the wellhouse is filled with shadows, there is enough light to discern that the Water Witch is inhumanly beautiful.

She wears a deep green dress the color of seaweed that clings to her like wet fabric. Her hair is a brilliant, ultramarine blue. It hangs down to her waist in a mass of untamed waves, dry in spite of the water she just emerged from. In fact, she doesn’t appear to be sodden at all - not even the faintest gleam of moisture is visible on her cyan skin.

She regards me with sapphire eyes flecked with white, like the ocean itself is trapped beneath her lashes. After a brief pause, she speaks in a voice that reminds me off a still lake. Calm and gentle on the surface, but with an unfathomable depth I instinctively know to fear.

“You taste of loss, little mad woman.”

I stand there with my mouth agape, unsure how to respond. At length, I find my voice but all I manage to say is “I’m not mad.”

The witch laughs, a pleasant sound strangely reminiscent of a babbling creek, and turns to walk around the left side of the well. “Of course you are, young one. Only a mad woman would seek a Witch of the Water. Especially a woman who tastes of grief.” 

As she speaks, she trails her fingers along the stone lip, slowly circling it as her eyes take in the state of the decrepit building. In her wake, thin streams of water decorate the floor and well’s edge, as if it’s emanating from her skin itself. 

Though I want to argue with the nymph, I must admit that she has a point. And more importantly, a potential resolution for my terrible tragedy. 

“I have come to ask for your help.” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. “My son ... h-he was playing by the river with some of the vi-village boys and somehow he...” I trail off with a sob, unable to finish my sentence. 

She chimes in, apparently unphased by my blubbering nonsense. “He drowned in my river. Yes, I know. I am sorry you lost him.” 

I am surprised to hear genuine sympathy in the nymph’s voice. I had always pictured her as a cold, terrifying being – powerful and unforgiving like the ocean. To hear gentleness and kindness in her tone fills me with nascent hope.

“Th-thank you.” I sniff, wiping at my raw cheeks with the rough sleeve of my dress. “B-but it’s not good enough. I want to make a d-deal. I want my son back!” I shake, my throat tight and burning as hot tears stream down my face, wetting my neck and soaking into my collar.

The witch fixes me with an unreadable gaze, leaning on the well across from me. “What you ask is no small feat, mad woman. What makes you think I can restore life to your boy?” 

My heart sinks at her question, but I cling to my hopes like a drowning woman. “You are the river – both its guardian and its spirit. Surely there must be something you can do? Please, I beg you! Joshua is all I have left in this world. I cannot bear to lose him!” 

She is quiet for a moment then answers, her expression guarded. “What you ask is technically possible but you would not be making the deal with me. You’ll need an old god for this.”

I frown, struggling to understand. “Not with you? What do you mean? I don’t know any old gods!” Panic rides me hard, filling my head with thoughts of living out the rest of my life alone, grieving my husband and a nine-year old who were once the centre of my world. 

The nymph gives me a serious look. “You don’t, but I do. My master is one of the Old Ones. He may be able to help you but I must warn you, the price will be... high.” 

  I nod my head eagerly, renewed hope blossoming within. “I’ll do anything!” I say, dimly aware that I am making a dangerous promise. 

The nymph opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerge. Instead, I hear a song – one that is strangely familiar to me. A thought enters my head, unbidden and nonsensical: This isn’t how it happened.

A sudden sense of déjà vu invades me as I find myself being pulled from my memory of the wellhouse. The witch and her warning fade away as I’m whisked far from the old village and the forest that surrounds it. I am weightless, only my spirit left to travel past what was once my own home, just down the street from the shops in the centre of town. Past the fields on the outskirts of what was once my village, past people I had once known. I fly over the landscape at inhuman speeds, feeling nothing but the magnetic pull that draws me to the ocean beyond. The song is loud in my ears, growing clearer and more recognizable with every second. The déjà vu is fading, replaced by the clarity of remembrance as my duty overcomes my dream. 

A crack of thunder rings out across the hills as I shoot past the eastern bend of the river, following to where it meets the ocean. The sky above me is dark and ominous, lightning forking across clouds the color of ash. Rain pours down like it’s attacking the ground below, violent in its intensity. I pass trees leaning at precarious angles, powerful gusts of wind bending them almost to point of snapping. I feel none of it of course, disembodied as I am. It is not my place to feel here – only to seek. 

I am catapulted over the river’s mouth, soaring above the roiling ocean. The storm has turned the calm waters wild. Massive waves swell and pound against anything in reach, rising from the ocean with fury as if they rage against the sky itself. The storm’s song is powerful and I can feel the old god’s hunger in its notes. 

