Water's Child Part 1 (Patreon)

NOTE: This is for a contest on Royal Road. If I win, I get some free advertising, which can hopefully be applied to Cuckoo when I'm ready to start releasing it there. That, in turn, should help boost sales and the all-important ratings on Amazon, so, fingers crossed.

I'll only be working on this on the weekends and evenings, and it will be less than 40k words. As you know, I lean toward the verbose, so keeping it short will be harder than reaching the 8k word minimum. After the contest is over (January 31), I don't have any plans to continue this, but 🤷‍♀️ 

If you're curious, the contest details are here https://www.royalroad.com/blog/52/royal-road-community-magazine

She swam. It was warm, and it was dark, and she was not alone. Always, there was the other. They grew, and their space became tighter, until their bodies roiled so closely that they seemed one, rather than two, and they curled into each other’s cool bodies as they slept.

It ended in an instant. A noise they had never heard before came, and the fluid in which they swam flooded out of its container. Something sharp dug into her as she slid over it, helpless, and beside her, she caught her first and last glimpse of the other. She had never seen color, or light, and her eyes burned. Then her skin, too, burned, as she was scooped from the floor.

“Lara!” a voice shouted, and the too-hot flesh touching her drying skin jerked. “Come on! The fire is coming!”

The one clutching her tightened her grip. “It’s a baby, Paul! We can’t just leave her here!”

Paul hesitated, but something in the woman’s face must have convinced him she wouldn’t give in easily. “Fine,” he said, then coughed. The world was growing hazy again, colors and light fading, even as the heat grew stronger. “She’s injured, probably going to die anyway, but if you’re going to carry a corpse out of here, at least it’s a small one.”

A foggy shape reached out and touched Lara’s arm, pulling at her again. This time, Lara moved. She glanced back at something else on the floor behind them, but just ducked her head and tucked the ragged fabric of her tunic over the infant in her arms. Dirty, smudged face grim, she ran after Paul.

On the floor, something writhed, then fell still as flames rose around it.

“Kris!”

The girl sighed, looking in the direction the voice had come from. It was lunch time, and Mother would want her to come home, clean up, and eat the bland, crunchy meal that was the only thing she knew how to prepare.

“Kris!” The voice was more insistent, and Kris stood. The sculpture hanging in the air beside her, crafted entirely of water, splashed back into the shallow river from which it had been drawn. Kris tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and wiped her hands on her skirt, ignoring the discomfort that grew as her skin dried. It wasn’t like it was anything new.

“Coming!” she called, gathering the clean laundry from the rocks and bushes where it had been hung to dry. The water liked to help her wash the clothes, so she always finished much more quickly than her mother expected.

She just had to make sure none of the other villagers saw her, because her mother had explained over and over again what happened to people if someone accused her of being a witch. Kris didn’t mind the idea of someone trying to drown her, but she had nightmares of being tied to a stake and burned. No, Kris was very careful not to get caught.

Carefully balancing the basket of dried clothes on her hip, Kris made her way up the narrow path from the river. Her house was one of the first, since it sat on the furthest outskirts of the village. When Father had been alive, they had lived in the center of town, near the smithy where he worked, but after he died, they had to move. Mother said it was because living closer to the river made it easier to fetch water for the field, but Kris was fairly certain it was because she was worried that without Father’s protection, one of the villagers might actually try to hurt Kris.

Lara was standing on the front step of their little house, and she looked distinctly relieved as she saw Kris. “Did you get Widow Mathison’s clothes done, Kris? She sent her granddaughter over looking for them.”

Kris suppressed a sigh. Lara used to work for the widow, and the old woman still had servants and family who were perfectly capable of washing her clothes. She claimed she continued using Lara in order to help her former servant earn some money, but Kris knew it was because clothes she’d washed were always softer and smelled fresher than anyone else’s. Not that the cagey old biddy would ever admit to that. After all, if Lara actually got more customers, she might start charging more, or, worse, not have enough time for Widow Mathison.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, dutifully. “They’re dry.”

Her mother smiled, the lines around her mouth and eyes lightening briefly. “I knew I could count on you, Kris. You’re such a good daughter. Now, come in and have some lunch.”

Kris’s stomach gurgled unhappily. She had already eaten some wild berries and fresh fish earlier that morning, but her mother hated it when she ate anything raw, so she didn’t say anything, and Lara, if she heard the sound, would simply think her daughter was hungry.

When Kris entered the little house, she flinched against the dry heat emanating from the stove. Two plates sat on the wooden table. On one sat a golden-brown roll, a few slices of seared meat, and a potato that had been cooked in the coals deep within the stove. On the other was a fresh cucumber, some tender greens, and more cooked meat.

Kris winced, and her mother saw it. “Kris,” she said, voice chastising, “you need to eat your meat. You’re still growing, and your body needs the proper fuel.”

