The Rusalka's Blade

—from “Katerina” by Taras Shevchenko

I

Memories are all that we are, all that we have of others. Without them, there are only stories passed down to us like a beaten coat. So full of history, but history not ours to claim.

I knew little of my mother. Drowned herself in a lake one winter season, but not before forsaking her infant by the roadside. If not for the old Kobzar passing by, likely the snow would have found it to cradle me in icy sheets, hushing my cries with the black cold — until silence. And on the snow would go, melting away as with all things.

Never would I know her warmth, what it meant to be held so closely, skin to skin, mother and child, because perhaps what she had wanted more than being a mother was to be someone’s lover. And someone who had cared little for her.

A girl of ill repute, the villagers called her. A strumpet, they jeered. A harlot. A whore. A daughter who should have never been born. So then what am I?

I should have resented her. A part of myself wanted to. Wanted to cast my share of stones, draw blood against her temples, but more than anything, more overpowering than any loathing and resentment, was the question: Why must they condemn only her and never my father?

It plagued my mind even as my father sat before me on the bench, indulging himself with a swig of wine. Consider it a stroke of luck, a twist of fate. It mattered little. I saw my resemblance in him — large brown eyes, thick dark brows — only my face was delicate, bonnier, with not a wisp of hair above my lips. However, wine is a poison. It slows the mind, leaves men blind, and he couldn’t recognize the son he had abandoned years ago.

The hall lay dimly lit. Sconces flickered on timber walls, the air rife with the scent of bread, beer, and melting wax. The old Kobzar sang his wistful songs in a corner, his voice slow and sonorous, fingers strumming his kobza on a rickety stool. A tin mug rested near the stool’s legs where patrons might have found it to toss a copper or two. No doubt they might have been more generous had I been a boy again, running around, cup in hand, charming them with a sweet smile. However, no longer was I six winters old. Neither would I serve as the Kobzar’s aide tonight.

My father set his cup down, cheeks flushed, but with a nearby flagon, I poured him another drink.

“You trying to poison me?” he asked, annoyed I had invited myself to his table.

I smiled and poured for myself also. “The night is young and fair, good sir. Why not enjoy yourself? Unless your stomach is weak, and you cannot hold your drink. But you’re a soldier, no?”

Against the common folk, against the patrons and my old coat, he wore proudly his dark blue tunic, fashioned with golden trims, epaulets, and a sash draping from shoulder to waist. Pride is the lifeblood of men such as him. So desperately will they cling to it, even if it means making a fool out of themselves. A few swigs later, and he slumped his head on the table, eyes closed and groaning. I wiped the wine stains around my mouth, feeling the pouch about my belt. Three other patrons were asleep on the tables, too drunk for their own good. Others scarfed down their bread and roast meat, listening to the tunes of the Kobzar.

I too heard a song. Not the Kobzar’s voice or his strummings, but a woman’s, her voice forlorn and reaching me from the depths.

II

Only recently did I learn about my mother. Scarcely a year ago, in fact. Traveling on the road, the Kobzar and I stopped by a remote village, where for days, an old widow sheltered and provided us lamb, pork, and better clothing for the winter. Though I was fifteen then and teetered on adulthood, it’s easier to draw in people’s goodwill when you’re a young boy with a pretty face. You tend to have little when you’re an orphan and a bastard at that, but to survive, you learn to pick things up. Many learn to steal — for coins, copper, a man’s pouch, a scrap of bread in the market — and others an instrument. As for myself, the Kobzar had taught me to perform, not his instrument because I had no talent in anything music, but as his young mascot, he had taught me to smile. To twist my lips at the perfect angle, to wrinkle my eyes, and lift my shoulders. Every bit of movement was calculated and rehearsed if only to radiate, to sell my purity and seem untouched by the world and all its road stink.

In the end, my father and I weren’t unlike. We charmed and we lied to make gains.

One supper, on a quiet evening, the old widow began speaking of her daughter, Katerina. She lamented for her, how poor Katerina shamed her virtues with a Muscovite soldier, bearing a son of foreign blood. He carried the same name as his father: Ivan. Touching, but the father rode to war and never once looked back, and for her shame, Katerina was sent away on the road to Muscovy, declared dead by the village and even her mother. Sure enough, words traveled that Katerina had drowned herself in a lake. No one knew if she had brought her mutt with her, but if you love your child, you carry them along. Spare them from a world that holds no love for them. It seemed mine did not.

The widow looked at me and took my hand. It was snowing outside. The Kobzar sat quietly on the table, already brewing a new song, I reckoned.