I am pulled further out, not quite to the deep ocean, but close. Though I know what I’m looking for, it still takes me a moment to find the ship amongst the towering waves. It bobs along like a child’s toy, incomprehensibly small compared to the ocean whose surface it travels on. I drop down towards it, diving like a hawk sighting prey, and come to a halt just above the deck. There I hover, floating by the mast the crew is lashed to.

“Brace yourselves! Here comes a big one!” The captain screams over the howling winds, his voice nearly lost before it could reach his men, standing at his back.

Though there are at least a score of sailors on board, I only feel drawn to a handful: the captain, a rotund man with an apron who must be the cook, and the boy on the leftmost side of the mast with a mop of sodden red hair, gripping a bible to his thin chest. But most of all, a skinny young man with brown eyes who presses himself to the great wooden pole with obvious force. His fingers curl into claws, clinging desperately to the rough-hewn rope looped around him and the rest of the crew, holding them firmly to their only hope of survival. 

Though his terror is overwhelmingly apparent, it is not what draws me to him. It’s his loss – the desperate, aching loneliness that fills his heart and weighs down his soul. All the men who have summoned me here carry it in one form or another and it is that heaviness that my master desires. The call of the lost – that which I am bound to answer.

It seems the old god is determined to have them, for I can see their ship being driven closer to shore. I follow along, an invisible onlooker as they are sacrificed to the one I serve. It is he who has brought me here, not just to bear witness but to finish the job. To follow where he cannot and bring back those who escape him. 

The brown-eyed man turns his head to the side and presses his cheek against the mast hard, heedless of how it strains his neck and scratches his skin raw, making it sting from the salt of the water. Against his better judgement, he looks back over the railing of the ship and lets out a low whimper of fear, which is promptly whisked away by the storm. 

A wall of water rises up, barreling forward with no regard for the tiny ship it looms over. Like a dark cliff face, blacking out the night sky as it crashes down with terrible might. It rocks the boat violently and drenches the sailors, leaving them gasping and coughing as it recedes off the sides of the deck. 

The captain, an older man with greying hair and a scar that ran the length of his right cheek, grips the wheel, his knuckles white from strain. All his force is nothing compared to the power of the ocean but he fights with the strength of a dying man, desperate to do anything that will help keep them afloat. He tugs on the rope holding him to the wheel, reassured by the tautness of the line.

Another wave begins to build, lifting the boat up into the air. It’s as though a mountain has suddenly risen up beneath them, carrying the little ship impossibly high as the water rages below. The swell carries them forward with incredible speed as the men close their eyes against the driving rain and pray to every god they know of. Unfortunately for the sailors, they are now at the mercy of the old god himself, and prayers are weak sustenance.

The rocks appear out of nowhere. Black shapes, jagged and solid in a world of icy cold liquid. Though he can see them looming closer, the captain is helpless to avoid them and can only watch as the wave pushes them into an outcrop that has withstood the force of the ocean for centuries. The sharp stone easily breaks through the fragile wood of the ship, tearing chunks from gaping holes as the waves rake the vessel over the coarse rocks.

The captain’s hold on the wheel is jarred loose by the impact and he slides along the deck, jerking to a stop as the rope catches him. He struggles to right himself and crawl back to the helm but another wave overtakes them, flooding the ship and pushing it back onto the rocks. When the water drains away and the men look back, spluttering and coughing up salty water, the rope around the wheel is gone and so is their captain. 

The sailors immediately begin screaming and struggling to free themselves, knowing they will surely drown if they do not abandon their sinking vessel. They frantically saw at the ropes with rusted knives as the pounding waves and torrential downpour conspire to rip the blades from their desperate grasps. A few prevail though, managing to loosen the bonds that hold them. Two of the smallest slip free, including the red-haired boy, and are immediately swept overboard. 

What remains of the crew struggle to hold on as the boat begins to tilt, her belly filling with water and dragging her down into the roiling depths. A few tumble loose, unable to keep their grip after hours of freezing cold and wet, and disappear into the churning water. The old god roars with satisfaction, perceptible only to his faithful servant.

The waves drive them forward again, catching the tail end of the vessel against the rocks and spawning a course of creaks and groans as the wood of the craft strains against the power of the ocean. It gives way as all things do when faced with such unbridled force, fissures spreading out from the holes the rocks had torn. The ship cleaves in half with a series of loud, splintering cracks that are audible even over the raging storm. Cries of terror carry on the wind as the crew is cast down into the icy water. A small number surface, having managed to avoid being dragged down with the wreckage of their vessel. The cook is not among them. The storm’s song is a howl of victory as the old god receives his sacrifice. 

