The Bear and the Nightingale

by Katherine Arden

  Her cloak hung by the fire. She put on her boots and caught up the basket of snowdrops. Part of her wanted him to object, but he did not.

  “You will cross the barrier of your village at dawn, then,” said Morozko. He was on his feet. He paused. “Believe in me, Vasya. Do not forget me.”

  But she was already over the threshold and away.

  She is only one poor mad fool, thought Konstantin Nikonovich. He said he will not kill her. I must get him to leave me. No one can know of this.

  Gray dawn and a red sun rising. Where is the border he spoke of? In the forest. Snowdrops. The old oak before dawn.

  Konstantin crept to Anna’s chamber and touched her shoulder. Her daughter slept beside her, but Irina did not stir. He put a hand to Anna’s mouth to muffle her shriek. “Come with me now,” he said. “God has called us.” He caught her with his eyes. She lay still, her mouth gaping. He kissed her on the forehead. “Come,” he said.

  She stared up at him with wide eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She followed him like a dog. He had been prepared to whisper, to speak foolishness, but all it took was one glance and she followed him. It was dark, but the eastern sky had lightened. It was very cold. He put her cloak round her and led her from the house. It was months since Anna had gone out-of-doors, even in daylight, but now she followed him with only a slight quickening of her ragged breaths as they crossed the barrier of the village.

  They came to an old oak just a little way into the forest. Konstantin had never seen it before. All around them was winter, the shroud of bitter snow, the earth like iron, the river like blue marble. But beneath the oak the snow had melted, and—Konstantin stepped closer—the ground was thick with snowdrops. Anna clutched at his arm. “Father,” she whispered. “Oh, Father, what are those there? It is still winter, too soon for snowdrops.”

  “The thaw,” said Konstantin, weary, sick, and certain. “Come, Anna.” She wound her hand in his. Her touch was like a child’s. In the dawn light, he could see the black gaps between her teeth.

  Konstantin drew her nearer the tree, with its carpet of untimely snowdrops. Nearer and nearer.

  And suddenly they were in a clearing that neither of them had ever seen. The oak stood alone in the center, while the white flowers clustered about its hoary knees. The sky was white. The ground was slush, turning to muck.

  “Well done,” said the voice. It seemed to come from the air, from the water. Anna let out a sobbing scream. Konstantin saw a shadow on the snow, grown monstrously vast, flung out long and distorted, the blackest shadow that he had ever seen. But Anna looked not at the shadow, but at the air beyond. She pointed one trembling finger and screamed. She screamed and screamed.

  Konstantin looked where Anna looked, but he saw nothing.

  The shadow seemed to stretch out and quiver, like a dog at its master’s stroking. Anna’s screams split the blank air. The light was flat and dim.

  “Well done, my servant,” said the shadow. “She is all I could desire. She can see me, and she is afraid. Scream, vedma, scream.”

  Konstantin felt empty, strangely calm. He put Anna away from him, though she clawed and scrabbled. Her nails dug into his wool-clad arm.

  “Now,” said Konstantin. “Keep your promise. Leave me. Send the girl back.”

  The shadow went still, like the boar that hears the hunter’s distant footfall. “Go home, man of God,” it said. “Go back and wait. The girl will come to you. I swear it.”

  Anna’s terrified screams grew even louder. She flung herself to the ground and kissed the priest’s feet, wrapped her arms around him. “Batyushka,” she begged. “Batyushka! No—please. Do not leave me, I beg. I beg! That is a devil. That is the devil!”

  Konstantin was filled with a weary disgust. “Very well,” he said to the shadow.

  He pushed Anna aside. “I advise you to pray.” She sobbed harder still.

  “I am going,” said Konstantin to the shadow. “I will wait. Do not forsake your word.”

  Vasya came back to Lesnaya Zemlya at first light of a clear winter dawn. Solovey carried her to the part of the palisade nearest the house. When she stood on his back she could reach the top of the spiked wall.

  I will wait for you, Vasya, said the stallion. If you need me, you have only to call.

  Vasya laid a hand on his neck. Then she vaulted the palisade and dropped into the snow.

