With a wrenching cry, the young witch raised her head and wove her voice once more into the chant. “Fight it! The circle must not break! The Iele must not falter!” Vr?ja shouted. Her skin-the mottled gray of river stones-paled. It’s too much! Gods help me!” the witch cried. Suddenly one of them, the youngest, cried out.
The witches bowed their heads and tightened their grip on one another’s hands. Without warning, the waterfire rose, its flames licking out like serpents’ tongues. “Tu esti lang?…te simt.…” Come, devil, come…you’re near…I feel you…. “Vin, diavolul, vin,” Vr?ja growled, drawing closer to the circle. Hands clasped, they swam counterclockwise in a circle, their powerful tails pushing them through the water.
Show yourself.Īround the waterfire, eight river witches continued their song. Arat?-te,” she muttered in her age-old tongue. DEEP IN THE black mountains, deep in the Romanian night, deep beneath the cold, dark waters of the ancient Olt, the river witches sang.įrom her place in the shadows, the elder, Baba Vr?ja, watched the blue waterfire, her bright eyes restive and alert.
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