The Bear and the Nightingale

by Katherine Arden

  The two girls emerged into the dvor. The dooryard was mud to the ankles; rain misted gently down. Irina kept close to her mother. Pyotr waited in the dvor already, stiff in fine fur and embroidered boots. Kolya’s wife had come with her children; Vasya’s small nephew Seryozha ran around shouting. A great stain already marred his linen shirt. Father Konstantin stood by, silent.

  “It is a strange time for a wedding,” said Alyosha low to Vasya, coming up beside her. “A dry summer and a small harvest.” His brown hair was clean, his short beard combed with scented oil. His blue-embroidered shirt matched the sash round his waist. “You are very lovely, Vasya.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” his sister rejoined. More seriously, she added, “Yes—and Father feels it.” Indeed, though Pyotr looked jovial, the line between his brows showed clear. “He looks like someone bound to an unpleasant duty. He must be quite desperate to send me away.”

  She tried to make a joke of it, but Alyosha looked at her with quick understanding. “He is trying to keep you safe.”

  “He loved our mother, and I killed her.”

  Alyosha was silent a moment. “As you say. But, truly, Vasochka, he is trying to keep you safe. The horses have coats like duckdown, and the squirrels are still out, eating as though their lives depend on it. It will be a hard winter.”

  A rider came through the palisade gate and galloped toward the house. The mud flew in great arcs from beneath his horse’s feet. He came to a skidding halt and sprang from the saddle: a man in his middle years, not tall but broadly built, weathered and brown-bearded. A hint of irrepressible youth lurked about his mouth. He had all his teeth, and his smile was bright as a boy’s. He bowed to Pyotr. “I am not late, I hope, Pyotr Vladimirovich?” he asked, laughing. The two men clasped forearms.

  No wonder he outstripped Kolya, Vasya thought. Kyril Artamonovich was riding the most magnificent young horse she had ever seen. Even Buran, a prince among horses, looked rough-hewn next to the sinewy perfection of the roan stallion. She wanted to run her hands over the colt’s legs, feel the quality of his bone and muscle.

  “I told Father this was a bad idea,” said Alyosha in her ear.

  “What? And why?” said Vasya, preoccupied by the horse.

  “To marry you off so soon. Because blushing maidens are supposed to look covetously upon the lords that vie for their hands, not upon the lords’ fine horses.”

  Vasya laughed. Kyril was bowing to tiny Irina with exaggerated courtesy. “A rough setting, Pyotr Vladimirovich, to find such a jewel,” he said. “Little snowdrop, you ought to go south and bloom among our flowers.” He smiled, and Irina blushed. Anna looked at her daughter with some complacency.

  Kyril turned toward Vasya, the easy smile still on his lips. It died away quite when he saw her. Vasya thought he must be displeased with her appearance; she raised her chin a defiant fraction. All the better. Find another wife if I displease you. But Alyosha understood his darkening eyes very well. Vasya looked you full in the face: she was more like a warrior unblooded than a house-bred girl, and Kyril was staring in fascination. He bowed to her, the smile once more playing about his lips, but it was not the smile he’d given Irina. “Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said. “Your brother said you were beautiful. You are not.” She stiffened, and his smile deepened. “You are magnificent.” His eyes swept her from headdress to slippered feet.

  Beside her, Alyosha’s hand clenched into a fist. “Are you mad?” hissed Vasya. “He has the right; we are betrothed.”

  Alyosha was eyeing Kyril very coldly. “This is my brother,” said Vasya hurriedly. “Aleksei Petrovich.”

  “Well met,” said Kyril, looking amused. He was nearly ten years the elder. His eyes swept Vasya once more, leisurely. Her skin prickled under her clothes. She could hear Alyosha grinding his teeth.

  At that moment there came a snort, a shriek, and a splash. They all spun around. Seryozha, Vasya’s nephew, had crept to the off-side of Kyril’s red stallion and tried to clamber into the saddle. Vasya could sympathize—already she wanted to ride the red colt—but the unexpected weight had left the young stallion rearing and wild-eyed. Kyril ran to seize his horse’s bridle. Pyotr heaved his grandson from the mud and clouted him across the ear. At that moment, Kolya came galloping into the dvor, and his arrival put a cap on the confusion. Seryozha’s mother carried the boy away, howling. Far down the road, the first wagon of the rest of the party appeared, vivid against the gray autumn forest. The women hastily went into the house to dish up the noon meal.

