Vasya went to the door. Her heart hammered in her throat. The domovoi was at her side, teeth clenched.
“No,” Vasya managed, though her lips were numb. She dug her fingers into the wound on her hand and laid her bloody palm flat against the door. “I am sorry. The house is for the living.”
The thing on the other side wailed. Irina buried her face in her mother’s lap. Alyosha stumbled to his feet, spear in hand. But the shuffling footsteps started up, faded into nothing. They all drew breath and looked at each other.
Then came the squealing of terrified horses.
Without thinking, Vasya wrenched open the door, even as four voices cried out.
“Demon!” shrieked Anna. “She will let it in!”
Vasya had already run out into the night. A white shape darted among the horses, scattering them like chaff. But one horse was slower than the others. The white shape attached itself to the animal’s throat and bore it down. Vasya shouted, running, forgetting fear. The dead thing looked up, hissing, and a bar of moonlight fell across its face.
“No,” said Vasya, stumbling to a halt. “Oh, no, please. Dunya. Dunya…”
“Vasya,” lisped the thing. The voice was a corpse’s cracked wheeze, but it was Dunya’s voice. “Vasya.”
It was she, and it was not. The bones were there; the shape and form and grave-clothes. But the nose drooped; the lips had fallen in. The eyes were blazing holes, the mouth a blackened pit. Blood caked in the lines of chin and nose and cheeks.
Vasya wrenched together her courage. The necklace burned coldly against her breast and she wrapped her free hand round it. The night smelled of hot blood and grave-mold. She thought a dark figure stood beside her, but she did not look round to see.
“Dunya,” Vasya said. She fought to keep her voice steady. “Get you gone. You have done enough evil here.”
Dunya pressed a hand to her mouth. The tears sprang to her empty eyes even as she bared her teeth. She swayed, quivered, chewed her lip. Almost it seemed she wished to speak. She started forward, snarling, and Vasya backed up, already feeling the teeth in her throat. And then the upyr screeched, flung herself backward, and ran like a dog toward the woods.
Vasya watched her until she was lost in the moonlight.
There came a rasping breath from the horse at Vasya’s feet. He was Mysh’s youngest, little more than a foal. She fell to her knees beside him. The colt’s throat was laid open. Vasya pressed her hands to the torn place, but the black tide ran carelessly away. She felt the death as a sinking in her belly. From the stable, she heard the vazila’s anguished cry.
“No,” Vasya said. “Please.”
But the colt lay still. The black tide slowed and stopped.
A white mare stepped out of the darkness and laid her nose very gently against the dead horse. Vasya felt the mare’s warm breath against her neck, but when she turned to look, there was only a little trickle of starlight.
Despair and weariness were a black tide, like the horse’s blood on her hands, and they swallowed Vasya whole. She held the stiffening, blood-streaked head in her arms and wept.
THE HOUR HAD GROWN OLD, and they should have long since gone to bed, when Alyosha came back into the winter kitchen. He was gray-faced, his clothes all spattered with blood. “One of the horses is dead,” he said heavily. “Its throat was torn away. Vasya is staying in the stable tonight. She will not be dissuaded.”
“But she will freeze. She will die!” cried Irina.
Alyosha smiled faintly. “Not Vasya. You try arguing with her, Irinka.”
Irina pressed her lips together, laid aside her mending, and went to heat a clay pot in the oven. No one was quite sure what she was about until she dished up milk, baked hard, with old porridge, picked it up, and made for the door.
“Irinka, come back!” cried Anna.
Irina, to Alyosha’s certain knowledge, had never in her life defied her mother. But this time, the girl disappeared over the threshold without a word. Alyosha cursed and went after her. Father was right, he thought darkly. My sisters cannot be left alone.
It was very cold, and the dvor smelled of blood. The colt lay where he had fallen. The corpse would freeze overnight, and tomorrow was soon enough to bring the men to butcher it. The stable seemed empty when Alyosha and Irina went inside. “Vasya,” called Alyosha. Sudden fear seized him. What if…?
“Here, Lyoshka,” said Vasya. She emerged from Mysh’s stall, soft-footed as a cat. Irina squeaked and nearly dropped her pot. “Are you all right, Vasochka?” she managed, tremulously.
