The Lake

A cruel man gets his comeuppance.

 

There were whispers among the women of the village. Asta wondered if the rumors were true. Surely, they couldn’t be, but even her best friend Sunitha claimed them as truth.

Their village did have a higher incidence of men going missing. Asta pondered the rumors as she strolled through the market. She bought bread and mutton from the butcher.

She was going to make her husband, Eliav, some mutton stew like her mother used to make. He was sure to be hungry after a long day in the blacksmith shop. She hurried home so she could start the meal.

She cut the vegetables from her garden and the mutton into bite sized pieces and placed them in the pot along with the bone and some water. She added a bit of salt, garlic, and some bay leaves to the broth. She needed the stew to be perfect.

She was tending to the stew when Eliav came through the door.

“Hello, Husband, I am making a hearty mutton stew for supper,” she greeted him warmly. He just grunted in her direction as he removed his boots just inside the door. Asta lowered her gaze and clasped her hands in front of her apron as he brushed past her on his way to the washroom to clean up.

He was very sweaty and covered in soot from the full day at the blacksmith shop. He was a horse of a man with the temperament of a jackass.

She turned back to the stew. She spooned a piece of the mutton out to test the tenderness; it fell apart when prodded with a spoon. She pulled the stew off the wood burning stove and set it aside while she heated the bread on the hot flat surface of the stove.

“Eliav, the stew is done, and I am just heating the bread now. Supper will be ready very soon,” she called down the hall.

“I’ll be there in a bit, woman. Don’t rush me!” he growled from the back of the house. She winced.

While he finished up, she ladled the soup into bowls, and she cut the bread. She set the bowls at opposite ends of the table. He re-emerged from the back of the house dressed in a clean shirt, slacks, and his hair was damp.

“Supper is ready,” she said in a soft voice as she gestured to his bowl on the table. He grunted once more at her as he dumped himself into his chair. Asta took her seat only after her husband took his.

She quietly sipped the broth from her spoon and took small bites of the stew. Eliav ate his stew as voraciously as a hungry animal. Suddenly his spoon clattered into his bowl. He pulled something from his mouth and held it up to her.

“What is this, you stupid woman?” he asked slow and precise like a fox stalks a rabbit, waiting for Asta to make a move. Asta swallowed hard, and she tried to keep her eyes from going wide like a frightened prey animal.

 She thought she had extracted all the bay leaves from the stew before she served it. Eliav hated finding the bay leaves in his food. He did not mind the flavor, but he hated the actual leaves. Asta straightened up just a hair before she responded to him.

“I am sorry, Eliav, I thought I had removed all the leaves. I can fetch you another bowl,” she said softly as she kept her gaze low. She knew what was coming, it always came. No matter what she did or didn’t do, it was never good enough. He let out a snarl and chucked the bowl across the room. It shattered with a crack against the wall, leaving a mess of sharp ceramic pieces and bits of stew all down the wall and the floor.

Asta jumped when the ceramic bowl exploded against the wall. It had been over ten years since they were married, you’d think she’d have gotten used to the outbursts, insults, and broken things. She kept her eyes averted when she quicky and quietly fetched the broom to clean the mess.

As she bent down to begin to sweep up the stew and shards of bowl, Eliav caught her by the throat and shoved her against the stone wall. She let out a yelp and the broom slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor. Eliav pressed his face dangerously close to hers as his hand pressed her neck against the wall.

“This is the last time you make this mistake, isn’t it?” Asta gulped and lightly nodded. That of course didn’t satisfy her husband, so he reiterated, “Isn’t it?” as he slammed the back of her head against the wall. Black spots bloomed across her vision.

Asta yelped again and tried to reply despite his fingers crushing her throat, “Yes, husband, this is the last time.” Eliav gave a smirk and then let her go.

“Yes, it will be the last time, or you will be even sorrier than you are now,” he said in a low growl. He slapped her across the face hard enough her head lurched to one side, a welt immediately making itself visible. “Let that be a reminder to you before you f**k up again. Now, clean this s**t up or you will receive worse,” he called as he turned on his heel and headed into the other room.

She dropped to her knees, to begin cleaning the mess. She paused for a moment and gingerly touched the bruise that began to bloom over her cheek and eye. She could feel tears welling up behind her eyes, but she didn’t dare cry. She knew she’d get much worse if she cried. She let a single tear escape and then steeled her resolve to finish cleaning the mess.

After she swept the large pieces of bowl and the stew, she got out the mop and bucket to clean the broth off the floor and scrubbed the walls. As she cleaned, she wondered how she got here and wondered what she should do. What could she do? He was her husband.

When she finished cleaning, and the kitchen was spotless once more, she retired to the living room to work on the socks she was knitting while her husband read the paper.

