Salka liked to hunt on this side of the mountain; the softer ground was the preferred spot for the small game to dig burrows in. She grinned as a small grey-white rabbit’s ears peeked from above the bilberry plants.
There you are! Salka placed one of her smooth-edged stream stones into the sling and rolled her shoulders. Her wrist moved in a well-practiced arch and the sling cord whistled above her head. The rabbit stood up on its hind legs, its ears pricking up at the noise. Round and round the sling pouch zoomed till Salka released the tab and let the stone fly.
It hit the rabbit with a dull thud. The animal swayed for a moment, as if it didn’t quite realize it was already dead. It crumpled to the ground, a light patch among the red-green undergrowth.
Salka exhaled and whistled on her fingers. Munu dived through the sky and lifted up the rabbit, before dropping it at Salka’s feet. The falcon then landed on Salka’s shoulder and trilled as she petted his head. “Well, done, Munu!” She lifted up the rabbit and put it inside the bag. She scratched the bird’s neck as he nibbled her fingers. “What do you think of taking the scenic route back? What’s that? You’d love to?” She leaned her ear towards Munu, her teeth bared in a grin. “Your wish is my command!”
She whistled again as she made her way westward towards the wide ravine, where the now dry bed spoke of a long-forgotten river. The side of the ravine was steep, with fewer trees and wide beds of wild-roses. When she was a child, Salka used to come here in the summer to weave herself sweet-smelling crowns. She’d pretend she was a princess from one of her mother’s stories, or else an enchantress, who could stand by the edge of the ravine’s bank with her arms stretched wide, ready for the wind spirits to carry her to her palace beyond the Heyne Mountains.
Now she only came here for the tart rose hips, dotting the bare branches. Fantasies and stories didn’t fill an empty stomach.
Salka squinted, unused to the bright light unfiltered by the domed branches of the pine trees. She was barely a step from the edge of the ravine, but the rose hips here were the richest red, ripened by the sun, away from the thick forest canopy.
She worked quickly, picking rosehips with one hand, the other holding her pack. Her finger slid across a thorny branch, imbedding a few needle-sharp thorns in her delicate flesh. “Ouch!” Salka’s hand flew to her mouth, spilling the precious fruits onto the ground.
Salka darted forward, her hand trying to grasp the rose hips before they rolled off the edge.
Munu screeched a shrill warning as Salka’s ankle twisted inward on a wet root. She fell, slipping off the edge, her hand grasping wildly at the roots and branches.
Salka didn’t need to look down to know the sheer stony surface of the cliff with hard rocks awaiting her at the bottom. Her pulse quickened, and a sob of terror escaped her chest.
She saw a dark shape pool under her fingertips, digging into the ground, pulling her upwards.
No! A wave of disgust hit her, more powerful than her fear. She heard the rush of blood in her ears as her striga heart beat out the promise of help. She bit her lip till it bled, trying to slow her breathing in spite of the terror which sent rivulets of cold sweat down her back. The shadow withdrew as the striga heart in Salka’s chest slowed down, its powers pushed back.
As the shadow tendrils receded from the ground, Salka’s body slipped a little further back. She yelped in fear and pushed at the cliff’s side with her feet, desperate for a foothold.
Her hand shot up and, in desperation, grabbed the thick twisting stem of the wild rose bush. The sharp thorns tore into Salka’s palm, as she pulled herself up, sobbing, back onto the ground.
She lay on her back for a while, pulling the thorns out of her hand with her teeth. She’d done it, but a shiver of fear ran through her. She almost let go, almost. Salka closed her eyes for a moment. She’d tell nobody how close she’d come to breaking the law. She’d keep it quiet in her chest, the blasphemy of it. Revulsion shook her shoulders.
She’d be back on her way to the village soon. And then she’d forget this happened. She tried in vain to calm herself, with each breath feeling her striga heart batter at her defenses.
CHAPTER 3
Miriat stretched her back, which ached after a morning of dyeing the goat-wool floss she had earmarked for her daughter’s new cloak. She inspected her fingers, turned bright green by nettle dye. She sighed and looked around, waving as she caught sight of her friend carrying a pail of water into the hut next to hers. Trina, Maladia’s mother, was a small, dark woman with a ready smile and wide brown eyes. A large wine stain bloomed on her cheek, which had been a great source of disappointment in her youth, but, to those who loved her, it was as insignificant as last year’s snow.
