* Author : Adriana Kantcheva
* Narrator : Kat Kourbeti
* Host : Matt Dovey
* Audio Producer : Eric Valdes
*
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Previously published by Trollbreath Magazine



CW for drowning



Rated PG
Vedritsa of the River
by Adriana Kantcheva
 
The Kamchia river had grown turgid after a storm. I surfaced from my habitual pool and bent over the young girl as she lay washed on the bank, her limbs cold and pale as the settling twilight. A small tin boat lay near her half-opened hand — the reason she took a tumble into my river.
I paused.
Yes, though weak, a current flowed beneath the child’s skin; her heart still worked. I placed a palm on her chest.
The river water in the girl’s lungs had no choice but to obey me. I willed it out, and it obliged in a single great spurt. As if she had waited for just that, the girl’s eyes flew open, her hand clamping around my wrist with desperate strength. Her grip tightened while she coughed and choked to take that first breath. She finally managed, yet still she held onto me, her eyes — ah, those eyes the color of storm clouds — taking in my long, green hair, my crown of living dragonflies, my gown of moss and lilies. We stared at each other for an eternity.
“Vedritsa!” The call came from the direction of the village, startling us both. A search party for the girl no doubt, already nearing.
“Let go, my darling,” I said and tugged.
But she only held on tighter. “I know what you are,” she croaked, hoarse from the heaving.
Of course she knew. Hard not to.
“You saved me. Why would a rusalka save me?”
Which showed how popular my kind was and, probably, still is. Dangerous, supernatural beings we’re said to be. The myths are not wholly mistaken.
“Vedritsa!” The call came again, now closer.
“You must let go,” I said, the river behind me rising with my panic.
Startled by the surging water, the girl released me, and I dove under the surface, the dragonflies on my brow dispersing just in time, my long, green hair now resembling algae. But even from down there, I sensed her tears flowing. After all, the girl — Vedritsa — had been raised drinking my water filtered through sandstone and pebbles.
I let my head break the surface. “When you turn sixty, but not before, come to this place, and you’ll meet me again.”
By then, she should be safe from me. My kind has no interest in children — we can’t draw power from them — but I could already intuit she’d grow beautiful to others and intoxicating to me: the alluring currents within her veins, the beating of her heart as it pumped her life’s blood — they whispered to me, reminding me of a dangerous instinct I could barely ever resist.
I kicked away from the bank, ready to dive under.
“Wait!” Vedritsa called. “I must give you something. It’s bad luck to be indebted to a rusalka.” Her young face, still pale from the ordeal, grew matter-of-fact. She proffered her boat to me.
I’d heard of this notion before, which is, frankly speaking, superstition. But her deep concern made me stop. I couldn’t leave without satisfying her — and taking a toy away from a child would do exactly the opposite.
“Your name,” I said. “Give it to me for my own.” I’d never had one before. My kind doesn’t need a name to know who we are. My river is my defining essence.
Sticks snapped in the undergrowth just beyond the bank.