They could not see Vasya’s face, only a pale blur beneath the darkness of her hair. “Well enough, little bird,” she replied, hoarse.
“Lyoshka says you are staying in the stable tonight,” said Irina.
“Yes,” said Vasya, visibly gathering herself. “I must—the vazila is afraid.” Her hands were black with blood.
“If you must,” said Irina, very gently, as though to a beloved lunatic. “I brought you porridge.” Clumsily, she thrust the pot at her sister. Vasya took it. The weight and the warmth seemed to steady her. “You would do better to come in and eat it by the fire, though,” said Irina. “The people will talk if you stay here.”
Vasya shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Irina’s lips firmed. “Come along,” she said. “This way is better.”
Alyosha watched in astonishment as Vasya let herself be led back to the house, put into her own place by the oven, and fed.
“Go to bed, Irinka,” said Vasya at last. A little color had come back into her face. “Sleep on the oven; Alyosha and I will watch tonight.” The priest had gone. Anna was already snoring in her own chamber. Irina, who was drooping heavily, did not hesitate long.
When Irina was asleep, Vasya and Alyosha looked at each other. Vasya was white as salt, with circles beneath her eyes. Her dress was streaked with the horse’s blood. But food and fire had steadied her.
“What now?” said Alyosha, low.
“We must watch tonight,” said Vasya. “And we must try the cemetery at dawn, and do what we can in daylight. May God be merciful.”
KONSTANTIN WENT TO THE CHURCH at sunrise. He dashed across the dvor as though the angel of death followed, barred the door to the nave, and flung himself down before the icon-screen. When the sun rose and sent gray light crawling across the floor, he did not heed it. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed the voice would come back and remove all his doubting. But all that long day the silence held perfect.
It was only in the sad twilight, when there was more shadow than light on the floor of the church, that there came a voice.
“Fallen so far, my poor creature?” it said. “Twice now the she-demons have come for you, Konstantin Nikonovich. They break your window; they knock at the door.”
“Yes,” groaned Konstantin. Waking and sleeping now he saw the she-demon’s face, felt her teeth in his throat. “They know I am fallen, and so they pursue me. Have mercy. Save me, I beg. Forgive me. Take this sin from me.” Konstantin’s hands clenched together and he bowed his face to the floor.
“Very well,” said the voice mildly. “Such a little thing to ask of me, man of God. See, I am merciful. I will save you. You need not weep.”
Konstantin pressed his hands to his wet face.
“But,” said the voice, “I would ask something in return.”
Konstantin looked up. “Anything,” he said. “I am your poor servant.”
“The girl,” said the voice. “The witch. All this is her fault. The people know it. They whisper among themselves. They see your eyes follow her. They say she has tempted you from grace.”
Konstantin said nothing. Her fault. Her fault.
“I desire greatly,” said the voice, “that she retire from the world. It must be sooner, not later. She has brought evil upon this house, and there can be no remedy while she is here.”
“She will go south with the sledges,” said Konstantin. “She will go before midwinte
r. Pyotr Vladimirovich has said it.”
“Sooner,” said the voice. “It must be sooner. There are fires and torments in store for this place. But send her away and you can save yourself, Konstantin Nikonovich. Send her away, and you can save them all.”
Konstantin hesitated. The dark seemed to breathe out a long soft sigh.
“It will be as you say,” whispered Konstantin. “I swear it.”
Then the voice was gone. Konstantin was left empty, rapturous and cold, alone on the church floor.
THAT VERY AFTERNOON, KONSTANTIN went to Anna Ivanovna. She had taken to her bed, and her daughter brought her broth.
“You must send Vasya away now,” said Konstantin. There was sweat on his brow; his hands trembled. “Pyotr Vladimirovich is too soft-hearted; perhaps she will sway him. But for all our sakes, the girl must go. The demons come because of her. Did you see how she ran out into the night? She summoned them; she is not afraid. It may be that your own daughter, the little Irina, will be the next to die. Demons have appetite for more than horses.”
“Irina?” Anna whispered. “You think Irina is in danger?” She quivered with love and fear.