“Do you need help with that water, Trina?” Miriat asked, torn between hoping for a resounding “no” and wishing for a reason to interrupt her own tedious work. The wool could be left in the water a while longer. The color would be all the richer for it, Miriat decided.
“I’m all right, but your company’s always welcome. I’m making stew, and if you have anything to throw in, we can all eat it tonight.” Trina made a nod towards Miriat’s little plot of onions. Those were Miriat’s pride and joy, their big round heads with a near translucent white skin the envy of the village.
“I can spare an onion or two.” Miriat laughed and moved her stool next to her friend’s door as Trina brought out a plump rabbit.
“Four can feast on this one,” the woman said with pride. Maladia was a skilled hunter, both with a sling and with ingenious traps of her own design. When Salka was a child she was forever following the older striga, hanging on her every word with rapt interest.
“But I’m sure it can stretch to five,” a cheerful voice interrupted as Dola dropped a small sack of potatoes in front of Miriat and then sat down heavily on Maladia’s stool, which creaked a warning. Miriat shot Trina an amused look, as experience had taught her there would be scarcely more in the sack to satisfy Dola’s own, considerable appetite.
“Why is it that your gifts of prophecy seem to only extend to other people’s mealtimes?” Miriat asked, raising one eyebrow as she worked with her stone knife to remove the rabbit skin.
“We can’t choose which parts of destiny are revealed to us,” Dola said with a grin, shifting her bottom to find a more comfortable position. The perfect peach of a woman, Maladia’s friend had grown both in size and good humor in the eighteen years since Miriat had come to the village. She was no longer the precocious child who first welcomed Miriat at the gates, but a confident woman, more than aware of the effect her pretty round face had on the young men in the village. Dola now stroked her rounded belly, which Miriat suspected carried more than just her last meal. But the young woman said nothing of it, and so Miriat didn’t either.
“So, are we to expect my daughter this evening as well, or has she lost her way in the forest with Markus again? The way her sense of direction has been playing tricks on her lately, we might soon be in need of your midwifery skills. And I hope that there is more in this sack than a few wrinkled potatoes,” Trina said, picking up the sack with a sigh. Though she would never turn a friend away, Dola could stretch the boundaries of Trina’s generosity at times.
“Oh, Maladia was supposed to meet me here, but she –” Dola stopped abruptly, and her usually cheerful face hardened as she pointed over Miriat’s shoulder. “Why is everyone running towards Alma’s house?”
Alma sat in her chair surrounded by the villagers, her face betraying little emotion. A young man stood inside the circle, a mop of blonde hair covering his forehead, his eyes fixed on the ground.
“It’s Markus…” Miriat said to Trina, caught behind taller shoulders. “I see Maladia too.”
“Oh no…” Trina said.
A tall woman with long greying hair and a hooked nose which seemed to almost touch her upper lip shushed everyone and shot Miriat a disapproving look. Many strigas in the village felt there were some aspects of striga life from which
the non-striga mothers should be excluded. Miriat ignored her.
Alma drummed her fingers on the armrest of her seat. “We’ve been called here today because of an accusation brought against one of us.” A murmur rolled through the crowd. Alma waited for it to die down before continuing. “Kalina, come here, girl.”
A young woman walked to the middle of the room. She stood straight in front of Alma, with her eyes modestly down, though Miriat noticed a small triumphant gaze cast at the aghast crowd. Kalina fidgeted as she awaited Alma’s questions. Her eyes darted this way and that, and a little defiant smile stretched her lips when faced with the naked hostility of the villagers. Most called her “Pike” behind her back, for they’d say she was much like the toothy fish, likely to snatch your catch from the line and ruin your day.
Mordat, Trina’s and Miriat’s friend, spotted them from across the room. He moved closer to Trina and wordlessly placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Trina shook it off. What comfort could there be in such a moment.
