by Tay LaRoi
But Anja had little interest in her family’s wealth. Instead, she often spent her afternoons wandering the forest, dirtying the hem of her dress as she traipsed through the brush. Though she avoided the river itself, she’d covered nearly every inch of woodland surrounding it. She spent many an hour collecting wildflowers, tracking the footprints of rabbits and deer, or just lying in patches of grass, listening to the wind as it brushed against the leaves above her, like fingers along harp strings. This, she felt, was her real home, out in the wilderness. The whispers of the trees seemed to welcome her back every time; she could almost hear a feminine voice singing out, ushering her ever deeper into the wood with a bewitching, oh-so-tempting refrain.
Come to me, young woman of the wilds. Join me, and leave your worldly burdens behind.
Well, perhaps Anja was just imagining that last part. But even as a flight of fancy, that enchanting voice was far preferable to the sounds of scolding she often received at home.
“You mustn’t keep disappearing like this,” her mother said one evening after Anja had vanished for another multihour jaunt. Like most reprimanding sessions, Mrs. Bauer only gave half attention to her daughter as she scolded her; the older woman was distracted by her hand mirror as she was busy combing her smooth, honey-blonde hair. “You always come home with new stains to your dress and dirt on your cheeks,” she continued, pursing her lips in disgust. “Is this how to want to look when you meet your future husband?”
Anja, whose own hair was the color of wet soil and often tangled in wavy knots, saw little point in trying to appear beautiful like her mother or father. Her face had always been rounder than theirs and her skin more ashen, and while her parents’ eyes were as bright and blue as a sunlit sky, Anja’s were the color of clouds just before a heavy rain. But what little did that matter when she had no desire for a husband? Never in her life had she felt the desire for a man’s touch or vows of love—in fact, the thought of either was repulsive. She would rather find her most sensitive spaces covered in boils.
“I’ve told you countless times, Mutter,” Anja replied, “I want of no man.” She tried to make her voice sharp and piercing, like a jab from a stick.
Her mother was unharmed by her words. “Nonsense,” she said, deflecting her with a casual flick of her wrist. “Every young woman is in need of a proper husband. We shall find one for you soon enough.” She smiled into the mirror. “Your father is meeting with a businessman from Hanover next week to discuss arrangements with his son.”
Anja could feel her blood simmering. “How many times must I say it? I don’t want to be married!” She ran her fingers through her coarse curls, tugging when she reached the roots. She felt tempted to just tear all her hair out and be done with it.
“What you want is of little importance here,” her mother scoffed. “You may be twenty years of age, but I swear, your mind is still like a child’s. Someday you will learn.”
Anja wanted to say that her mind was sharper than ever, and that was why she still resisted. But despite her young age, she was weary from these endless cycles of conversation. Her parents would never listen to her point of view—each time she tried to speak her own, she was met with callous indifference at best, and active punishment at worst. Usually her penance took the form of repetitive drudgery, like letter writing or needlework.
And Anja dreaded those pointless tasks more than anything else, perhaps even more than the violent, watery death she was so often warned about. She would do anything to avoid another afternoon with Mrs. Bauer hovering over her shoulder, forcing her to write “I shall not disobey my mother and father” two hundred times over until the skin on her hands had rubbed raw and the webs between her fingers split open.
“Perhaps I shall run away for good,” Anja said, as much to herself as to her mother. “Perhaps I will run to the river’s edge and jump right in.”
Her mother broke her gaze with the mirror, finally turning to look at her daughter directly. “You absolutely shall not,” she ordered. “Have I not warned you enough? To do so would spell your instant demise.”
Anja crossed her arms and pouted her full lips. She’d been told this hundreds of times, but the more she was warned against it, the more curious she became. Earlier that afternoon, she’d meandered so deep into the woods that as she peered out at the river from behind a tree, she could see the fluffy reflections of clouds on its surface. The water was pure and calm, just like every other time she’d stolen a glance at it. How could something so serene be dangerous? It made no sense to her.
“It’s just a river,” she said, dismissing her mother’s warning. She looked out the window, pretending to ignore her. “And besides, it’s always still. No waves to be seen on its surface at all.”
Her mother appeared genuinely frightened now. “How would you know that?” She rose to her feet, her tall figure looming over her much shorter daughter. She blocked out the sunlight from the open window. “You went to look at it, didn’t you?”
Anja shrugged.
“Mein Gott, child! Do you actively wish for your death?” She put her free hand to her temple. “I suppose I must explain since I cannot command the disobedience out of you.” She took a few deep breaths, as though she was afraid to speak her next words aloud. “It’s not the water itself you need to fear,” she said slowly, deliberately. “It’s the demon that lurks within it.”
Anja’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” This was the first she’d heard of this.