  “It is only natural that he preferred Irina, Vasya,” said Anna, while they wrestled an immense stew-pot. “A mongrel dog will never equal a purebred. At least your mother is dead—all the easier to forget your unfortunate ancestry. You’re strong as a horse; that counts for something.”

  The domovoi crept out of the oven, wavering but determined. Vasya had surreptitiously spilled some mead for him. “Look, stepmother,” said Vasya. “Is that the cat?”

  Anna looked, and her face turned the color of clay. She swayed where she stood. The domovoi frowned at her, and she promptly swooned. Vasya dodged, clutching the scalding pot. She saved the stew. But the same could not be said for Anna Ivanovna. Her knees buckled and she hit the hearthstones with a satisfying crack.

  “DID YOU LIKE HIM, VASYA?” asked Irina in bed that night.

  Vasya was half-asleep; she and Irina had been up before the sun to ready themselves, and the feasting that night had gone late. Kyril Artamonovich had sat beside Vasya and drunk from her cup. Her betrothed had fleshy hands and a trick of laughing so that the walls seemed to shake. She liked the size of him, but not the insolence. “He is a goodly man,” Vasya said, but she wished to all the saints that he would disappear.

  “He is handsome,” agreed Irina. “His smile is kind.”

  Vasya rolled over, frowning. In Moscow, girls were not allowed to mingle with suitors, but things were freer in the north. “His smile might be kind,” she said, “but his horse is afraid of him.” When the feast wound down, she had slipped away to the barn. Kyril’s colt, Ogon, had been put in a stall; he could not be trusted in pasture.

  Irina laughed. “How do you know what a horse thinks?”

  “I know,” said Vasya. “Besides, he is old, little bird. Dunya says he is nearly thirty.”

  “But he is rich; you will have jewels, and meat every day.”

  “You marry him, then,” said Vasya tolerantly, poking her sister in the stomach. “And you will be as fat as a squirrel and sit all day sewing atop the oven.”

  Irina giggled. “Maybe we will see each other when we are married. If our husbands do not live far apart.”

  “I’m sure they won’t,” said Vasya. “You can save some of your fat meats for me, when I come begging with my beggar-husband while you are married to a great lord.”

  Irina giggled again. “But it is you who are marrying a great lord, Vasya.”

  Vasya did not answer; she did not speak again. At length, Irina gave up; she curled up against her sister and fell asleep. But Vasya lay long awake. He has charmed my family, but his horse fears his hand. Beware the dead. It will be a hard winter. You must not leave the forest. The thoughts raced like water, and she was borne on the current. But she was young and weary, and eventually she, too, rolled over and slept.

  THE DAYS PASSED IN a round of games and feasting. Kyril Artamonovich filled Vasya’s bowl at supper and teased her through the kitchen door. His body gave off an animal heat. Vasya was angry to find herself blushing beneath his gaze. At night she lay awake, wondering how all that warmth would feel between her hands. But his laughter did not reach his eyes. Fear rose at odd moments to seize her by the throat.

  The days wore by, and Vasya could not understand herself. You must marry, the women scolded. All girls marry. At least he is not old, and he is well-favored besides. Why then be afraid? But afraid she was, and she avoided her betrothed whenever she could, pacing back and forth, a bird in a shrinking cage.

  “Wh
y, Father?” said Alyosha to Pyotr, not for the first time, at the start of yet another raucous supper. The long, dim room reeked of furs and mead, roast meats, pottage, and sweating humanity. The kasha went round in a great bowl; the mead was dipped out and tossed back. Their neighbors packed the room. The house overflowed now, and visitors crammed the peasants’ huts.

  “Three days until she is married; we must honor our guest,” said Pyotr.