“That snake! She’s been after Markus for as long as I can remember!” Trina said, shaking her head. “If she’s Markus’ accuser, I know what to think!”
Miriat looked at her friend briefly but kept quiet. There were many uncharitable things one could say of Kalina, with some justification, but she was not known to be a liar. Miriat cast her eyes about to see if Salka was there. She breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes didn’t find her. For once she was glad of her daughter’s tardiness. Salka’s loyalty to her friend wouldn’t let her sit through these proceedings quietly, and Miriat expected she’d have her hands full trying to restrain Trina.
“Tell us what you saw, and know you will be heard,” Alma said with some ceremony.
“I was bringing my billy goat from its seclusion at the Old Teeth Hill for the mating season, and I came across Maladia and Markus in the woods,” Kalina said, fiddling with the end of her woven belt.
“‘Came across’! Hah! The little sneak was spying on us!” Maladia said with a snarl. Kalina shot her a hateful look, before lowering her eyes again.
Alma stood up and stared Maladia down. “You won’t speak again unless I say so. You will not interrupt the proceedings here, or you will be removed from them.” Alma turned back to Kalina. “How is it that neither Markus nor Maladia heard you approaching?”
Kalina shifted uncomfortably, “I took the bell off the billy goat’s neck.”
Alma raised an eyebrow. “And what did you see?” There were no sniggers or laughter from the crowd. The air was heavy with worry. None of the strigas wanted to witness this, and yet they couldn’t look away.
“He was following his heart… the other one,” Kalina said with so much relish that most everyone, Alma included, felt their stomachs pinch tight with disgust.
The striga leader raised her hand to quiet the room, as it erupted in a cacophony of angry cries and murmurs of disbelief. “How so?” she asked. Miriat noticed those standing nearest to Markus seemed to shrink back from him. Markus had not yet been convicted of anything, but the accusation alone was enough.
“Maladia’s leg seemed broken. She must have fallen off a tree, gathering winter nuts most like.” Kalina sniffed, “Not that she would ever offer to share any, I just saw them spilling out of the sack by her–”
“Remember where you are, Kalina,” Alma said, the corner of her mouth twitching with barely concealed irritation. “Your petty grievances have no place here.”
Kalina looked towards the floor, chastened. “I saw her on the ground, her leg twisted at a strange angle. There was a bone jutting out and her blood was flowing quickly. Bright and gushing in little streams. I was just about to come and help her, but something stopped me…”
“The something being her nasty nature and glee at my daughter’s pain, no doubt,” Trina said through clenched teeth.
For a moment Alma’s eyes fixed on Trina’s, and there was a shadow of sadness in the striga leader’s face, though it disappeared so quickly, one could miss it entirely. Miriat put her arm around her friend’s shoulder and squeezed her hard.
“…I saw Markus kneeling by Maladia. He put his hand on her chest. He wasn’t trying to bandage the leg or even stop the bleeding. He was very still and quiet, but I saw his shadow move strangely above his head… And then it happened…
“The grass around them turned black and withered. It touched the nut tree next to them, and it dried, bark peeling and falling off in chunks. A bird fell off the tree, and I saw a squirrel too, trying to scamper away, though it didn’t make it. Its body shriveled up just like the grass and it fell to the ground.” Kalina shivered.
“Then Maladia’s leg was fine again. I didn’t know what they’d do to me if they saw me, so I left. I was running for my life, I was so scared. Once a striga turns into a stigoi, you never know…” she finished.
“Thank you, Kalina,” Alma said in a voice that was anything but grateful. “Markus, step forward.”
Markus stepped closer to Alma, his pale hair covering his downcast eyes.
“Do you deny it?”
Markus glanced at Maladia, his mouth in a grimace.
“Did you hear the question?”
“Yes, I heard your question.” Markus looked up at Alma. Miriat took in a sharp breath, squeezing Trina’s shoulder. Markus was always a soft-spoken lad, and gentle, too gentle even, for the hard life he led.
“Do you deny it?” Alma repeated the question, as if she’d heard nothing.
“That I’m a stigoi? Yes. But that I healed Maladia? Why would I deny it? The blood and the rip on her trousers would give me away if I tried.”