I fixed my eyes to the sunspots peppering her wrinkled skin. “Why do you tell us this?”

“I wonder as well.” She squeezed my hand. “I suppose I thought you might be around his age.”

“You think he lives?”

“He’s my daughter’s boy. When you’re born a man, you have a chance, though slim, to cleanse yourself from your mother. To absolve yourself from her sins and shame, which is why he breathes still, I’m certain. Were the child a girl, she would long have joined with Katerina in the waters. My daughter was a wench and a fool, but she knew well her boy had the hope of redemption.”

Chance? Redemption? The wooden shutters trembled from the wind.

“May I have your name?” asked the widow.

A bout of silence, save the blizzard’s cries. I held her hand and managed a smile. A comforting one.

“Ivan.”

The Kobzar stroked the bristly mustache trailing past his chin, his blind eyes on me.

When we set on the roads again, I began visiting the banks of every lake and river I could find. I studied their ripples and waves so obsessively, dipping in the cold waters and searching for my mother’s resting grounds, just as rain-drenched wanderers are wont to seek shelter. It was a foolish endeavor, as foolish as Katerina chasing her lover.

But then, in early June, I found her. Katerina. My mother. Guided by a song to a lake lined with cherry trees.

Her head emerged half above the waters. Dark, wet hair plastered her face, floating on the surface like lily pads. Past that shroud, only an eye lay visible. It was hollow, lifeless. Look into them for long, and you may find yourself falling down a pit. I did just that. I couldn’t look away, and my legs moved on their own, trying to close the distance. Water reaching my ankles, shin, knees… Closer now, and something cold found itself inside my fist. Not the water, no, but something of steel and metal.

A knife.

Then the song halted. My mother had disappeared, but the lake remained calm. No splash or ripples or traces of movement. Neither had she spoken a single word.

My thumb grazed the silver hilt, my reflection on the fine blade blurry and indistinct — a shroud just like my mother. With its tip, I pricked my index finger. Drops of blood escaped the wound and trickled below. I watched the impact, watched red splotches turn into clouds as they tainted the waters. I watched them all carefully.

And I knew then what needed to be done.

III

We set out for the roads, my father and I. I hoisted his arm over my shoulder, but the burden of his weight proved overbearing against my scrawny frame. That only slowed our walk, and his swaying proved to be no help either. But in time, we reached a forest — that same forest my mother resided with its lake and cherry trees. I lit the path with a lantern, orange to white.

“Where,” the cup of drinks slurred my father’s words, “Where are you taking me?”

I gave him what I hope might be a friendly smile, hiding the bitterness within me. “To your lodgings, sir. You’re in no shape to walk there yourself. Not in this snow.”

He lifted his head. “This is not the way?”

“It seems the wine blinds you as well.”

My father grew stiff, patted his uniform. A folded paper emerged from his chest pocket. He stared at it awhile, grunted, then hid it and continued patting himself. He relaxed only when he heard a chink! in his breeches, after which he took out a flask and, with a craned neck, drank away.

“Agh, my feet hurt!” He tossed the flask, denting the snow. “Surely, we’re close now?”

“Your family must be worried,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

He tilted his head at that. “Ah, they’re used to it by now. Deep down, my wife wished I’d drunkenly slip off a bridge.”

“Does she truly hate you so?”

“Sometimes.”

“And your children?”

“What child doesn’t hate their father? Or their mother?”

“I don’t know if I do. I want to, and I should. But I don’t know.” We walked on, my mother’s song whispering to me from the darkness of the lake, from the crushed snow beneath my boots.

“But do you love them?” My lips kept acting on their own, shaping clouds with each word and breath. Treacherous thing. I reached for the knife inside my pouch as if seeking warmth from the cold. No response came from my father except snores, his head lying limp now. I tightened my grip on his arm and dragged him closer to the lake. An indefinite stretch of time passed. Each step grew heavier than the last, the mournful song ever louder in my head like a buzz I couldn’t shake off.

But soon, the endless trees gave pause to the lake, unperturbed by the snow and cold, and I set the lantern down, leaning my father against a tree. But I did not act quickly. I searched his uniform and dug his pockets, not for his coin pouch. No, something else. I fished out that wrinkled piece of paper — curiosity, I suppose — and found that it was a simple charcoal sketch. It consisted of Father smiling warmly, an expression I did not realize he could make. His wife sat on a chair beside him, but in the foreground were two girls younger than me. Father held the eldest one by the shoulder, and the youngest, around six years old, rested on her mother’s lap.

I slipped a smile. My mother and I. We never truly existed to him. To anyone for that matter. We were meant to be forgotten, to drown at the bottom of the lake and freeze, so he and the world could move on.

