The full moon had risen to a glowing eye in the sky, far larger than anyone in the village had ever remembered seeing. They paid it no mind tonight, however, and only commented nonchalantly to one another and shut their windows. Save two.
Old Seth sat in the tavern with his thick mug of ale, one of the last pleasures left in his life-- he expected to die soon, and thus had no qualms about giving away a few precious objects to a girl. He watched outside the window, watched the full moon, and prayed to heaven that all would go well.
Angela's grandmother waited in her rocking chair, which she had moved outside to her porch. The air was still warm, and all an old woman needed was a good shawl, and it was good enough for her. She had no intention of going inside this night. She pulled out her knitting, a scarf for her granddaughter for the winter months ahead. She knew it would be a cold winter. She knew many things, one of the pleasures of old age.
She had learned a thing or two about nixies from her own grandmother. Good, useful wisdom, to be passed on to a granddaughter.
Her granddaughter deserved a gift. The old woman chuckled to herself, a noise similar to that of the crickets, and gazed off into the woods. There, among the trees and near the old stone ruins, something marvelous, hopefully, would take place.
The wind whistled past the old woman, blowing her grey hair and tumbling loose leaves clear into the trees. The wind caught on branches and danced past trunks until finally passing a young girl standing on the shore of an old mill pond.
"Everyone else has given you up for dead," she whispered. She wondered if John could hear her.
The wind seemed to answer back, and the branches of the willow waved their response.
Silly question. Of course he could. Why else would she be out here if he could not hear her?
The pouch hung at her side, soft fur made from the hide of fox. She pulled out the first item. A loaf of bread she had made herself that very day, still possessing a sense of warmth and the scent of something good. She held it to her nose before holding it above the water.
The man appeared. The dead man rose from the water as if pulled by an invisible noose. Staring eyes rolled toward her, and the body, dressed in rotted clothing, glided toward her.
Angela's hand shook, and it almost seemed that something crunched in the woods behind her, but she did not move or cry out. That was the hardest part, her grandmother had said. This was the hardest part.
The dead man was almost to the shore now. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, and deep, bloodless cuts gaped open on his neck and arms. His eyes flashed violently.
"Bread for thee, Ghost of the Mill," she said clearly. "Bread I have baked for thee."
With one limp arm, the corpse took the bread. "Maiden, what do you wish?"
The dead man's feet rippled the water. Angela tried not to notice. "I wish to bring gifts to the nixie. I ask your permission to do so, for you guard this pond."
"Gifts." The dead man nodded. "You may."
And, as if the invisible rope had been cut, the body plummeted into the water. The cold water splashed all over Angela, and once again it took all her power not to cry out. Old Seth had given her the gifts. She pulled the first one out.
It glinted in the faint moonlight. A golden comb.. No telling why Old Seth had it. Strange objects often held their secrets. She slid the comb's teeth through hair, once, twice, three times. Then she held it above the pond for a long time. She wasn't sure how long. Then she set it close to the water.
In an instant the waves leapt up, soaking Angela's bare feet. When the wave retreated, the comb was gone.
Like an ocean tide the waves rushed back further into the lake, stealing more water to join them. And, as they passed, a head appeared.
The face of John, staring out at her.
Don't say his name, Angela thought. She was not to say his name. Not until the spell was broken.
John mouthed something, something she couldn't hear. And then, once more, he was gone.
Angela pulled out the second gift. A flute, carved from the finest wood, a tree Angela had never heard of. Old Seth had carved it himself. She put it to her lips and played a melody, the same tune she had hummed when she had first approached the pond. It wasn't the same song now. It bit through the night like wolve's teeth, and it seemed that even the trees and the wind stopped their dance to listen. The shape of the dead man appeared just under the surface, listening and staring up with haunted eyes.
Then, like the comb, she set it at her feet.
Once again, the water rose up to snatch it. They rolled back, thick shards of glass.
And there was John, waist-deep in the water. He was alive, and Angela found herself taking another step to the pond. He smiled at her, a wishing smile of hope. He was pleading with her. A strange case. A woman should not have to save her husband, the husband would protect the wife.
But he could not protect her as he was.
Water plants were wrapped around him, digging into his flesh. Could he bleed?
And then, once more, he was gone.
And only one gift remained.. The most precious. A miniature spinning well, fashioned of silver, a toy much loved by Old Seth's dead wife. Its tiny spindle glinted. Not daring to close her eyes, Angela pressed her finger to it until the blood flowed all over the wheel.
Use it for a good cause, Old Seth had said.
She held the spinning wheel close to her heart for several long seconds before, with all her might, tossing it into the middle of the pond.
She leapt up then, the nixie, impossibly long hair trailing behind her until Angela wasn't sure what was the nixie's hair and what was the waves. Long fingers snatched the bloody wheel until both figures sank deep down while the waves circled around.
Angela stared at the sight, her heart soaring. This was a strange sight to see, the sight stories were made of. But it did not hold her gaze long, for the waves sunk back, and there was John. He laughed once and held out his arms as the weeds dried and broke from his body. With her own laugh Angela rushed at him, splashing into the water as he came for her. She did not care for the cold, and neither did her.
But then, with a hiss, a figure sprang up between them. The nixie, no longer beautiful, but an animal-spirit, sharp toothed, with long fingernails that scratched into Angela's eyes.