Clinging to a chunk of the hull, the boy with the brown eyes sobs into the wind. “I swear, if you let me live, I’ll give anything! I just want to see her again!” A beautiful woman’s face flashes in his mind – strawberry blonde hair, smiling green eyes – and he clings tight to the image, hoping it will keep him afloat. 

~~~

I wake with a start, the memory of the green-eyed woman’s face sharp in my mind. It is time. Already, I can feel the pull of the lost soul above me summoning me to the shoreline of my ocean. In the distance, I can hear the storm’s song, my master aching for the last of the heavy souls on the ship.

Though I can inhabit any water within my domain, I call the well home, just as my predecessor had. Deep within the belly of the earth, I sleep in the still waters of my reservoir. Cocooned by stone, hidden by overgrown foliage, I wait for the call of the lost to wake me. Just as my grief had woken the nymph all those years ago.

While in the ether I am able to travel overland, outside of my slumbering state I am bound to the water. So, I disintegrate my physical body, making myself one with my element and travel through the underground aquifers that replenish my home. Above me, I feel the roar of thunder, shaking the very earth my well is cut from.

As I pass from the aquifer into the lake, I reintegrate to my natural form: hairless and sleek, with skin of mottled blue and a patchwork of iridescent scales. I cut across the small lake with inhuman speed, my powerful tail driving me through the water as if it’s air. I can hear the storm’s song, amplified by the volume of the lake, fed by the voice of the rivers. I sing with the water as I swim, my voice lifting to join the chorus. All water has a song of its own but a storm’s is particularly loud. Especially one brought on by an ancient, hungry god.  

I reach the river, swimming with the flow of the current as the choppy waters surrounding me begin to calm. The storm is moving on, having gifted me the fruits of its destructive labour. Its song is fading, replaced by that of the river and the ocean to the East. The closer I get to the lost soul, the stronger the pull becomes. It is magnetic and instinctual – a honing device gifted by a primal god. Shadows of black and blue surround me, blurred by my inhuman speed as I am compelled to answer the call.

I dart out of the river and into the ocean beyond, feeling the scattered survivors clinging to the shoreline. Some are already dead, their bodies growing cold in the frigid air. Others hold on to life by the thinnest of threads, merely delaying the inevitable. They are too far gone – passed beyond my reach and that of my master. But it matters not, for there is only one left that he wants and his soul can still be tempted to my realm.

I swim to the edge of the shallows, calm water lapping around me. I feel the old god’s hunger in the ocean’s song, muted in anticipation. There, on the edge of the beach. A lone male, the one with brown eyes I had seen in my dream. He lies half in the water, his torso flopped across a broken chunk of wood. There is a cut over his right eyebrow and his cheek is rubbed raw and bloody on one side. His breathing is hoarse and scratchy, but even. His body will need time to heal, but he will survive. Or he would have, anyway, I think to myself wryly.

When I had first been summoned to lure an escaped soul, I had felt sick with remorse at what I was compelled to do. But after decades of service to the old god, I no longer feel horror and regret over my murderous deceit. In answering my plea to save my beloved son, my master had remade me into the perfect aquatic huntress – an immortal instrument to feed his insatiable hunger. Unlike the nymph, who had served him out of duty and was rapidly approaching the end of her very long lifespan, I am nothing more than an extension of my master’s will – unsuited to any other purpose and nonviable without his interference. There is balance in all things, and knowing my Joshua lives and breathes is all the comfort I need to silence the faint voice of my conscience.

Readying myself, I sense the ocean’s song go silent as the old god waits for his meal. I begin to sing from below the water’s surface, the high, clear notes carried to the brown-eyed man by whatever magic it is that sustains me. He stirs on the chunk of hull, the unearthly tone of my voice waking him despite how badly his body needs to recuperate. 

As he regains consciousness, he instinctively begins to look for the source of the singing. Anticipation suffuses me as I hold his lover’s face in my mind and feel the transformation beginning to take place. 

I rise from the water, my tail propelling my head and shoulders into the air. As my skull breaks the surface, I feel long reddish-blonde hair cascading down to brush against my shoulders and back, smooth white skin replacing pale blue flesh and iridescent scales.

“Meredith?” The man’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. I smile at him, singing my siren’s song from the shallows. His eyes drink in the sight of me, fragile hope blossoming in his gaze. My master’s need is a physical weight pressing against my back; a gaping maw eager to devour the sailor whole.

“It is me, my darling.” My voice is not my own, stolen as is the face I wear. Plucked from the desperate prayers of a dying man; his damnation wearing the face of salvation. 

“I don’t understand. How is this possible? You said you never wanted to see me again after...” He trails off, tears in his eyes. “It’s why I left. To honour that request.” The man looks lost and unsure but he is stepping closer to the waterline even as he questions my sudden appearance. The old god growls at his approach, barely restrained hunger in his tone.

“I can explain everything my love. But first, come take a swim with me. The water is calm and it would feel so nice.” I smile at him from Meredith’s face, letting my magic lull him into complacency.

