WATER-SPRITE AND WATER-WITCH
Slowly the river flowed; the waves plashed, and the reeds swayed lightly.
Green pine woods on one shore: the other was field and meadow, with a road running through a little distance from the bank.
A girl came walking down the road, casting an anxious glance now and again towards the river.
She stopped. A boom lay out in the river, lumbermen's poles were strewn about on the farther bank. And something more—a man lay under the trees at the edge of the wood, resting his head on one hand.
The girl looked at him thoughtfully. The man did not move. Still in doubt, she took a step forward, and then drew back again. At last, she turned off from the road, and walked resolutely down along a watercourse straight towards the river.
Mingled emotion stirred in the young man's breast—joy at the meeting, and wounded pride and bitterness. He felt an impulse to hurry across, run to the girl and take her in his arms, forgetting all else. But there was that between them cold and clear as the dividing water.
The girl reached the bank, and stood looking out over the water in silence.
The young man could contain himself no longer. "You have come!" he cried.
"How could I help it?" she said in a low voice—the words hardly carried to the opposite bank.
"And I could not help thinking of you."
The river looked at the pair. "If only I were frozen over!"
* * * * *
"Couldn't you—couldn't you come across—just for a moment?" asked the girl timidly.
"Just what I was going to do. But we can't stay there on the bank—the men will be coming down directly."
He thought for a moment.
"Will you come over here if I come to fetch you? Then we can go up in the woods where no one can see. Come over on the raft."
"Yes, I could do that!"
He took up his pole and set the raft loose—a couple of tree trunks, no more, fastened together with withies—and rowed hurriedly across to the opposite bank.
"Like a dear sister she comes," he thought to himself, as he helped her on to the raft. The girl held his hands and looked deep into his eyes, but without speaking.
"Sit there on the crosspiece—you can't stand up when it begins to move."
She sat down obediently, and he rowed across.
"I never thought you could be such a friend," he said, as they stepped ashore.
"Friend?" said the girl, with a tender, grateful glance—grateful that he had found the very word for the feeling that had brought her thither, and which had cost her so much already.
* * * * *
The sun was setting. A youth and a girl walked down from the woods towards the river bank, talking together.
Then suddenly they awoke from their dreams, and looked at each other in dismay. The river was a waste of water only, the banks deserted, the raft gone—neither of them had thought of how they were to get back.
"What are we to do?" The mute question was in the eyes of both.
"You can't get back along this bank?" said the young man at last.
"All through Vaha-Kohiseva village and over the bridge—no. And I ought to bring the calves home, too."
"There's no boat anywhere near?"
"No."
A gleam of resolution shone in the young man's eyes.
"Can you swim?" he asked suddenly, turning towards her.
"Swim?" she repeated in surprise. Then her face lit up as she grasped his meaning. "Yes, indeed!"
"And would you swim across with me if I carry your clothes?"
She trembled slightly—it was a daring plan, yet there was a certain secret fascination in the thought.
"With you? Yes!" she cried.
"Good. You can undress here. Then roll up all your clothes in your blouse, and tie it round with the sleeves. I'll go a little way off and get ready. We'll manage all right, you see."
And he strode off with rapid steps.
But the girl flushed, and looked anxiously around, as if she had promised more than she could fulfil. She glanced along the shore—Olof was sitting a little distance away, with his back to her, already undressing.
"How childish I am!" she thought. And stepping briskly down to the water's edge, she began hastily taking off her clothes.
* * * * *
A splash in the water—Olof was almost lost to sight in the reeds. He took off his boots and hung them by one lace round his neck, then he fixed his bundle of clothes above, and tied it with the remaining lace.
"Ready?" he called over his shoulder, glancing down the stream.
Hurriedly the girl rolled her garments up in the blouse. Her white body shivered—in womanly embarrassment at her position, and with an ecstatic delight. Then with a splash the white figure dipped beneath the water, swam up, and hid in the reeds.