I returned the sketch to his pocket then took out the knife. The blade’s sheen was as brilliant as the time I first held it, that fateful summer when my mother entrusted me to avenge her spirit, yet still, my face remained hazy in the reflection. I crouched down and steadied my grip, pointed the edge towards his chest, his heart. A deep breath. I lunged forward.

One, two, three, and—

I stopped myself. A hair's breadth away from steel meeting flesh. I couldn’t do it. Why couldn’t I? Was this not why I was here, why I was alive? I was my mother’s son, yes? What was I, if not her weapon?

I tossed the knife aside and stumbled. Traitor.

I froze in place, unable to grab the knife again. Traitor.

Sure enough, the opportunity slipped when, no later, my father opened his eyes. “W-Where is this?” He looked around. “Why haven’t we arrived?”

I sighed. “Sorry, sir. It appears I got lost and took you to the woods instead. Must’ve been the wine. How clumsy of me. But truthfully, I know not where you live either.”

He scrambled to his feet. “You, useless bastard!” On that, he wasn’t wrong. “I knew I shouldn’t have kept you company! Could you imagine if the wolves found us? Or if I froze to my death?” He patted himself again until he heard the chink!

“Here, take this on your way.” I offered him the lantern.

He swiped right from my hand, then, upon spotting the knife, he spat on the snow. “I knew you were after my coins!”

And off he went, wobbling for the road and cursing. He spared me not a single glance, as he did to Katerina. Not even as the lantern’s orange died to the trees and snow.

IV

I lingered in the cold, forlorn voices whispering inside my head, of my weakness, my cowardice, my failure to be her son. My eyes stayed glued to icy sheets. Numb fingers sieved the bits of snow, and I realized I long should’ve been buried beneath. Truly. Because worse than any bastard is a treacherous child, boy or girl.

Discarding my boots and coat, I stepped foot into the lake, shivering as the water hit my knees, but I pressed on. Deeper and deeper, I submerged my chest, neck, and mouth until I could reach my mother and feel her cold. My head sinks. I let go, let the waters take me away and fill my lungs.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five.

A minute.

My eyes grow heavy but then—

“Blasted fool!”

A hand tugged me by the collar and, with one motion, heaved me out. I roll on the snow, coughing, retching, the water burning my nose. Then a hard strike across my cheek. A slap.

“What is wrong with you, child?!” The Kobzar. He fumbled for my coat and grew confused when his hand caught the knife first, but when he found my coat, shielded me from the cold. “If you’re gone, who do you think will be my eyes, huh?”

“How–” The water sticking to my skin left me shivering. “How did you find me?”

“You think me stupid? Of course, I knew you went to the lake as soon as I heard you left! But do you know how difficult it was for my blind self to find you? Weren’t it for that drunk man passing by — oh dear — how you would’ve surely drowned!”

“My father led you?”

“Eh, your father?”

“I met him among the crowd tonight. He’s the reason I’m here.” The knife remained on the ground. “I couldn’t do it though, not for my mother’s sake, not even for myself.”

“Oh, you and your little schemes...” He shook his head and kneeled down. “Let me tell you this once and once only: you’re not your father, and you’re not your mother's revenant. Though their blood runs deep in you, neither are you their sin and shame. Cut ties with the past, Ivan. If you must renounce the father, then do so by giving yourself a new name. You needn’t strike him down. Life shouldn’t be a revenge tragedy. Best leave such tales for the bards and poets.”

“What am I to do now then?” I asked

“Travel with me, of course! I could always use a guide. But, well, it seems we’ve lived as exiles for long enough.” He rubbed his mustache. “I say it’s time to root yourself. Go find work. Consider caring for a farm.”

Water dripped from my hair tips and down my coat. “Out of all your ideas,” I mumbled, “this is your silliest yet.”

“Perhaps. Yet you learn to love like no other when you’re a farmer. With your hands and sweat, you learn to till the lands. You learn to cherish a sapling, watering the soil day after day, however brittle, in the hopes that its branches will multiply and bear fruits. That its fruits will also bear fruits and someday flourish an orchard.

“In time, Ivan, you’ll have a family. You’ll love them in ways your father and mother could not.” The Kobzar patted my head. “But for now, live on. Live because you were born in this world.”

I gave the Kobzar a long stare, at the cracks and wrinkles that mapped his face. “Pass me the knife,” I said.

When he did, I stared into the blade, my reflection forevermore blurry, and hurled it at the lake. Bobbing on the rippling surface, it disintegrated into a thin sheet of foam, bubbles that teetered between water and air.