On the shoreline beyond us, the other survivors are beginning to stir. Though they are not the target of my song, they cannot help but hear it. The old god snarls with displeasure, sensing their awareness as well. The magic is less effective on them, increasing the chances they will realize what I am and break the spell before I can drag the brown-eyed man under. I am running out of time and my master is not the forgiving type. 

The man wavers and I know I must seal the deal. My tail paddles below me, propelling me upwards and revealing my bare breasts, skin glowing in the pale moonlight. I sing, high and sweet, sending him an alluring smile as I push myself backwards, leading him into the shallows. “I’ve missed you, darling.” I purr, lifting one hand – no webbing between the digits, tipped with blunt nails instead of claws – and crook my finger at him.

Aching desire fills the man’s eyes as he follows me into the water. The ocean’s song grows louder in my ears and my master rumbles his approval as he samples the man’s loss. It is an irresistible bouquet for him, flavoured with the agony of the sailor’s loneliness.

I see what’s left of his crewmates running from the jagged shadows of the wreck, screaming the man’s name, but it is too late for him. The brown-eyed sailor is up to his waist now, splashing through the shallow water with rapid, clumsy steps.

I smile and close the gap between us with a single stroke of my tail, coming almost close enough to touch him. He stops where he is, eyes locked on mine and filled with desperate hope and love. He is blind to the impossibility of Meredith’s presence here, to the trap he has walked into so willingly. Blind even to my true nature, lurking just below the water’s surface – iridescent scales shimmering silver in the light of the moon. 

He doesn’t even fight as my arms go around him, nor when they turn hard and strong, dragging him down to the deep water. As the liquid hits my head and chest they revert back to my true form, sleek and smooth like the aquatic creature I am. My master roars with triumph, tasting the heaviness of the man’s soul as he enters the old god’s realm.

It’s only when the sailor sees my true face that he begins to panic, thrashing and pulling against me – prey that has realized the trap too late. He opens his mouth to scream and water rushes in, forcing precious air from his lungs as I pull him deeper and deeper, where the shadows are purple and blue beneath the shifting waves. 

I feel him drowning as we descend, just as I had drowned in the witch’s well all those decades ago. Even after all these years, I am not entirely used to the feeling of the water filling his chest – that burning, choking sensation as his body screams for air. It is a temporary discomfort though, for I know it will end when his soul departs his body. Which would be right around... now.

I sense him let go, his body now an empty vessel. I release my hold and he drifts away, eyes wide and sightless, mouth open in a silent scream. A sacrifice to the ocean from which he’d escaped. My master lets out a satisfied grumble, releasing his own hold on me at last. Immediately, the magnetic pull fades away, leaving me as free as my servitude ever permits. Free to return to my home – the only place I find any rest.

On my stomach, a burning spot about the size of a thimble appears, just right of my navel. I pay it no mind, more than accustomed to that particular sensation, and begin the journey back to my wellhouse. It’s always the same kind of pain when my hunt is over, even after the very first time I had offered a soul to the old god. Memories of that night flood my mind as I swim back up the river, its song muted and its water calm around me, sated by my hunt.

How shocked I’d been all those years ago, when I’d forced myself to breathe in the well water. I had expected my vision to fade to black but instead, I had been transformed. The water had boiled around me, my skin searing as the old god remade me, accepting the sacrifice of my willing drowning. I had watched as my hair fell away in clumps, my skin darkening to an inhuman mottled blue and my legs fusing together, feet elongating and flattening into a tail. Claws erupted from my fingertips as the digits splayed out in an automatic reaction to the pain. I felt a strange tugging sensation between my fingers and realized that there was skin between them – a thin blue membrane decorated with delicate veins. I had screamed in agony under the tumultuous waves, drawing in liquid and receiving life-giving air – no longer a creature of land but one of the sea. Bound to the water, as all my master’s creatures were.

As the agony all over my body faded away, a single spot about the size of my thumb directly over my heart continued to burn. It had swelled and hardened, turning shiny and iridescent as the pain finally receded, leaving me with a mark to remember my sacrifice. A scale for a soul, my new master had whispered directly into my mind, laughing with a rumble like the roaring ocean. A soul for a soul, I had thought to myself, picturing Joshua’s cherubic face – a perfect blend of William’s features and my own.

Back in my well, I lie facing the ceiling of my decrepit abode, cradled in the gently lapping waters. My eyes are heavy from the exertion of my hunt – the old god’s call is powerful and always leaves me drained afterwards. He murmurs praise into my head as the quiet song of the water soothes me, like a gentle lullaby in my ears.

I breathe slow and deep, the soft flow of water in and out of my lungs calming me as I stroke the smooth surface of my newest scale. The hundreds of others decorating my body like a patchwork mosaic glimmer in the dim moonlight, faint rays reaching down into the well through holes in the roof.

I close my eyes to the tapestry of my enslavement and allow myself to drift back to the ether, once again awaiting my master’s call.