The next day after Eliav had gone to work, Sunitha had come for tea between chores. She saw the bruise that painted Asta’s face.

“Oh Asta!” she cried as she embraced her. “You must do something with that beast of a man!” Asta looked down into her tea as if it held answers of what to do.

“I know, but what can I do? If I leave, he will likely kill me, and if I kill him, I go to jail.” Sunitha gave her a knowing look.

“I’ve told you. You must go to the lake at the north side of town. There you will find the help you seek!”

“Ask for help from who? The fish?!” Asta shrugged. Sunitha gave her a wink.

“Surely you must be kidding.”

“You will see. I will even go with you. How do you think I rid myself of Henry?”

“I thought he has left town with a mistress?”

“That was just the story I told. He very well could have since he whored his way around town whenever he could, but no one would ever know. All I know is he will never come back to hurt me. Or anyone else.” Asta raised an eyebrow at Sunitha. “Trust me, Asta, there is help to be had in the lake.”

“Okay, you crazy old woman,” she sighed. They both laughed.

After the chores were done the following morning Asta met Sunitha in the town square. They walked arm in arm through town and chatted.

“Sunitha, are you sure this is going to work? Sunitha smiled.

“Of course it will. Trust me.” She patted Asta’s arm. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the lake.

“Well we are here, now what do I do?”

“Go down to the water’s edge and tell the lake what you need help with,” Sunitha explained. Asta gave her a skeptical look. “Just go.” She nudged her in the direction of the lake. Asta sighed, unconvinced.

“Okay,” she sighed again. She shrugged and padded down to the water’s edge. She paused a moment and looked back at Sunitha. “This is silly!” Sunitha just gave her a dismissive wave as if to say just do it! Asta rolled her eyes and sighed once more as she cleared her throat and began to speak.

“Uh, hello, lake,” she paused. “I need some help. You see, my husband hits me.” She wrung her hands in front of her. “He is cruel and hurtful. He gave me a black eye only yesterday.”

Nothing happened. She looked back to her friend on the bank and Sunitha gestured for her to keep speaking.

“I need help to get rid of him before he kills me. I don’t want to die by his hand nor continue to simply exist under his thumb. He must be dealt with, and I fear I do not have the strength to do it myself.” Asta waited a few moments and still nothing happened. She looked back at Sunitha once more.

“You must be patient, my friend.” Asta nodded to her. She’d do just about anything to be free of Eliav’s iron fist.

After a few minutes she saw a line of bubbles coming to shore. She couldn’t see what was making the bubbles, but suddenly a shell with a pearl in the center appeared at the shoreline. Asta looked to Sunitha for guidance, and she came down to the water’s edge.

“They will help you, that’s what this means,” she said as she bent down to pick the shell and pearl up. She looked it over and handed it to Asta. “This is a good thing.” She patted Asta’s arm.

“I still don’t understand. What am I to do now?”

“Bring that beast of yours down to the water, and all will be taken care of.”

“If, you are sure.”

“I am.”

“I hope you are right. I don’t think I can take much more.”

Sunitha put her arm around her and ushered her back up the bank to the road. They walked to town in silence as Asta rolled the shell and pearl over in her hands inspecting them. They parted once they reached the town square. She pondered on what life would be like without Eliav. No more broken things, no more black eyes, no more yelling, and no more being forced to bend to his will. She could be free, at last.

When Eliav came home that night, she brought up having a picnic.

“Oh, Eliav, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a picnic near the lake at the north end of town? It’s so nice this time of year, and we could even catch some fish for supper! It’s been so long since we’ve had some! It would also be a shame to waste such a glorious time of year.” he just grunted in her direction.

“When?”

“Oh, I was thinking tomorrow, if you can get away from the blacksmith shop, even just for a little while.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. So, it was set, they would go to the lake tomorrow and it would be their last picnic. Asta just hoped she could get through the night; she was anxious to get this over with.

Eliav woke early the next morning to run down to the shop to finish a few things before they set off for the afternoon at the lake. That gave her time to do all the morning chores and pack a lunch for them. She made tomato sandwiches. They were her favorite, but he hated them. In fact, he hated most of the things she liked. She stifled a yawn with her hand. She didn’t sleep much the night before; she was buzzing with anticipation and worry about how today would go. She figured she’d pack something that Eliav didn’t like so the lake could see that it really was helping her and to witness firsthand how awful he was. She also packed a bottle of the finest mead she could afford.

Once her husband returned home, he washed quickly, and they departed for their destination. As they passed through town, she noticed Eliav eyeing Makellah Rinas, the 16-year-old daughter of Tecklah and Edward Rinas. When Makellah saw him, she blushed and turned away. He smirked to himself and thought that his wife could not see. She kept her observation to herself, but also realized she was helping other women too. She knew he had been unfaithful; she was just glad to be rid of him when he was out hounding.

