Wanderlust (Olkhon Island | Baikal Lake, Siberia)

[Thalia]

[[continued from A Solivagant Soul]]

Several days of impromptu travel later, and Thalia finally found herself on a ferry to the largest island on the lake, leaning on the railing as she absorbed it all with wide-eyed awe. Curls tickled about her face in the breeze, unnoticed except for when they looped over her vision. Her apartment in Moscow bordered Filevsky, a park filled to abundance with ancient trees and the rush of the Moskva River; chosen specifically for its remote seeming beauty in the middle of a city. Here water glittered almost as far as the eye could see, shrouded mountains looming distant against a pale sky. Her heart pounded in her chest as she beheld the clear depths below, as though she expected to see the twist of something deep beneath. There was nothing, of course, though it didn’t stop her looking, until another passenger pressed a tentative hand on her shoulder like they feared she might slip right over the edge.

When she departed she discovered Khuzhir to be a small, dusty settlement spilling from the port. Quaintly painted wooden houses lined wide dirt tracks, with no road or pavement in sight. Her eye caught on the intricate patterns framing the windows in bright colours as she passed, while beyond the world was composed of craggy mountain, boreal forest, and great swathes of steppe like nature herself swallowed the world of man. Thalia was a city-girl born, and navigated that chaos with ease, but something of the wild places had always tugged at her. She had ever been the muddy, knee-skinned child ill-content with relegating her fantasy worlds to life frozen on the page, at least until she grew older and the world squeezed her into presenting a neater package. Fairies were not real. Her imagination was too vast. Just be less odd, Thalia.

This was the most remote place she had ever been, though. And perhaps it was the cocoon of the vast waters, or the reading she had voraciously inhaled about the island's mythos during the long journey back east, but there was a touch of reverence to her wonderment.

She must have looked like the worst kind of tourist.



By some small coincidence, the homestay she had chosen turned out to be owned by a married pair of Moscovites escaped from the clutches of big city life, and who had converted the top floors of their own home to welcome guests. It was comfortingly rustic within. Gardens spilled below, and a pen containing goats which Thalia offered to tend as part of her lodging. They were spirited and amusing creatures, for the most part, though one in particular was a curmudgeonly soul who privately she called Philip. It may have been her favourite.

Though impatience itched her to explore, she spent the first evening acclimatising to her hosts, sharing food and stories that enraptured her long into the night. Anastasia spoke at length on the places to visit, including the Shaman Rock Thalia knew was in the drawing from her dream. The research lit her passion on the long journey over, and Aylin had been a less than enthused recipient of the esoteric facts she had collected, and more interested in the question of why her sister was not returning home. So it was nice not only to find a welcome for all that overspilled delight, but a mirror for it. It wasn't until the old german shepherd dog who had claimed her knee for a chinrest got up and shook his bones, seeking somewhere more comfortable to curl up, and Anastasia herself then stifled a yawn into the back of her hand, that Thalia finally realised the time and padded her way to bed.

She slept hard, utterly exhausted.

---

The next afternoon, she pushed through dirt inclines and narrow passes framed by giant larch and pine trees. Thick forests gave way to empty steppes, the long grasses sometimes tall enough to tickle under her outstretched palms. The trail was easy enough to follow north and Thalia lingered over the journey, entranced by the sheer isolation. Anastasia said wild horses called the island home, though she did not see any. Plenty of dogs wandered though, intent on their own forages or trotting along behind her for some of the way. The first ribbon-tied totem shooting high and proud above her head stole her attention for long moments before she moved on, and she passed several such sentinels during the journey. It tied little ribbons in her own heart, some sense of something beyond herself.

Eventually a steep descent led to the basin of water below. Thalia recognised the rock jutting from the waves, and it quieted something in her to behold it in person. Emotions shifted through her chest, and she did not recoil from them, though neither could she say what they really meant. It was still a way down, so she pulled herself onto an outcropping and let her feet dangle for a moment of rest. A hand swiped the back of her sticky neck, her hair roped into an inelegant knot on the top of her head. It was only pleasantly warm, but she had been walking a long time, and she was glad of the brief respite.

Bright grey eyes took in the scenery below. The tranquil expanse of blue was beautiful, but it was not that which captivated her; or not only. She pressed her fingers to her chest, but did not try to unpick the knot of her thoughts any more than she tried to understand the churn of feeling inside, instead letting herself think of other things.



Anastasia had told her one of the local folk tales (and there were several about this place): of a girl whispered stories from circling gulls of a man she grew infatuated by and wished to marry, and of the father who denied her and locked her away, until she later escaped with the help of her brothers. Amidst her father’s violent anger, a storm shook sky and earth, and when a fork of lightning split the nearby mountain he picked it up and threw it at her to block her flight. But he was too late. The daughter was too close already to her lover, who swept her into his arms for them to remain inseparable since.

The rock marked the boundary between the lake and the river Angara, so named for the girl in the story. It was the only river to leave the lake, like the girl running to the arms of her beloved. The locals said her spirit still dwelt in the stone. Only a fraction thrust visible from the pale blue waters, and caves sunk below the surface. A spiritual place, so it was said.

Eventually Thalia eased herself down to follow the path to the shingled shore and the creeping rhythm of the tide. A few other people mingled about, though it was not busy either. Too many to push her into the lake's embrace with an abandon that might have overwhelmed had there been no eyes to observe the mischief. She didn't have anything to swim in; so drawn by the meandering of her own whim, it had not even occurred to her until now. She pulled the boots from her feet and left them on the stones alongside her bag, wading into the silky waters. Her skin prickled cool as she stared out across it, a swell of deep sadness catching her off guard and pulling her further than she intended until the cold crept up the hem of her shorts. This was not like the river at Viljandi, where she could dive to the bottom herself, trusting recklessly to instincts she did not understand. But it left her at a strange loss. She retreated a little, then sat, the waters lapping up cold and curious as kisses at her feet.