“I know it,” said Konstantin.
“Give Vasya to the people,” said Anna at once. “They will stone her if you ask it. Pyotr Vladimirovich is not here to stop them.”
“Better she go to a convent,” said Konstantin after the briefest hesitation. “I would not have her meet God without the chance of repentance.”
Anna pursed her lips. “The sledges are not ready. Better she dies. I will not see my Irina hurt.”
“The first two sledges are ready,” replied Konstantin. “There are men enough. A few would be more than willing to take her away from here. I will arrange it. Pyotr can go see his daughter, if he wishes, after she is safe in Moscow. He will not be angry when he knows the whole of it. All will be well. Do you be quiet and pray.”
“You know best, Batyushka,” said Anna peevishly. Such care, she thought. And all for that green-eyed demon’s spawn. But he is wise; he knows she cannot stay, corrupting good Christians. “You are merciful. But I will see the girl dead before my Irina is put in danger.”
IT WAS ALL ARRANGED. Oleg, rough and old, would drive the sledge, and Timofei’s parents, their hearths empty without their dead son, would be Vasya’s servants and guards.
“Of course we will do it, Batyushka,” said Yasna, Timofei’s mother. “God has turned his face from us, and that demon-child is the reason. If she had been sent away sooner, I would never have lost my child.”
“Here is rope,” said Konstantin. “Bind her hands lest she forget herself.”
In his mind he saw the hart brought down in the hunt, feet tied, the eye bewildered, trailing blood in the snow. He knew a twist of lust and shame and satisfied pride. Tomorrow. On the morrow she would go, half a moon’s turning before midwinter.
That night Anna Ivanovna called Vasya to her.
“Vasochka!” Anna shrilled, making the girl jump. “Vasochka, come here!”
Vasya glanced up, haggard in the firelight. She and Alyosha had gone to the cemetery at sunrise. But when they dug flinchingly into Dunya’s grave, they found it empty. They had stared at each other across the bare cold earth, Alyosha shocked, Vasya grimly unsurprised.
“This cannot be,” said Alyosha.
Vasya had taken a deep breath. “But it is,” she said. “Come. We must protect the house.”
Cold and exhausted, they smoothed the snow, and came home. The women cut up the colt to stew his flesh in their ovens and eat it with withered carrots, and Vasya hid herself, vomiting until there was nothing left in her stomach. Now it was the cusp of night, and Dunya would come again to torment them with sobbing. Father was still gone, and Vasya was sick with dread.
She went reluctantly to where Anna sat. A small wooden chest bound with strips of bronze sat beside her. “Open it,” Anna urged.
Vasya looked a question at her brother. Alyosha shrugged. She knelt before the chest and lifted the lid. Inside lay—fabric. A great folded length of handsome undyed linen.
“Linen,” said Vasya, bewildered. “Linen enough for a dozen shirts. Do you intend for me to sew all winter, Anna Ivanovna?”
Anna smiled despite herself. “Of course not. It is an altar cloth; you will hem it and present it to your abbess.” Seeing Vasya still puzzled, she added, smiling more widely still, “You are going south to a convent in the morning.”
For a moment Vasya was light-headed, and blackness darted before her eyes. She stumbled to her feet. “Does Father know?”
“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “You were to be sent away with the tribute-goods. But we have had enough of you summoning devils. You will go at dawn. The men are ready, and a woman to see to your virtue.” Anna smirked. “Pyotr Vladimirovich would have it so. Perhaps the holy sisters can make you obey where I could not.”
Irina looked troubled and said nothing.
Vasya was trembling all over. “Stepmother, no.”
Anna’s smile slipped. “Defy me? It is done, and you will be bound with ropes if you do not care to walk.”
“Come,” Alyosha broke in. “What madness is this? Father is from home and he would never countenance—”
“Would he not?” said Konstantin. Now, as ever, his soft, deep voice caught and held the room. It filled the walls and the dark space near the rafters. Everyone fell silent. Vasya saw the domovoi cowering, deep in the oven. “He has given it his countenance. A life among holy sisters might save her soul. She is not safe in this village where she has wronged so many. They call you witch, Vasilisa Petrovna, don’t you know? They call you demon. You will be stoned before this evil winter ends, if you do not go.”