Once they arrived at the shores of the lake, she set a blanket down just a few feet from the water’s edge. She wanted to be as close to the water as she could. Eliav set his fishing pole down to remove his boots and stockings so he could stand just in the water to fish. There was a small natural ledge before the lake dropped off into the deep.

Asta pulled a canteen out of the basket and took a swig of water. She watched her husband fish a bit.

“Woman, I’m hungry, where is my lunch?” he called to her over his shoulder from the edge of the water. She took a deep breath and fished one of the tomato sandwiches out of the basket. She padded down to the water.

“Here you are,” she said as she handed it to him. He took a bite and almost immediately spat it into the water.

“What the f**k is this?” he asked tightly. “I hate tomatoes. You know this. Why do you continue to antagonize me with your complete incompetence and stupidity?”

“I am sorry, Eliav, I forgot.”

“You forgot? Do you enjoy being smacked? Is this why you “forget” so many things?” he mocked her. As he was berating her, she saw a line of bubbles making their way to where he was standing in the water. She couldn’t help but smirk. He eyed her, incredulous. “Do you think this is funny?” Asta tried to hide the steadily blooming smile from her face, but she failed as she watched the bubbles meander closer. Eliav wound his hand up and backhanded her across the face, hitting her already sore, black eye. She laughed. He looked at her in disbelief. He went to hit her again for her insubordination, but she caught his wrist with her hand. She looked him directly in the face.

“That was the last time you will ever hit me, Eliav.” As the bubbles were nearly upon him, Asta gave her husband a hard shove and he fell back into the deeper water. He sunk beneath the surface and then reappeared, sputtering.

“Are you f*****g insane?! You are going to sorely regret this when I get out of this lake,” he growled.

“No, I don’t think I will,” she whispered as the bubbles stopped just behind him. Suddenly he was dragged under the surface of the water. She could see him struggling in the murky depths. Suddenly he breached the surface gasping for air and grasping for an invisible rescue rope.

“Help me!”

“No, I’m only helping me,” she said as she gave him a dismissive wave. He couldn’t believe it.

Behind him a beautiful woman rose out of the water silently. Her skin was a pearlescent grayish blue, she had a smattering of scales across her flesh in intricate patterns, but they didn’t cover her skin. She was terrifying yet beautiful at the same time. She had long dark hair, shimmering amber eyes, full pink lips, and had these beautiful triangle shaped fins where her ears should have been. She also had what looked to be a luminescent patch on the side of her jaw. Asta could also see gill slits across the front of her neck.

Beyond this first woman, she could see several other women emerging out of the water  as far as just below their eyes to watch the spectacle. From what she could see they all looked similar this first woman. Eliav didn’t notice the woman bobbing silently behind him, he was too consumed with giving Asta the death glare.

“You B***H!” he screamed at her, spittle flying from his lips.

That is when the woman moved. The first woman’s face opened up just below her jaw line. That’s when Asta realized the iridescence she saw on the woman’s jaw was actually an eye. The sleek line of her jaw was her mouth.

The beautiful human woman face was a sort of camouflage instead of her actual face. The eyes, lips, nose, just clever decoys. She opened her jaw wide to expose large, sharp teeth. They had to be at least two inches long. She partially jumped out of the water which revealed her scaly tail. Her taloned, webbed hands grasped Eliav on his head and chest as she clamped her jaw around his shoulder and pulled him beneath the surface, screaming.

Suddenly the water began to roil and bubble with the force of the violence below. It was the fervor of a feeding frenzy. All Asta could see was bubbles, flashes of light reflecting the creatures below, and the sudden plume of red in the middle of the uproar.

Then all was still. The only thing she could see now is the red smudge burgeoning further in the water from the depths. In the center rose a tattered and shredded piece of the plaid shirt Eliav had been wearing. Asta buried her face in her hands and began to weep. She… she was free.

She couldn’t believe it. Her weeps turned into sobs which grew into laughter. She laughed heartily at her newfound freedom as she made her way back up the bank to where the blanket and basket sat. She sat down and extracted the mead from the basket. She wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt and opened the bottle. She took a big swig and smiled. It was sweet, yet strong. She then unwrapped the other tomato sandwich she had packed and barked out another fit of laughter she failed to stifle with her hand.

Tears welled up again, threatening to wet her cheeks once more. She took a deep breath and just gazed out over the lake. He was really gone. She took a bite of the sandwich and drank more of her mead.

Once she finished her lunch, she laid back on the wool blanket and watched the clouds lazily meander their way across the blue sky. Everything looked a little brighter and more colorful now.