Unvoiced was Lara’s concern over the fact that Kris wasn’t growing. The girl had grown at the same rate as her peers until she was around eleven years old. During the five years since then, she had only grown a little over an inch, leaving her at just over four and a half feet tall. She also hadn’t yet entered puberty, and her slim frame could easily be mistaken for that of a boy, a fact that the other village children teased her about mercilessly.

Kris just shrugged and sat down in her chair. “Yes, Mother,” she mumbled, and speared the cucumber. Her mother used to cook and cut up her vegetables, but once Paul wasn’t around to insist on proper manners, Lara had given in to her daughter’s insistence that she much preferred tearing into her food with her sharp teeth.

Kris missed her father. His solid presence had protected her from anyone commenting on her oddities as she grew up, and he would sometimes give her piggy-back rides that lasted for hours. She did not, however, miss his determination to turn her into as ‘normal’ a child as he possibly could. It had been bad enough that he wouldn’t let her swim every day, but when he insisted on cutting the webbed membranes between her fingers, it had taken her weeks before she would speak to him again. At least Lara had been able to keep him from separating her toes, as well, though it had meant that Kris was never again allowed to go barefoot around other people.

Lara chattered cheerfully as they ate. Apparently, the mayor’s grandson was getting married, and his bride-to-be had come from another village. Her clothes needed washing and mending after the long journey, and the trunk in which her trousseau was packed had been submerged when one of the wagons overturned while crossing a river. While the young bride was distraught, her suffering would lead to a good amount of coin in Lara’s pocket.

Kris just nodded and smiled when it seemed appropriate. She had never been particularly comfortable talking; not even speaking her first word until she was nearly four years old. If she said too much, even now, her throat would hurt for days. Fortunately, Lara understood, and usually seemed willing enough to carry the conversation.

When the food had been eaten, and the conversation, such as it was, completed, Kris stood, picking up the dishes from the table. She carried them to the small sink, where a bucket of warm water waited. She placed the plates and cups into the bucket, and thrust in her hands, though the heat nearly made her hiss. She didn’t scrub, instead letting the water know what she needed it to do. It swirled in the bucket, separating dirt and dishes until Kris could lift the flat metal platters from the bucket, completely clean and dry.

Lara stood nearby, an expression of uncomfortable concern on her face. “I’ve asked you not to do that,” she chided, even as she accepted the plates, stacking them into the nearby cupboard with the two other sets that so rarely got used. One had been Paul’s, and the other was meant for guests who never came.

Kris shrugged. “Works,” she said, in her high-pitched, childish voice.

Her mother sighed, glancing at the door. “All right. Just… not around others.”

Kris just blinked. She knew that.

Sighing, Lara crossed the room, picking up a basket containing a heap of soft, mostly white cloth. “Here’s Peter’s new wife’s clothes. Do your very best with them, all right? Everyone in the village will want to talk to her, and if she likes our services, maybe she’ll recommend us.”

But everyone already knows what we do, Kris thought, but she didn’t speak. Her mother was right. The Widow Mathison loved to emphasize how generous she was in supporting Lara and Kris, given how unimpressive their work was. As the mayor’s granddaughter-in-law, the new girl would have a standing equivalent to that of the wealthy old woman, and she’d be far more interesting. The chance that she might say something that would convince more people to hire Lara was slim, but it was there.

Clutching the basket, Kris traipsed back out into the sun.

The clothing and linens in the trousseau were the finest Kris had ever handled. Some of the clothes were so thin that they were practically translucent, and she wondered what purpose they could possibly serve. Still, she made sure the water was extra gentle when it tugged the mud and stains from the delicate fabric, and when it was clean, she held up the pale pink garment, looking through it at the sky.

A rough laugh came from behind her, and Kris spun, clutching the item to her chest. “Glad you’re gettin’ those clean, girly. Little Suzi was terrible upset when that trunk fell in the water. It’d be too bad if she had to go to her wedding night naked, eh, Roost?”

A tall man stood there, just past the edge of the trees, grinning at another man, who was just emerging from the shadowed path. A piece of once-clean fabric protruded from beneath his boot, where he had stepped on a pretty linen shift that Kris had draped over a bush.

Kris glared. “Move,” she said.

He hesitated, though whether he was startled by her tone or the timbre of her voice, she didn’t know. “Why should I?” he demanded, folding thick arms across his chest.

The second man, slightly shorter and less muscular than the first, elbowed the big man in the ribs. “You’re messing up her work, you horse turd. Look where you’re stepping with those clodhoppers.” He smiled at Kris, though the look in his eyes didn’t match the warmth of his expression. “Hi, I’m Rooney, or Roost, as Thal here insists. I think he just can’t pronounce any words with more than one syllable, so I let him get away with it.” His smile encouraged Kris to share the joke with him, but she only backed up another step.