Olof swam upstream, his eyes fixed on the heap of clothing, and a faint smile on his lips. He took the bundle, tied his belt round it, and fastened it above his own. The double load stood up high above his head.
"They'll be all right now—if I don't make a mess of it," he assured her.
With long, slow strokes he made for the opposite shore. The girl stood motionless in the reeds, watching him as he swam.
"How strong and bold he is!" she thought. "And the wonderful things he does! What does he care for the river?—water between us is nothing to him. He makes everything do his will. How could one be afraid with him?"
"Her clothes!" thought Olof. "And I am carrying them."
He reached the bank, untied the girl's bundle, and set it carefully ashore. Then swimming a little farther down, he flung his own things up on land.
"Haven't you started yet?" he called across to the girl—though he had been hoping all the time that she had not.
"No—I was just going to," she replied. "I—I forgot. It was such fun watching you."
"I'll come and meet you, if you like. It'll be safer perhaps…."
"Ye—es," said the girl.
She felt no shame now, though he was looking straight at her. He was filled with the strange delight that comes with any stepping over the bounds of everyday life into a world of fairyland, where all is pure, and nothing is forbidden, where the sense of being two that go their own ways unseen is like a purging, fusing flame.
Olof swam rapidly across.
"You look like a water-witch there in the reeds," he cried delightedly, checking his stroke.
"And you're the water-sprite," she answered, with a joyous smile, as she struck out.
"Bravo, water-witch, you're swimming splendidly!" he cried. They were swimming side by side now, straight across the river.
The water rippled lightly about them; now and again the girl's white shoulder lifted above the surface, her long hair trailed behind over the water, that shone like gold in the sunset light.
"Wonderful!" he cried. "I've never seen anything so lovely."
"Nor I!" said the girl.
"Nor we!" laughed the trees behind them.
"Nor we!" nodded the bushes on the bank in front.
"It is like swimming in the river of forgetfulness," he went on. "All the past disappears, all that was bitter and evil is washed away, and we are but two parts of the same beautiful being that surrounds us."
"Yes, it is like that," said the girl, with feeling.
Slowly they came to land.
"It was very narrow, after all," said Olof regretfully, as he turned from her and went down to fetch his clothes. He dressed as quickly as he could, and hurried up to her again.
"Let me wring the water from your hair," he begged. She smiled permission. The water fell like drops of silver from his hands.
"Must you go now?" asked Olof sadly. "Let me go with you as far as the road at least."
Once more he looked regretfully at the river—as if to fix the recollection in his mind.
They walked up to the road without speaking, and stopped.
"It's ever so hard for me to say good-bye to you," he said, grasping her hands.
"Harder still for me," she answered in a low voice.
"Shall I ever forget you—you, and this evening?"
Her eyelids quivered, and she bowed her head.
"Kyllikki!" he cried desperately. "Would you hide your eyes from me?—Kyllikki…." There was hope and doubt in his eyes; he loosed his hold of her hands, and clasped his own as if questioningly about her waist.
The girl was trembling. She laid her hands on his shoulders, and then slowly twined her arms about his neck.
A tumult of delight came over him. He pressed her to him fervently, lifting her off her feet—her arms drew closer round him.
He saw the look in her eyes change—giddiness seized him, and he set her down.
"May I…?" he asked, with his eyes.
Her eyes consented—and their lips met….
When at last he let her go, the girl's face was changed almost beyond recognition. On her under lip showed a tiny drop of blood.
A cry of dismay rose up in him, but remained unuttered. A strange intoxication overpowered him—the red drop there was the seal of a friendship deeper and more mysterious than all else—in a wild kiss he drank the blood from her lip. He felt himself on the point of swooning—and wished the world would end there, in that moment.
He could not speak—he did not know whether to stay or go. A darkness seemed to close about him, and he staggered off like a drunken man, without looking back.