“There’s a demon that haunts those waters. A terrifying beast.” Mrs. Bauer’s voice was now hushed with fear. Dark shadows appeared under her eyes as she spoke. She pointed at her daughter with her mirror, wielding it like a sword against an unseen evil. “Covered from head to toe with scales, fins as sharp as a wolf’s claws, and gills that gape like open wounds, oozing with sickly yellow pus.” She shuddered as she thought of it. “Sure, the water appears still, when you keep your distance. But the moment you step in, the demon attacks. It brings a great storm up with it, torrential rains and thrashing current, to sweep you up and suck you beneath the waves. I have only seen it surface once before, but never in my life have I been so terrified.”
Anja’s knees knocked together. She crossed her arms over her chest, guarding her heart against the thought of such a horrifying creature. “What…what happened?”
Mrs. Bauer puffed out her chest. “Well, your father and I, we were able to escape, but only just. And we hadn’t even touched the surface—all we did was throw in a coin for good luck.” She set her mirror down but turned to point at Anja with one perfectly manicured finger. “So beware, my child. If you even touch the surface of the water, it will sense you, and it will come for you. It will come for your soul, and once it has you, there is nothing you can do to fight back.”
Anja’s face paled. She stared down at the stone floor, afraid to even look up.
“Now do you understand?” Her mother turned and walked away, allowing the light to filter into the room again. “I am just trying to protect you, my dear.”
And for a little while, Anja believed her.
Anja spent the next few days inside the house. Though she dreaded the mundane pastimes within, her newfound fear of the river demon kept her from straying outside. Instead, she turned to reading.
One room of her parents’ needlessly large house contained a small library. Anja rarely entered this place as it was sorely neglected; cobwebs sprawled across the ceiling, and she could write her own name in the thick layer of dust on each shelf. Nearly every time she stepped foot inside, she fell into a sneezing fit.
But reading, even in this eerie little room, was a more enticing preoccupation than practicing her l’s and g’s. Fine handiwork was torment to her—she’d been born with an inch of webbing between her fingers, enough to make gripping a pen or needle constantly frustrating, and her mother’s constant derision of her abilities just made every attempt more painful. Books, on the other hand, were much easier to hold.
> She perused the shelves carefully, searching for the perfect midday distraction. Unfortunately, her parents owned few of the outlandish adventure tales she loved so much—most of their titles were dry, purchased only for their perceived academic value. She passed by the essay collections of Keats and Kierkegaard, looking for anything that might hold her attention; eventually, she stumbled upon a worn copy of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Its pages were dog-eared and yellow, but she knew there were specters, serpents, and seafaring adventures inside. That was certainly worth a try.
She curled up in the Queen Anne chair by the window, coughing from the cloud of dust that puffed up around her. She tucked her feet in under her, held the book up, and turned to the first page, ready to escape into Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s fantastical realm for a few minutes.
But as she did so, a folded sheet of parchment fell from the book into her lap. It was as yellow as the pages of the book and stained, too. She held it up to the light, gripping the top edge and letting its many folds unwind. At first, all she noted was numerous water rings and tea splotches, but as the folds spilled down into her lap, they revealed several paragraphs of tiny black scroll. The ink still glistened in the sunlight, as though freshly written.
At the top of the page, in bold Gothic black letters, was one word: CONTRACT.
Anja assumed this must be a business document, something her father had misplaced long ago. It probably discussed allotment of land or sales of crop yields or something equally mundane. But something about the script intrigued her. She didn’t recognize the font from her penmanship lessons, and the letters seemed to swim about the page, breaching the invisible lines where they were supposed to sit. Her mother would be appalled by such chaotic writing. And that, of course, just made Anja more interested.
She began to read the contract. The process was slow; deciphering the inconsistent lettering was tedious. But the language itself was much plainer than most legal texts, and as the letters arranged themselves into comprehensible words, the first line alone became captivating.
This contract, written and signed on twelfth of July in the year 1849, constitutes an agreement between two parties: the Human Souls Otto and Odilia Bauer of the Black Forest, and the Aquatic Soul Aleit of the Black River.
Aquatic Soul. Black River. These words rang in Anja’s head, echoing in her mind long after she finished reading them. She couldn’t process them, couldn’t comprehend what the fluid scroll was telling her. She kept reading, desperate for an explanation.
All parties agree, with their signatures, on this exchange of property: the Human Souls shall receive, from the Aquatic Soul, a lifetime of wealth and prosperity, to commence on the day after this contract is signed. This wealth shall include possession of gold and material needs equivalent to one hundred times the amount required for comfortable living.
Anja thought, then, of her mother’s wardrobe, stuffed with velvet and silk, gold embroidery trimming her underskirts and fox fur lining her collars. She thought of her father’s wide-brimmed hats in every color, lined with swan feathers. She looked down to her own boots, noting the slim, solid heels and decorative broguing along the seams. Her stomach turned.
In return, the Human Souls Otto and Odilia shall provide their first-born child, in exactly one year from the date of this agreement, as payment to the Aquatic Soul Aleit.
Anja froze. She stared down at that script, reading that one sentence again and again. She tried to will the words into motion, to come to life and swim off the page, disappearing like fish beneath the surface of a pond. Despite their meandering lines and uneven spacing, the words remained unmoved, suspended in time forever on that stained, dirty parchment.
Anja, her parents’ only child, had been born exactly one year after the contract was signed.