Thal moved as if he’d take a step forward to close the gap, but Rooney lifted an arm, holding him back. As the big man’s foot came back down, he pressed the fabric deeper into the mud, and Kris bit her lip, eyes going from it to him. He leaned down, tugging at the stained fabric. There was a loud tearing sound, and Thal held up a scrap of lace, his face full of mock contrition. “Whoops. Sorry, girly. I got mighty big feet.”

Rooney glared at him, and leaned over to pick up the rest of the shift. He balled it up and tossed it to Kris. She caught it automatically, but didn’t miss the way the man’s sharp eyes stared at her hands as she did.

“Heard there’s an old-time ruin near here,” Rooney said, genially. “I’m kind of an amateur historian, and thought I might go take a look. Any chance you might be able to take us there?” He held up a hand, and a coin danced between his nimble fingers, flickering silver.

Kris’ eyes widened. Silver! Lara was usually paid in copper or iron. Silver would buy a lot of seeds for the garden, and fabric for them to turn into dresses and tunics to sell to the villagers. Still, she knew what her mother would say. Even when the other children had dared each other to venture out to the burned and broken remains of the old-time buildings, Kris had never gone. Her mother and father had told her over and over that it was a dangerous place, and that she had gotten the scar that stretched from her hip to her collarbone when she had wandered off and found her way there as a toddler.

She shook her head. “Bad,” she said, and took a few more steps away from the men. Lifting a hand, she pointed in the direction of the ruins. “There.” She hoped they would take the hint and go away.

Rooney smiled easily and took a few steps in the direction she’d pointed, before moving almost faster than she could see, reaching her side before she could get away. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand toward him, separating the fingers. His own fingers traced the pale, thin scars that still remained from when Paul cut off the webbing there, and a wolfish grin crossed his face.

“I reckon you need to show us where the ruin is, little girl. It’d be terrible if we got lost, and some beast killed us. You’d hate to have that on your conscience, now wouldn’t you?” His voice was teasing, but his hand was like a manacle on her wrist. She tugged at it, and the water behind her swirled, ready to come to her aid. No, she thought, frantically. No, I’m all right. The waves settled with a petulant splash, and Rooney’s cold gaze flickered to it, then back to Kris.

Without releasing her, Rooney spun Kris in place. Her arm twisted painfully, and she whimpered. The cruel grip didn’t ease, and, surprisingly, it was Thal who spoke up for her. “That’s too much, Roost. She’s just a kid. She’ll be too scared to run off, anyway.”

Rooney’s grip only tightened, though Kris refused to give any further sign that he was hurting her. He leaned forward, his hot breath blowing over her ear, smelling of burned meat and liquor. “That right, girl? Are you a kid? Or are you a thing in a kid’s body, waiting to kill us all in our sleep?”

She froze. What did that mean? She really was a kid. Lara and Paul’s daughter, from the day she was born, though she didn’t look much like either of them. Lara had always said that was because there was still radashun around the ruins, and she and Paul had liked to sneak out there when they were young and foolish. The radashun was a dark magic that sometimes caused babies to be born different, though the infants rarely survived for long, one way or the other. Kris was lucky that her grandparents had died before she was born, and Lara had wanted a baby for years, but hadn’t been able to bring one to term. She and Paul had decided to keep their strange offspring, and there hadn’t been any elders in the family to say otherwise.

Two meaty hands inserted themselves between Kris and Rooney, pushing them apart. Her shoulder burned as it was twisted even further, but she only felt gratitude when Thal said, “Let ‘er go.” The feeling faded as he continued, “We’ve left too many tracks. If she vanishes, they’ll put a missing girl and two strangers in town together, and come up with the truth.”

Fear coursed through her. These two men were bad. Not just ignorant and foolish, like the people of her village, but truly evil. The only people who worried more about being caught than actually hurting someone else were demons, like in Lara’s old stories. However human these two looked, Kris had no doubt that beneath their skins, they were monsters.

Just like Rooney had accused her of being.

She shook her head. “Won’t tell,” she whispered. “Go home. Won’t tell.” Her throat felt scratchy, but she forced herself to continue. “I’ll show you the ruin. Then home. Won’t tell,” she insisted for the third time, and felt Rooney’s iron grip loosen at last.

Rooney stepped back, releasing Kris, though he remained standing between the girl and the path home. Lifting his hands, he gave another one of those false smiles. “I was just teasing, girly. Now, go on. Show us where these ruins are.” Behind him, Thal nodded, and Kris knew she would get no more help from that quarter.

Rubbing her wrist, she turned and stepped into the water, feeling her shoes grow cold and wet. She took strength from the contact, and the pain in her abused appendage faded. Motioning for the two men to follow, she began to walk.