  She found Alyosha alone in the winter kitchen, armed and pacing, cloaked and booted. He saw her and stopped dead. Brother and sister stared at each other.

  Then Alyosha took two strides, seized her and pulled her to him. “God, Vasya, you frightened me,” he said into her hair. “I thought you were dead. Damn Anna Ivanovna and upyry both—I was going to go and look for you. What happened? You—you don’t even look cold.” He pushed her away a little. “You look different.”

  Vasya thought of the house in the woods, of the good food and rest and warmth. She thought of her endless rides through the snow, and she thought of Morozko, the way he watched her over the fire in the evening. “Perhaps I am different.” She flung down the flowers.

  Alyosha gaped. “Where?” he stammered. “How?”

  Vasya smiled crookedly. “A gift,” she said.

  Alyosha reached out and touched a fragile stem. “It won’t work, Vasya,” he said, recovering. “Anna will not keep her promise. The village is already fearful. If word of these gets out…”

  “We’ll not tell them,” said Vasya firmly. “It is enough I kept my half of the bargain. At midwinter, the dead will lie quiet again. Father will come home, and you and I will make him see sense. In the meantime, there is the house to guard.”

  She turned toward the oven.

  At that moment, Irina came stumbling into the room. She gave a cry. “Vasochka! You are back. I was so afraid.” She flung her arms around Vasya, and Vasya stroked her sister’s hair. Irina pulled away. “But where is Mother?” she said. “She was not in bed, though usually she sleeps so long. I thought she would be in the kitchen.”

  A cold finger touched Vasya on the back of her neck, though she was not sure why. “Perhaps in the church, little bird,” she said. “I will go and see. In the meantime, here are some flowers for you.”

  Irina seized the blossoms, pressed them to her lips. “So soon. Is it spring already, Vasochka?”

  “No,” replied Vasya. “They are a promise only. Keep them hidden. I must go find your mother.”

  There was no one in the church but Father Konstantin. Vasya walked soft in the stillness. The icons seemed to peer at her. “You,” said Konstantin wearily. “He kept his promise.” He did not look away from the icons.

  Vasya stepped around him so that she stood between him and the icon-screen. A low fire burned in his sunken eyes. “I gave everything for you, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

  “Not everything,” said Vasya. “Since clearly your pride is intact, as well as your illusions. Where is my stepmother, Batyushka?”

  “No, I gave everything,” said Konstantin. His voice rose; he seemed to speak despite himself. “I thought the voice was God, but it was not. And I was left with my sin—that I wanted you. I listened to the devil to get you away from me. Now I will never be clean again.”

  “Batyushka,” said Vasya. “What is this devil?”

  “The voice in the dark,” said Konstantin. “The bringer of storms. The shadow on the snow. But he told me…” Konstantin covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.

  Vasya knelt and peeled the priest’s hands from his face. “Batyushka, where is Anna Ivanovna?”

  “In the woods,” said Konstantin. He was staring into her face as though fascinated, much as Alyosha had. Vasya wondered what change the house in the woods had wrought in her. “With the shadow. The price of my sins.”

  “Batyushka,” said Vasya, very carefully. “In these woods, did you see a great oak-tree, black and twisted?”

  “Of course you would kn
ow the place,” said Konstantin. “It is the haunt of demons.”

  Then he started. All the color had fled from Vasya’s face. “What, girl?” he said with something of his old imperious manner. “You cannot mourn that mad old woman. She would have seen you dead.”

  But Vasya was gone already, up and running for the house. The door slammed shut behind her.

  She had remembered her stepmother staring, bulging-eyed, at the domovoi.

  He desires above all the lives of those who can see him.

  The Bear had his witch, and it was dawn.

  She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. Already smoke trickled from chimneys. Her whistle split the morning like the arrows of raiders, and people spilled out of their houses. Vasya! she heard. Vasilisa Petrovna! But then they all fell silent, for Solovey had leaped the palisade. He galloped up to Vasya, and he did not break stride when she vaulted to his back. She heard cries of astonishment.

  The horse skidded to a halt in the dvor. From the stable came the neighing of horses. Alyosha came running out of the house, naked sword in hand. Irina, behind him, hovered flinching in the doorway. They stopped and stared at Solovey.