Even Alyosha was silent.
But Vasya spoke, hoarse as a raven. “No,” she said. “Not now and not ever. I have wronged no one. I will never set foot in a convent. Not if I have to live in the forest, and beg work from Baba Yaga.”
“This is not a fairy tale, Vasya,” Anna broke in, shrilly. “No one is asking your opinion. It is for your own good.”
Vasya thought of the wavering domovoi, of the dead things creeping about the house, of disaster narrowly averted. “But what have I done?” she demanded. She was horrified to find tears in her eyes. “I have hurt no one. I have tried to save you! Father—” she turned to Konstantin “—I saved you from the rusalka, when she would have had you by the lake. I drove off the dead, or I tried…” She stopped, choking, fighting for air.
“You?” breathed Anna. “Drive them off? You invited your demon cohort in! You have brought all our misfortunes upon us. You think I haven’t seen?”
Alyosha opened his mouth, but Vasya was before him: “If I am sent away this winter, you will all die.”
Anna drew in a gasping breath. “How dare you threaten us?”
“I do not threaten,” said Vasya desperately. “It is the truth.”
“Truth? Truth, you little liar, there is no truth in you!”
“I will not go,” said Vasya, and so fierce was her voice that even the crackling fire seemed to waver.
“Will you not?” said Anna. Her eyes were wild, but something in her bearing reminded Vasya that her father was a Grand Prince. “Very well, Vasilisa Petrovna. I will give you a choice.” Her eyes darted around the room and fastened on the white flowers adorning Irina’s kerchief. “My daughter, my true, fair, and obedient daughter, is weary in all this snow for the sight of green things. You, ugly witch of a girl, will do her a service. Go out into the woods and bring her back a basket of snowdrops. If you do, you will be free to do as you like hereafter.”
Irina gaped. Konstantin had his mouth open in alarmed protest.
Vasya stared blankly at her stepmother. “Anna Ivanovna, it is midwinter.”
“Go!” screeched Anna, laughing wildly. “Out of my sight! Bring me flowers or go to the convent! Now get you gone!”
Vasya looked from face to face: Anna triumphant, Irina frightened, Aly
osha furious, Konstantin inscrutable. The walls seemed to shrink again; the fire burned up all the air, so that no matter how her lungs heaved, she could not draw breath. Terror overtook her, the terror of the wild thing in the trap. She turned and ran from the kitchen.
Alyosha caught her at the outer door. She had yanked on her boots and mittens, wrapped a cloak about her and a shawl about her head. He seized her with both hands, turned her around.
“Have you gone mad, Vasya?”
“Let me go! You heard Anna Ivanovna. I’d rather take my chances in the forest than be locked up forever.” She was shaking, wild-eyed.
“All that is nonsense. Wait for Father to return.”
“Father has agreed to it!” Vasya swallowed back the tears, but still they crept down her cheeks. “Anna would not have dared otherwise. People say our misfortunes are my fault. Do you think I have not heard? I will be stoned as a witch if I stay. Perhaps Father is trying to protect me. But I’d rather die in the forest than in a convent.” Her voice broke. “I will never be a nun—do you hear me? Never!” She yanked away from him, but Alyosha held her tightly.
“I will guard you until Father returns. I will make him see sense.”
“You cannot protect me if every man of the village turns on us. Do you think I have not heard their whispers, brother?”
“So you mean to go into the woods and die?” snapped Alyosha. “A noble sacrifice? How will that help anyone?”
“I have helped all I can, and earned the people’s hatred,” retorted Vasya. “If this is the last decision I can ever make, at least it is my decision. Let me go, Alyosha. I am not afraid.”
“But I am, you stupid girl! Do you think I want to lose you to this folly? I won’t let you go.” Surely he would leave fingermarks on her shoulders where he held her.
“You as well, brother?” said Vasya furiously. “Am I a child? Always someone else must decide for me. But this I will decide for myself.”
“If Father or Kolya went mad, I wouldn’t let him decide things for himself, either.”
“Let me go, Alyosha.”
The Bear and the Nightingale Page 23