  “Why is she getting married now?” retorted his son. “Can she not wait a year? Why after a hard winter and a hard summer must we waste food and drink on these?” His gesture took in the long room where their guests busily demolished the fruit of a summer’s labor.

  “Because it must be,” Pyotr snapped. “If you want to make yourself useful, convince your mad sister not to geld her husband on their wedding night.”

  “He is a bull, that Kyril,” said Alyosha shortly. “He has got five children on peasant girls, and he thinks nothing of flirting with the farmers’ wives, while he stays in your house, no less. If my sister sees fit to geld her husband, Father, she would have reason, and I would not dissuade her.”

  As if by some unspoken accord, they looked to where the couple in question sat side by side. Kyril was talking to Vasya, his gestures broad and imprecise. Vasya was eyeing him with an expression that made both Pyotr and Alyosha nervous. Kyril did not seem to notice.

  “And there I was alone,” Kyril said to Vasya. He refilled their cup, sloshing a bit. His lips left a ring of grease round the rim. “My back was to a rock and the boar was charging. My men had scattered, save for the dead one, with the great red hole in him.”

  This was not the first narrative featuring the heroics of Kyril Artamonovich. Vasya’s mind had begun to wander. Where is the priest? Father Konstantin had not come to the feast, and it was unlike him to keep to himself.

  “The boar came for me,” said Kyril. “Its hooves shook the earth. I commended my soul to God—”

  And died there with blood in your mouth, Vasya thought in disgust. I should have been so fortunate.

  She laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him with an expression she hoped was piteous. “No more—I cannot bear it.”

  Kyril eyed her, puzzled. Vasya shuddered all over. “I cannot bear to know the rest. I fear I will faint, Kyril Artamonovich.”

  Kyril looked nonplussed.

  “Dunya has much stronger nerves than I,” said Vasya. “I think you should finish the story in her hearing.” There was nothing wrong with Dunya’s ears (or Vasya’s nerves, for that matter); the old lady glanced resignedly heavenward and shot Vasya a warning look. But Vasya had the bit between her teeth, and even her father’s glare from down the table would not turn her. “Now”—Vasya rose with theatrical grace and seized a loaf from the table—“now, if you will forgive me, I must fulfill a pious duty.”

  Kyril opened his mouth to protest, but Vasya made a hasty reverence, slipped the loaf into her sleeve, and bolted. Outside the packed hall, the house was cool and quiet. She stood in the dvor for a long moment, breathing.

  Then she went and scratched upon the priest’s door.

  “Come in,” said Konstantin, after a chilly pause. The whole room seemed to quiver with candlelight. He was painting by the glow. A rat had gnawed the crust that lay untouched beside him. The priest did not turn when Vasya opened the door.

  “Father, bless,” she said. “I have brought you bread.”

  Konstantin stiffened. “Vasilisa Petrovna.” He put down his brush and made the sign of the cross. “May the Lord bless you.”

  “Are you ill, that you do not feast with us?” asked Vasya.

  “I fast.”

  “Better to eat. There will not be food like this all winter.”

  Konstantin said nothing. Vasya replaced the gnawed crust with the new loaf. The silence stretched out, but she did not go.

  “Why did you give me your cross?” asked Vasya abruptly. “After we met at the lake?”

  His jaw set, but he did not at once reply. In truth, he hardly knew. Because she had moved him. Because he hoped the symbol could reach her when he could not. Because he had wanted to touch her hand and look her in the face, disquiet her, perhaps see her fidget and simper like other girls. Help him forget his wicked fascination.

  Because he could never look at his cross again without seeing her hand around it.

  “The Holy Cross will make your way straight,” said Konstantin at last.

  “Will it?”

  The priest was silent. At night now he dreamed of the woman in the lake. He could never make out her face. But in his dreams her hair was black; it snapped and slid against her naked flesh. Awake, Konstantin spent long hours in prayer, trying to carve the image from his mind. But he could not, for every time he saw Vasya, he knew the woman in his dream had her eyes. He was haunted, ashamed. Her fault for tempting him. But in three days she would be gone.

  “Why are you here, Vasilisa Petrovna?” His voice came out loud and ragged, and he was angry with himself.