  “Lyoshka, come with me,” said Vasya. “Now! There is no time.”

  Alyosha looked at his sister and the bay stallion. He looked at Irina and he looked at the people.

  “Will you carry him as well?” said Vasya to Solovey.

  Yes, said Solovey. If you ask it of me. But where are we going, Vasya?

  “To the oak-tree. To the Bear’s clearing,” said Vasya. “As fast as you can run.” Alyosha, without a word, sprang up behind her.

  Solovey put his head up, a stallion scenting battle. But he said, You cannot do it alone. Morozko is far away. He has said he must wait until midwinter.

  “Cannot?” said Vasya. “I will do it. Hurry.”

  ANNA IVANOVNA HAD NO more voice. The cords and muscles were all wrenched and broken. Still she tried to scream, though only a ruined rasp escaped her lips. The one-eyed man sat beside her where she lay on the earth and smiled. “Oh, my beauty,” he said. “Scream again. It is beautiful. Your soul ripens as you scream.”

  He bent nearer. One instant she saw a man with twisted blue scars on his face. Next instant, arcing over her, she saw a grinning, one-eyed bear whose head and shoulders seemed to shatter the sky. Then he was nothing at all: a storm, a wind, a summer wildfire. A shadow. She cringed away, retching. She tried to stumble to her feet. But the creature grinned down at her and the strength went from her limbs. She lay there, breathing the stinking air.

  “You are glorious,” said the creature, bending nearer, slavering. He ran hard hands over her flesh. Crouched at his feet was another shape, white-wrapped, small. The face had shrunk to almost nothing, just close-set eyes and narrow temples and a mouth that gaped huge and ravenous. It crouched on the ground, head between its knees. Every now and then it looked at Anna, a light of hunger gleaming in the dark eyes.

  “Dunya,” said Anna, sobbing. For it was she, dressed as they’d buried her. “Dunya, please.”

  But Dunya said nothing. She opened her cavernous mouth.

  “Die,” said Medved with rapt tenderness, letting Anna go and stepping back. “Die and live forever.”

  The upyr lunged. Anna resisted only with feeble, scratching fingers.

  But then from the other side of the clearing came the ringing cry of a stallion.

  AS SOLOVEY GALLOPED, VASYA told Alyosha that a monster had their stepmother, and if it killed her, it would be free to burn up the countryside with terror.

  “Vasya,” said Alyosha, taking a moment to digest this. “Where were you?”

  “I was the guest of the winter-king,” said Vasya.

  “Well, you should have brought back a prince’s ransom,” Alyosha said at once, and Vasya laughed.

  Day was breaking. A strange smell, hot and rank, crept between the tree-trunks. Solovey raced along steadily, ears forward. He was a horse for a god’s child to ride, but Vasya’s hands were empty, and she did not know how to fight.

  You must not be afraid, said Solovey, and she stroked the sleek neck.

  Ahead loomed the great oak-tree. Behind her, Vasya felt Alyosha tense. The two riders passed the tree and found themselves in a clearing, a place that Vasya did not know. The sky was white, the air warm, so that she sweated under her clothes.

  Solovey reared, bugling. Alyosha clutched Vasya around the middle. A white thing lay prone on the muddy earth, while another shape lay heaving beneath it. A great pool of blood stood out around them.

  Above them, waiting, grinning, was the Bear. But he was no longer a small man with scars on his skin. Now Vasya saw a bear in truth, but larger than any bear she had ever seen. His fur was patchy and lichen-colored; his black lips glistened around a vast, snarling mouth.

  A little grin appeared on those black lips when he saw them, and the tongue showed red between. “Two of them!” he said. “All the better. I thought my brother had you already, girl, but I suppose he was too great a fool to keep you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Vasya saw the white mare step into the clearing.

  “Ah, no, here he is,” said the Bear. But his voice had hardened. “Hello, brother. Come to see me off?”

  Morozko spared Vasya a quick, burning glance, and she felt an answering fire rising in her: power and freedom together. The great bay stallion was beneath her, the wild eyes of the frost-demon there, and between them the monster. She flung her head back and laughed, and as she did, she felt the jewel at her throat burn.

