The Lake

This story is by Maja Pobiezynska and was part of our 2018 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Whose woods these are I think I know/

His house is in the village though;/

He will not see me stopping here/

To watch his woods fill up with snow./

My little horse must think it queer/

To stop without a farmhouse near/

Between the woods and frozen lake/

The darkest evening of the year./

He gives his harness bells a shake/

To ask if there is some mistake./

The only other sounds the sweep/

Of easy wind and downy flake./

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,/

But I have promises to keep,/

And miles to go before I sleep,/

And miles to go before I sleep./

R. Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening/

***/

Animals remember, I can assure you. I learned that the hard way, trying to calm down my horse. I’ve never felt him dancing like that. Lot of memories here, hanging low like ripe fruit./

***/

I was in this forest one year ago, but unlike now, not alone. I met him in the village few nights before, looking for a confession. A new vicar, innocent and harmless, fresh out of the ferry. I wasn’t afraid of him, I needed him. I told him my sins but he wasn’t able to take them away. He wanted to see. He said he wanted to understand./

He was with me that night, leading the way. He was carrying a little lantern to disperse the shadows – it was middle of December and the darkness couldn’t be more profound. If not for the snow glittering on the edges, we would be moving through a sea of ink./

“Are you sure it’s here?” he asked, stopping his horse. I nodded, showing him the silvery outline of the lake barely visible through the trees./

“It’s here.”/

“Good. Show me.”/

We dismounted and left the horses close to the trees. We didn’t want to lose them, but wolves are always a possibility in these parts and I would never want to hurt an animal. They are God’s favourite children, after all./

I led the way carefully. It’s so easy to break a leg here, especially in the snow. The lake wasn’t far, but the ground wasn’t even, full of bushes and broken tree branches. The frost was biting; it made the trees moan with pain. The rest was silence, only our steps and the frost. Winter was a living, breathing creature around here./

When we reached the water line, I turned left and went around a small mound of rocks on the side. One-two-three-four./

“This is the place.” I called and the vicar listened. “He is here.”/

He lived in the village a few miles away and owned this part of the forest. A former village head with an appetite for cheap alcohol, boiled cabbage and doe-eyed women. He had a heavy hand and a fiery temper./

One evening, he had told me to collect some firewood in this very forest. The frost had defeated me and I had returned with only a few small branches. My offering hadn’t satisfied him enough and he had made me pay with blood. He then took me to the forest again. He said he wanted me to show me. I followed him like an obedient sheep./

We came to the frozen bank and he told me to watch. He wrestled a big tree stump and when I wanted to help him, he pushed me away. I fell into the snow. Then I heard a crack. For a brief moment I thought that was the ice breaking, freeing the stump from it’s grasp. But I was proven wrong./

He slipped and his leg fell into one of the little burrows left by some animal under the snow. The noise I heard was his bones breaking into many little pieces, reflecting the moonlight. /

The stream of filth coming from his mouth did something to me. Unlocked me. I didn’t listen to his words.He was just another noise coming from the forest, a bird whose song I did not understand. I picked up a rock with my hand and hit him once. We struggled. I won./

And there he was. Lain to his death between the rocks and the pine tree stump, bleeding to death. I covered him with six inches of soil, spit and tears. I threw some stones for good measure, marking one for remembrance./

That evening had cut memories into my forearms. I massaged them subconsciously – the scarred tissue hurts the most in winter. Crouching, I picked up one of the stones to show the markings underneath to my companion. He put the lantern on one of the rocks and kneeled, wanting to see for himself, to feel the frost-hardened soil. Like he was trying to understand the coldness./

The inky sky punctured with stars and the lake filled with their shadows reflected back. A rare occurrence, a shadow of a star./

He got up and brushed the snow from his knees./

“I see. I believe he is here. But why are you doing this? By showing me the place, you are saying you’re guilty of murder. This is a cardinal sin. A capital crime. You will hang.”/

“It is possible. But I will have my sleep back. I miss my sleep, my inner peace. My truth. I cannot continue living like this.”/

I looked at him. He was smiling. Only his eyes weren’t. Winter lived there, too./

I looked around and understood. We were alone. I lead him here all alone. It was happening again. I was going to be a property again, full of somebody else’s sin./

My blood froze./

He came closer, his breath was on my face./

“You will face the gallows. Unless… I say I didn’t find anything. Unless… you show me what he liked in you. I’m a newcomer and I’ve already heard stories of that temper of yours…” He reached for me through the flickering shadows./

I took a swing and hit his head with the stone I was still clutching in my hand. He collapsed. I hit him again and again, and again, taking the little puffs of his breath away./

When he was nothing more than a quivering, bloodied shape, shining black in the night, I got up and washed my hands in the snow. The animals would do the rest./

I felt a strange calm like everything was in order. Like I was on the road again, going home. Like it should happen exactly this way./

I felt the shy beginnings of a smile./

***/

That was the beginning of my new life, full of similar meetings with similar outcomes. My redemption, my sacrifice for the greater good. Not everyone will understand, but I’m used to being on my own. From that moment on, I’ve been erasing men like them: the real demons. My definition may be different than yours – but I’m fond of discussion./

My road is a rocky one, and I am glad for that./

You can bury a lot of people under the rocks./