  The storm is coming, Vasya thought. Beware the dead. Fear first, then fire, then famine. Your fault. We had faith in God before you came, and faith in our house-spirits also, and all was well.

  If the priest left, then perhaps her people would be safe once more.

  “Why do you stay here?” Vasya said. “You hate the fields and the forest and the silence. You hate our rude bare church. Yet you are still here. No one would fault you for going.”

  A dull flush crept across Konstantin’s cheekbones. His hand fumbled among his paints. “I have a task, Vasilisa Petrovna. I must save you from yourselves. God has punishments for those who stray.”

  “A self-appointed task,” said Vasya, “in service of your own pride. Why is it for you to say what God wants? The people would never revere you so, if you had not made them afraid.”

  “You are an ignorant country maid; what do you know?” snapped Konstantin.

  “I believe the evidence of my eyes,” Vasya said. “I have seen you speak. I have seen my people afraid. And you know what I say is true; you are shaking.” He had picked up a bowl of half-mixed color. The warm wax within shivered. Konstantin let it go abruptly.

  She came nearer, and nearer yet. The candlelight brought out the flecks of gold in her eyes. His glance strayed to her mouth. Demon, get you gone. But her voice was a young girl’s, with a soft note of pleading. “Why not go back? To Moscow or Vladimir or Suzdal? Why linger here? The world is wide, and our corner so very small.”

  “God gave me a task.” He bit off each word, almost spitting.

  “We are men and women,” she retorted. “We are not a task. Go back to Moscow and save folk there.”

  She was standing too near. His hand shot out; he struck her across the face. She stumbled back, cradling her cheek. He took two quick steps forward, so that he was looking down at her, but she stood her ground. His hand was raised to strike again, but he drew breath and forbore. It was beneath him to strike her. He wanted to seize her, kiss her, hurt her, he did not know what. Demon.

  “Get out, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t presume to lecture me. And don’t come here again.”

  She retreated to the door. But she turned back with one hand on the latch. Her braid followed the line of her throat. The scarlet handprint stood out livid on her cheek. “As you wish,” she said. “It is a cruel task, to frighten people in God’s name. I leave it to you.” She hesitated and added, very softly, “However, Batyushka, I am not afraid.”

  AFTER SHE LEFT, KONSTANTIN paced to and fro. His shadow leaped before him, and the hand that had struck her burned. Fury closed his throat. She will be gone before the snow. Gone and long gone: my shame and my failure. But better than having her here.

  The candle guttered where it stood before his icons, and the flame threw ragged shadows.

  She will be gone. She must be gone.

  The voice came from the earth, from the candlelight, from his own breast. It was
soft and clear and shining. “Peace be with you,” it said. “Though I see you are troubled.”

  Konstantin stopped dead. “Who is that?”

  “—Wanting despite yourself, and hating where you love.” The voice sighed. “Oh, you are beautiful.”

  “Who is speaking?” snapped Konstantin. “Do you mock me?”

  “I do not mock,” came the ready reply. “I am a friend. A master. A savior.” The voice throbbed with compassion.

  The priest spun, seeking. “Come out,” he said. He forced himself to stand still. “Show yourself.”

  “What is this?” The voice held a hint now of anger. “Doubts, my servant? Don’t you know who I am?”

  The room was bare, except for the bed and the icons, and the shadows collected in the corners. Konstantin stared into these, until his eyes smarted. There—what was that? A shadow that did not move with the firelight. No, that was just his own shadow, cast by the candle. There was no one outside, there was no one behind the door. Then who…?

  Konstantin’s glance sought his icons. He looked deep into their strange solemn faces. His own face changed. “Father,” he whispered. “Lord. Angels. After all your silence, do you speak to me at last?” He shook in every limb. He strained all his senses, willing the voice to speak again.

  “Can you doubt it, my child?” said the voice, gentle again. “You have always been my loyal servant.”

  The priest began to weep, open-eyed, soundless. He fell to his knees.

  “I have watched you long, Konstantin Nikonovich,” continued the voice. “You have labored bravely on my behalf. But now there is this girl who tempts and defies you.”