The rest of the contract was a blur. She tried to keep reading, but she’d lost the ability to comprehend. Besides, what else did she need to know? This paper, discovered through pure happenstance, had destroyed her life in a matter of lines.
She folded up the parchment, tucked it under her arm, and rushed out the door.
“How could you do this? How could you?!”
Anja had found her mother in the sitting room, writing a letter. She threw the parchment over her mother’s hands, blocking out everything except the black, still-glistening text.
When Mrs. Bauer realized what had fallen into her hands, she sighed and closed her eyes. “I should have realized this day would come,” she muttered. “Eventually.”
“Eventually?” Anja’s voice kept climbing into higher and shriller registers. “Did you plan on keeping this secret forever?”
“Well, of course,” her mother said as though it were undeniable fact. “Everything would be simpler that way.”
Anja was stunned into silence. Her jaw hung open in shock.
“Honestly,” her mother began, “what was I supposed to tell you?” She shook her head. “You just can’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” Anja dug her heels into the floor, grinding them against the stone until they squealed. “Why?” Her eyes began to sting; she sniffed, hoping to will away the tears. “Why would you sign my life away?”
“Oh, Anja, you silly girl.” Her mother shook her head. Her silky hair rippled like waves against her cheeks and shoulders. “We were never going to give you away. What a silly thought.” She rolled her shoulders back and raised her head. “Did you not read to the end? The demon says we must bring you back to the river’s edge, in order to fulfill the payment.” She smiled, her mouth stretching out wide, so wide that Anja thought she may just unhinge her jaw and swallow her daughter whole. “So as long as you never set foot near the river, you’re safe!”
Goose bumps flooded Anja’s arms. She crossed them tightly around her, as though shivering. “You…y-you signed my life away,” she whispered. “You stole it from me, just to make yourselves rich.” Her whole body grew stiff.
Mrs. Bauer shook her head, making a tsk sound as she did so. “Honestly, dear, you have such little faith in us.” She turned back to her desk; she folded the parchment neatly, tucked it under a paperweight, and pulled down the roll top. “Do you really believe we didn’t think this through? Of course we had backup plans for you.” She shut and latched the desk, sealing the contract out of sight. “That’s why we’ve been looking for a suitor in another city. If you live hundreds of miles from the river, then you need never fear retaliation.”
Anja thought her insides might have turned to stone. She felt so heavy. Heavy and cold.
“It’s a perfect plan, child.” Mrs. Bauer stood up, towering over her daughter again. “Once you get over this ridiculous notion of being a spinster, that is.”
Anja looked up at her with a storm in her eyes. “I don’t want—”
“We will find you a husband, and that will be the end of it.” She turned away, brushing Anja’s disagreement off with a casual flick of her fingers. “One would think you’d be more appreciative of our efforts. It’s not going to be easy, after all—how many men will overlook those deformed hands, do you think?”
Anja felt her face burn. She balled her hands into fists—as much as she could, anyway. The webbing prevented them from closing completely, and this embarrassed her all the more.
“You can fight it all you want, child, but it will change nothing. I won’t argue this any further.” With a swish of her skirt, Odilia turned and walked away. Her sharp heels clacked against the stone as she vanished into the next room. But she continued talking to herself as she went, and Anja caught one line, muttered in a low hiss: “And that penmanship, for God’s sake. How does it take twenty years to master the letter g?”
Anja spent the next few hours sobbing into her pillow. She’d locked herself in her bedroom, throwing the bolt so no servant or parent could enter. She didn’t want to see any of their faces. No one could help her now.
Her life was over, her freedom stolen from her. That much was certain. The idea of
spending one night with a man repulsed her, let alone an entire lifetime, but try as she might, she could think of no way to escape her fate. Soon her parents would find a match, and once that contract was signed, there was nothing for her to do. Her days of running free in the forest would be stifled, she knew, for what nobleman would ever approve of a wife spending her days mussing up her dresses and digging her fingers through rich, moist soil? No, the only life that awaited her now was one of imprisonment, caged in whalebone corsets and stripped of the rare joys of her maidenhood.
Between sobs, Anja took a glance out her bedroom window. She had a view overlooking the edge of the forest, and in the fading afternoon light, every leaf on the trees was rimmed in gold. It was strange how entrancing the rustling leaves and softly singing wind continued to be, even when despair seemed to envelop her from every side. Somehow, even in the midst of her grief, nature still surprised her with its all-encompassing beauty.
Then the idea came to her. It sprang into her mind fully formed, and it was perfect in its simplicity.
She would give herself up to the demon of the river.
Sneaking past her parents was no challenge. Anja had done it hundreds of times before. All she needed was to take off her frilly dress and switch to her favorite pair of shoes: earthy brown, nondescript, and most importantly, silent when she walked.
Wearing only those shoes and a white chemise, she crept across the stone floors and through the maze of thresholds, taking the long path through the kitchen so her parents wouldn’t see her. They never stepped foot in the kitchen, of course. Then she quietly unlatched the back door and slipped out.