“Then the law is clear.” Alma stood up.
“The law that you make!” Maladia rushed towards Alma, pointing an accusatory finger at their leader. Alma looked at her calmly, and in her eyes, Miriat saw the compassion that Maladia was blind to.
“This is not your trial, Maladia, and I will have you removed if you can’t control yourself.”
“It might as well be!” The young woman took Markus by the hand. He tried to gently push her away, mouthing a quiet protestation, but Maladia would have none of it.
Alma nodded and stood up from her chair. “So be it. Markus, in following your heart you have drawn on a power that must always be kept in check. You have opened the floodgates that, if unguarded, could put our very survival in jeopardy. But you did so out of love, and I cannot fault you for that.”
Alma closed her eyes and took a breath. “You will leave the safety of our community and the Heyne Mountains. You will never again be welcomed into our homes. You will not be offered aid or refuge. Should you defy me and return, your striga heart will be burnt out.”
A collective gasp of breath and, for a heartbeat, the hut fell completely silent.
“You must leave within the hour,” Alma continued. “I advise you to say your goodbyes.” Alma closed her eyes and sunk back into her chair. The room erupted in loud cries, some cheering, others protesting the verdict. Trina pushed towards her daughter, who stood stone-faced by Markus.
“Markus, I’m so sorry…” Trina squeezed his hand, and at the same time, she gently pushed her own daughter away. Miriat could see her friend’s desperation, as Trina tried to form and cement two parties to the goodbye: herself and her daughter on one side, and Markus on the other, the two parties divided by a handshake and a goodbye. To a lesser man, this might have seemed like the most profound ingratitude, but Markus understood. He shifted away from Maladia and smiled at Trina. “Take care of her for me,” he said, and turned away.
Maladia made an outraged sound and pushed past her mother. “Oh no, you don’t! I need nobody to take care of me, and you’re not leaving without me!” She grabbed his limp hand and squeezed it. Markus kept looking at the floor, his hair obscuring his face. He nodded and pulled Maladia into his arms.
They walked out of Alma’s house. The crowd parted before them, disgust and pity both marking the villagers’ faces.
T
rina and Miriat followed close behind them in a daze.
Markus lived in a tidy little hut not far from Trina’s. Maladia helped him collect the few things they could carry while Trina dug out what was left in their garden. She used a flat stone to break the earth and pulled out what few potatoes there were. She cut the sprouts off their long stalks, carefully placing their green heads onto a square piece of fabric before tying the ends and placing the bundle inside Maladia’s basket. Miriat tried to help, but Trina waved her away. “It’s the last thing I’m allowed to do for my daughter. Let me.” Miriat didn’t insist. Instead, she went into Trina’s house, and collected a few items for Maladia. The young striga seemed determined not to leave Markus alone, in case he tried to slip away without her.
Dola stayed on the outside of it all. A dozen times she reached out to help Maladia pack an item, and a dozen times she brought her hands back to her chest, as if such an act would make all this real and hasten her friend’s departure. Miriat felt for her. Like her, Dola had no family except for the friendships she’d built.
Miriat gently put her arm around Dola and turned to Maladia and Markus. “Since the packing seems finished, we should feed you,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Come and have some stew before you leave.”
She pulled Dola along, and they all walked to her house in a sad procession. Maladia walked holding both her mother’s and Markus’ hands, though the path was narrow. The other strigas watched them from their own huts, either not daring or not willing to approach. Maladia and Markus had lived their entire lives within the village walls, but not a soul seemed willing to bid them goodbye. Even Trina seemed to shrink from Markus anytime he walked closer to her, and, noticing this, he kept his distance.
Miriat gave Maladia and Markus a generous portion. Nobody else ate anything. Trina sat by Maladia, one hand stroking her back. She watched her daughter eat and would pass her a cup of hot water before Maladia knew to even reach for it.
Dola sat on the ground and emptied one of her pouches, gazing intensely at the small, polished bones as if they could provide her with some solace. She selected one from the pile and dipped the end of it in the ashes under the pot. She took it out and blew on it before shuffling closer to Maladia and drawing ash patterns on the young striga’s cheek.
The Second Bell Page 3