  “Well,” said Morozko to her, wryly, in a voice like the wind, “I did try to keep you safe.”

  A wind was rising. It was a small wind, light and quick and keen. A little of the white cloud blew away overhead, and Vasya could glimpse a pure dawn sky. She heard Morozko speaking, softly and clearly, but she did not understand the words. His eyes fixed on something Vasya could not see. The wind rose higher, keening.

  “Do you think to frighten me, Karachun?” said Medved.

  “I can buy time, Vasya,” said the wind in Vasya’s ear. “But I do not know how much. I would have been stronger at midwinter.”

  “There was not time. He has my stepmother,” replied Vasya. “I had forgotten. She, too, can see.”

  Suddenly she realized that there were other faces in the wood, at the brink of the clearing. There was a naked woman with long wet hair, and there was a creature like an old man, with skin like the skin of a tree. There was the vodianoy, the river-king, with his great fish-eyes. The polevik was there, and the bolotnik. There were others—dozens. Creatures like ravens and creatures like rocks and mushrooms and heaps of snow. Many crept forward to where the white mare stood beside Vasya and Solovey, and clustered about their feet. Behind her, Alyosha gave a whistle of astonishment. “I can see them, Vasya.”

  But the Bear was speaking, too, in a voice like men screaming. And some of the chyerti went to him. The bolotnik, the wicked swamp creature. And—Vasya felt her heart stop—the rusalka, wildness, emptiness, and lust in her strange, lovely face.

  The chyerti took sides, and Vasya saw all their faces intent. Winter-king. Medved. We will answer. Vasya felt them all quivering on the cusp of battle; her blood boiled. She heard their many voices. And the white mare stepped forward, too, with Morozko on her back. Solovey reared and pawed the earth.

  “Go, Vasya,” said the wind with Morozko’s voice. “Your stepmother must live. Tell your brother his sword will not bite the flesh of the dead. And—do not die.”

  The girl shifted her weight and Solovey took them forward at a flying gallop. The Bear roared and instantly the clearing fell into chaos. The rusalka sprang upon the vodianoy, her father, and tore into his warty shoulder. Vasya saw the leshy wounded, streaming something like sap from a gash in his trunk. Solovey galloped on. They came upon the great pool of blood and skidded to a halt.

  The upyr looked up and hissed. Anna lay gray-faced beneath her, caked with mud,
not moving. Dunya was covered in gore and filth, her face streaked with tears.

  Anna breathed out one slow, gurgling sigh. Her throat was laid open. Behind them came a roar of triumph from the Bear. Dunya was crouched like a cat about to spring. Vasya locked eyes with her and slid off Solovey’s back.

  No, Vasya, said the stallion. Get back up.

  “Lyoshka,” said Vasya, not taking her eyes from Dunya. “Go fight with the others. Solovey will protect me.”

  Alyosha slid from Solovey’s back. “As if I’d leave you,” he said. Some of the Bear’s creatures circled them. Alyosha cried a war cry and swung his sword. Solovey lowered his head, like a bull about to charge.

  “Dunya,” Vasya said. “Dunyashka.” Dimly she heard her brother grunt as the edge of the battle found them. From somewhere, there came a howl like a wolf’s, a cry like a woman’s. But she and Dunya stood in a little core of silence. Solovey pawed the earth, ears flat to his skull. That creature does not know you, he said.

  “She does. I know she does.” The look of terror on the upyr’s face warred now with avid hunger. “I will just tell her she need not be afraid. Dunya—Dunya, please. I know you are cold here, and you are frightened. But can’t you remember me?”

  Dunya panted, all the light of hell in her eyes.

  Vasya drew her belt-knife and dragged it deeply across the veins of her wrist. The skin resisted before it gave, and then the blood raged out. Solovey shied back instinctively. “Vasya!” cried Alyosha, but she did not heed. Vasya took a long step forward. Her blood tumbled down, scarlet in the snow, on the mud and on the snowdrops. Behind her Solovey reared.

  “Here, Dunyashka,” said Vasya. “Here. You are hungry. You fed me often enough. Remember?” She held out her bleeding arm.

  And then she had no more time to think. The creature seized her hand like a greedy child, fastened its mouth to her wrist, and drank.