She wondered to herself as she laid there, What am I going to do now? She smiled to herself.

Anything I damn well please, she thought.

 

 

Author's Note

Sorry if the format is a little funky.

Reviews

[JayG]

Note: I forgot I'd said most of this, before,and didn't check till I'd finished. And since you've removed the piece I commented on, and I didn't resord if it was poetry or fiction, rather than toss it, I've left it for what it might be worth.
- - - - - -
The primary problem you face is one you share with pretty much every other hopeful writer. I call it, The Great Misunderstanding.

Simply put, in our school years we worked hard to perfect a skill called writing. And after more than a decade filled with endless assignments to write reports and essays, we make the reasonable assumption that the word “writing” that’s part of the profession, Fiction-Writing, refers to that skill.

But it doesn’t. Not even close. All those reports and essays we were assigned made us pretty good at writing reports and essays, both nonfiction applications.

No one spent even a second explaining what a scene on the page is, and why it differs so greatly from one on stage and screen. No on mentions the three issues we need to address quickly if the reader is to have context to make what we say meaningful. We’re not told how to end the beginning or to begin the end. And the pros make it seem so easy we assume it is. But think about it. If we don’t truly understand what a scene is, how can we write one?

Your reader has only the context you provide. And the words mean whatever they suggest to each reader, based on THEIR life-experience, not your intent.

And...the single biggest thing we never were told is the goal of our writing. Nonfiction’s goal is to inform. But fictions, as E.. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” And how much time did your teachers spend on that? Zero, right?

But you BEGIN reading your own work already knowing what’s going on, who and where we are, and much more. So for you, every line acts as a pointer to images, action, backstory, and more, all residing in your mind.

But what of the blank slate we call the reader? For them, every line acts as a pointer to images, action, backstory, and more, all residing in *YOUR* mind. But with you not there to clarify as it's read...

With that in mind, look at the opening from the seat of your reader:

• There were whispers among the women of the village.

What can this mean to a reader, who needs context as-they-read? In a village of unknown size and makeup, at an unknown time, in and unknown place, an unknown number of women began whispering about something unknown.

We’re not opening a story, you, the narrator, are lecturing the reader. Yes, we can open with a bit of overview, but it MUST have context for the reader, because there can be no second first-impression.

• Asta wondered if the rumors were true.

What rumors? How can this be meaningful if the reader doesn’t know what those rumors are? You’re talking in generalities, no opening a story. If Asta is to be our avatar the reader must know what she knows, as she understands it. How else can we understand why she does and says things? How else can she be our avatar?

• Surely, they couldn’t be, but even her best friend Sunitha claimed them as truth.

To a reader, this is, and must be, meaningless. We know nothing about where we are, what’s going on, or, whose skin we wear. But it's fully meaningful to you, so you see no problem, which is why we MUST edit from the seat of the reader. And, of course, it helps to know how to approach the act of writing fiction. It helps a LOT.

Remember, as we read, we see the result of using the tools of the profession. But we can’t see those tools, or know the decision points where the author decided on one path over another. So we need to learn how, and when to use those tools because as we expect to see the result of using them, so do our readers—which is the single best argument I know of for picking up those tricks.

I’d start with a few books on fiction technique. You work when you have time. There’s zero pressure. AND, no tests. What’s not to love? Personally? I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found, to date, at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

For what it might be worth, the articles in my WordPress writing blog are meant to provide an overview of the major differences between fiction and nonfiction writing.

So…I’m certain this wasn’t the response you were hoping to see. Still, as Mark Twain so wisely put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” So try a few chapters of that book, or another. I think you’ll find yourself saying, “But that’s so…how did I not see something so obvious?”

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[Ryn]

I wanted to be as vague as I could in the beginning because I didn't want to spill too much about the "big reveal". I will check out the resources you recommended. I only write in my spare time so most of the time I'm rusty - it is sometimes months to years between pieces for me. Wish I had more time.

[JayG]

• I wanted to be as vague as I could in the beginning because I didn't want to spill too much about the "big reveal".

But if the reader isn't moved to NEED to turn to page two... As Sol Stein put it: “A novel is like a car—it won’t go anywhere until you turn on the engine. The “engine” of both fiction and nonfiction is the point at which the reader makes the decision not to put the book down. The engine should start in the first three pages, the closer to the top of page one the better.”

• I only write in my spare time

Ahh... but here's the thing: It's not a matter of your skills being rusty, it's that we're taught none of the skills of fiction in school. So the next time you have free time, read a chapter or two of that book I suggested. If you like writing, you'll like "going backstage" to see how it's done.

And when you do acquire some of those skills, the act of writing becomes more fun. Win/win.