The air in Myrnyi grew heavier with each passing day, an oppressive weight that pressed down on the villagers' hearts. The whispers from the Drowned Forest had taken on a sharper edge, and the river that wound its way through the village now shimmered with an unnatural sheen, reflecting the pale light of a waning moon.
Then the children began to disappear.
The first was Sashko, a boy of seven with an insatiable curiosity. His mother had let him play near the river's edge while she hung laundry. When she turned back, he was gone. All that remained was a single shoe, perched precariously on a mossy stone, and faint ripples disturbing the water's surface.
By the third disappearance, the village was on the brink of hysteria. Parents clung tightly to their children, forbidding them from leaving the safety of their homes. But fear had a way of slipping through cracks, seeping into every shadow and whispered prayer.
Church became the shelter.
The stories came next.
"She's come for them," Halyna muttered, her voice trembling as she spoke to a gathering of women in the square. "Mavka. The drowned maiden. They say she sings to the children, luring them into the water."
Lybid overheard the conversation and went up to them leaving deacon sitting alone near the fire. She had heard tales of Mavka since childhood—spirits of women who had died tragically, often in water, bound to haunt the places of their death. They were said to be vengeful, their sorrow twisting into malevolence.
"We don't know that it's a Mavka," she said, stepping into the circle. "It could be something else—someone taking advantage of our fear."
Halyna's eyes were wide with panic. "And what else could it be, healer? The forest moves, the river sings, and our children vanish. What more proof do you need?"
Before Lybid could respond, a low, haunting melody drifted through the air. It came from the direction of the river, soft and lilting, yet unbearably sorrowful. The women froze, their faces draining of color.
"She's singing," one whispered. "She's calling them again."
Lybid's resolve hardened. She turned and ran, her feet pounding against the earth as she made her way to the river. She could feel the song pulling at her, each note wrapping around her like a silken thread.
When she reached the riverbank, the melody ceased. The water was still, the moonlight casting eerie shadows on its surface. Lybid scanned the area, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Show yourself," she demanded, her voice shaking but determined.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, the water rippled. A figure began to emerge—a woman with flowing hair that glimmered like wet silk. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, and her eyes were a deep, unearthly green.
"You called for me," the Mavka said, her voice as mournful as her song.
Lybid took a step back, her heart hammering in her chest. "W-why?"
Mavka tilted her head, her expression one of sorrow and anger. "They are drawn to me, as I was drawn to this fate. Your people's greed has left me bound to this river, my pain eternal. I sing not to harm, but to mourn."
"Then let them go," Lybid pleaded. "They are innocent."
"Innocence does not absolve the sins of the past," Mavka replied, her voice rising like the tide. "The land you walk upon was taken, its balance destroyed. The children come to me because they hear what you do not—the cries of the drowned."
Lybid felt a chill wash over her. "There must be a way to end this. Tell me what can be done."
The Mavka's eyes softened for a brief moment. "There is a way, but the price is steep. Return what was stolen. Restore what was broken. Only then will the song end."
Before Lybid could respond she heard steps behind her, Mavka dissolved into the water, her form rippling away like a broken reflection. The whispers returned, louder and more insistent, as though the forest and river were conspiring together.
Someone put his hand on her shoulder. It was Deacon Methodius.
She dug into his chest crying.
Deacon hugged. His smile seemed to be able to calm and enlighten anyone and anything.
"Let me," he pulled out an old blunt knife. Lybid instinctively moved away from him.
Blood appeared on his finger. Drops of Methodius's blood fell in a calm stream into the river.
He said under his breath with closed eyes putting his hand around silver cross:
"Credo in Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, Creatorem caeli et terrae; Et in Iesum Christum, Filium eius unicum...Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, Sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen."
A golden glow covered the water, driving away the evil fog and whispers. Dark roots of the trees, which were moving, threatening to consume more and more land, stopped.
Lybid looked at him mesmerized.
"Even plants need water," - he looked at her seriously, - "If we can get to the beginning of the river which pierces and feeds the cursed forest, we can sanctify the whole land by the Constantinople image."
"F-father," - she said hesitentaly, - "Is it really possible?"
"Child, you have incomparable courage and with my faith we can stop it. Will you become my and Christ's crusader?"