The Mill That Breathed Under the Willows

The inn smelled not of smoke but of silt. It was not coming from outside, for there was no rain. Old Overko sat by the stove, and water dripped from his cloak onto the earthen floor, but no puddles spread. It simply soaked into the ground, as if beneath us lay not clay but a riverbed. The fire in the stove hissed softly and leaned away from him, as if it were afraid.

Overko trembled, but not from cold. His fingers had gone blue, as if he had been holding onto ice for a long time. He was silent a good while, staring at the embers, and then he whispered that the water by Chornyi Yar had stopped. For three days now the river had not flowed. It stood black and thick as molten iron. And the mill under the willows had begun to breathe.

That mill on the bend had stood empty for three years. The old miller had died, taking the secrets of the water to his grave. People gave it a wide berth. The wheel had grown thick with moss, the millstones had gone askew. But young Hryts, who badly needed money for his wedding, decided to set the mill going before Obzhynky.

Hryts went there toward evening. He took salt, garlic and a candle. But the ravine was unnaturally quiet. No crickets chirped, no frogs croaked. Only a heavy, sweetish smell of crushed water mint and rotting roots. The trees stood motionless, as if they had held their breath, waiting to see what came next. Inside the mill the wooden gears had swollen with damp. Hryts lit the candle, but the flame did not rise.

It turned blue and stretched downward, toward the floor, as if bowing to someone under the boards. The air in there was icy, and every breath Hryts took turned to thick white steam. He drew the sluice bolt. The water did not gush. It crawled slowly out from under the weir, dark and viscous, wrapping around the oak paddles like cold fingers. The mill did not creak. It let out a long, wet sigh. Overko, who was mending his fish traps nearby, heard that sound.

It reminded him of the rattle of a drowned man swallowing silt. Overko dropped his nets and ran to the mill, shouting for Hryts to shut the sluice. But the lad stood by the wheel, spellbound. With every slow turn of the paddles there rose from the water not a splash but a wet, gurgling word. Gi-i-ive it ba-a-ack. It was not a voice but the sound of air escaping from punctured lungs.

Overko yanked Hryts by the shoulder. The lad was ice-cold. The fisherman looked down into the black whirlpool under the wheel. Tied to the lowest paddle was long, grey hair. It did not look like river weed. It was soft, human, and it was wound tight around a bone comb with nine teeth. A rusalka's knot. Or the curse of a drowned bride. Overko fell to his knees, whispering a prayer, begging the lad to step back.

What the water has taken and tied must not be touched without a ransom charm. But Hryts only laughed nervously and said it was old rags tangled in the reeds. He grabbed an axe. Overko tried to hold back his arm, but the lad was unnaturally strong. The blade came down with a whistle and cut through the wet strand. In that same instant a dark, sticky liquid oozed from the oak axle of the wheel. It spattered Hryts's face and smelled of an old grave laid open.

The wheel froze. The river beat against it with all its strength, but the wood stood immovable. And then the gears inside the mill cracked deafeningly. The wheel jerked and went backward. Against the current. The sound of the grinding was like the crunch of dry bones under a heavy boot. The candle in Hryts's hands went out by itself.

The darkness was thinned by a sickly, marshy glow from under the water. Out of the black whirlpool rose something huge, wrapped in slime and leeches. Where a face should have been there was only a dark hollow in which the water swirled. Long, bloated arms reached toward the plank platform, leaving slimy trails. Cold gripped Overko to the bone. He did not remember how he fled through the willow scrub.

He only heard something heavy and wet crawl out onto the bank behind his back. And then came Hryts's cough, wet and sloshing, and after it a dull splash, as if a sack of grain had fallen into deep water. In the morning the villagers found Hryts. He had not drowned. The lad sat under the millstones, chest-deep in black water. His hair had turned grey. On his face was frozen a quiet, blissful smile, as if he were listening to a lullaby from the very bottom.

He did not blink, staring straight through the people. The most terrible thing was on the wall. Hryts's shadow did not repeat his movements. While he sat motionless, his shadow slowly raised its hands to its own neck, trying to tighten an invisible rope. The people backed away, crossing themselves, but no one dared pull the lad out of the water.

Toward evening his mother came to him with bread and salt. Hryts did not eat. He only whispered that same wet word. And then, from under his motionless eyelids, thin white worms began slowly crawling out. They did not fall into the water but stretched along the boards toward the door, toward the road, toward Chornyi Yar.

The worms wriggled in time with the unheard creaking of the wheel. The villagers boarded up the windows and fumigated everything with incense. But the next night the water of Chornyi Yar suddenly vanished. The banks did not dry up, no. The river simply went underground, leaving behind a deep black scar in the clay. In the morning, under the millstones, they found only Hryts's shirt, heavy and slippery as a grass snake's skin.

Of the lad himself there remained only a heap of wet sand and the bone comb. The water had taken his body but had not returned to the riverbed. It had scattered through the groundwater, seeking a new channel. Overko fell silent, wiping his palms on his trousers. Without a word I threw a dry log into the stove. The fire flared up brighter, chasing the shadows into the corners of the inn.

It seemed the story was over, and one could breathe out, warm oneself with horilka and forget that cold. But just then, under the dry clay floor of the inn, something sloshed quietly. Not outside, but deep beneath our feet. Between the boards gleamed a thin wet streak. The fire in the stove turned blue and stretched downward. And from the cellar rose a barely audible sigh. Gi-i-ive it ba-a-ack. And I understood that the river, perhaps, had stopped not only in the ravine.