Standing on dry land and having made sure it wasn’t in danger, the drowner became more confident. It straightened up, stamped its large feet, hopped up and down, and each time, water and slime splashed copiously from under its green frock coat. Now quite emboldened, the drowner squirted water from its gills, opened its frog-like mouth and croaked sonorously, informing the surrounding fauna who was in charge.
The fauna didn’t react. The drowner pottered around a little in the grass, rummaged in the mud and finally walked uphill, towards the forest. Straight into a trap. It croaked, seeing a semicircle of sand in front of it. It moved a flat foot closer and withdrew it, amazed. It suddenly realised what was happening, squawked loudly and turned around to flee. But it was too late. The grey-eyed man jumped out of the undergrowth and magically closed the circle with sand tossed from a sack. Having done so, he sat down on a stump.
“Good evening,” he said courteously. “I’d like to talk.”
The drowner—the grey-eyed man already knew that the name “vodnik” was more appropriate for the creature—tried several times to hop out of the magical circle, but without success, of course. Resigned, it shook its flat head energetically and water gushed from its ears.
“Breckkreck,” it croaked. “Breckkreckeckecks.”
“Spit out the mud and repeat that, please.”
“Breckeckreckkreckkreck.”
“Are you making a fool of yourself? Or me?”
“Quackskvaaacks.”
“A waste of your talent, Master Vodnik. You won’t take me in. I know perfectly well you can understand and speak in human tongue.”
The vodnik blinked its double eyelids and opened its wide, toad-like mouth.
“Human tongue…” it gurgled, spitting water. “Human tongue, of course. But does that have to mean German?”
“Touché. How’s your Czech?”
“Better.”
“What’s your name?”
“Will you let me go if I tell you?”
“No.”
“Fuck off, then.”
There was silence for some time. It was interrupted by the grey-eyed man.
“There’s a matter to be sorted out, Master Vodnik,” he began gently. “I want you to give me something. No, not give. Let’s say… make available.”
“Bollocks to that.”
“I never imagined for a moment,” the grey-eyed man said, smiling, “that you’d agree at once. I assumed we’d have to work on it. I’m patient. I have time.”
The drowner hopped and stamped. Water poured from its frock coat again; apparently there was a considerable reserve inside.
“What do you want?” it croaked. “Why are you tormenting me? What have I done to you? What do you want from me?”
“From you, nothing. Rather from your wife. As a matter of fact, she can hear our conversation—she’s there, right by the water’s edge, I can see the reeds moving and the water lilies trembling. Good evening, Mistress Vodnik! Please don’t go away, I’ll be needing you!”
There was a loud splash near the bank, as though a beaver had dived in, and ripples spread out over the water. The entrapped drowner boomed like a bittern when it calls with its beak in the mud, then puffed up its gills and uttered a loud croak. The grey-eyed man watched it without emotion.
“Two years ago,” he said calmly, “in the month of September—which you call Mheánh—a robbery, a fight and several deaths occurred here, in Ścibor’s Clearing.”
The vodnik frowned again and snorted. Water flowed profusely from its gills.
“What’s it got to do with me? I don’t meddle in your affairs.”
“The victims, weighted down with stones, were thrown into this pond. I’m certain that one of the victims was alive when they were thrown into the water and only died as a result of drowning. And if so, you have it at the bottom in your rehoengan, your underwater lair and strongroom. You’re keeping it there as a hevai.”
“As a what? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, but you do. The hevai of the one that drowned. You’re keeping it in your strongroom. Send your wife to get it and ask her to bring it here.”
“You’re talking nonsense, human,” the creature said, wheezing exaggeratedly, “and my gills are drying up… I’m choking… I’m dying…”
“Don’t try making a fool of me. You can breathe air as long as a crayfish, you won’t be harmed. But when the sun rises and the wind gets up… When your skin begins to crack…”
“Jadziaaa!” yelled the vodnik. “Fetch the hevai! You know which one!”
“So you speak Polish, too.”
The vodnik coughed and squirted water from its nose. “My wife’s Polish,” it reluctantly replied. “From Gopło. Can we talk seriously?”
“Naturally.”
“Then listen, mortal fellow. You guessed right. Of the sixteen that were killed and thrown into the pond, one—although quite full of holes—was still alive. His heart was still beating, and he went down to the bottom in a cloud of blood and bubbles. His lungs filled with water and he died, but… which you also guessed… I managed to get to him before it happened and I have his… his hevai. If I give it to you… do you promise you’ll release me?”
“I promise. I swear.”
“Even if it turns out… For if you know so much, it means you don’t believe in fairy tales and superstitions. You won’t bring the drowned man back to life by destroying the hevai. It’s nonsense, superstition, fabrication. You won’t achieve anything; you’ll just dispel his aura. You’ll make him die again, in enormous suffering, so enormous that the aura may not withstand it and will perish. So if it was somebody close to you—”
“It wasn’t,” the grey-eyed man cut him off. “And I don’t believe in superstitions. Bring me the hevai, just for a few moments. Then I’ll return it to you, untouched. And I’ll release you.”
“Ha. If so,” asked the vodnik, all its eyelids blinking, “why the hell did you need the trap? Why did you capture me, putting me through stress and nerves? You should have come and asked—”
“Next time.”
Something smelling of sludge and dead fish splashed by the bank. A moment later, approaching slowly and apprehensively like a mud turtle, the vodnik’s wife was beside them. The grey-eyed man examined it with interest, seeing a goplana for the first time in his life. At first sight, it didn’t differ much from its husband, but the priest’s expert eye was capable of spotting even the least significant details. While the Silesian vodnik resembled a frog, its Polish wife called to mind a princess magicked into a frog.
The vodnik took something from its wife that resembled a large freshwater mussel, covered in a beard of algae. Light shone through the algae—the mussel was glowing. Phosphorescing. Like rotten wood. Or a fern flower. The grey-eyed man scattered the sand of the magical ring, freeing the vodnik from the trap, then took the hevai from it. And he suddenly felt the container pound and tremble, felt the pulsing and shivers pass from his hands to his entire body, penetrating and piercing, until they finally crawled into his neck and then his brain. He heard a voice, first soft, insectile, then more and more distinct and louder.