Vasya stood still, trying desperately to stay on her feet.
The creature whimpered as it drank. More and more it whimpered, and then suddenly it flung her hand away and stumbled backward. Vasya staggered, light-headed, black flowers blooming at the edges of her vision. But Solovey was behind her, holding her up, nosing her anxiously.
Her wrist had been worried as though it were a bone. Gritting her teeth, Vasya tore a strip from her shirt and bound it tight. She heard the whistling of Alyosha’s sword. The press of fighting swept up her brother and drew him away.
The upyr was looking at her with abject terror. Her nose and chin and cheeks were speckled and smeared with blood. The wood seemed to hold its breath. “Marina,” said the vampire, and it was Dunya’s voice.
There came a bellow of fury.
The hell-light faded from the vampire’s eyes. The blood cracked and flaked on her face. “My own Marina, at last. It has been so long.”
“Dunya,” said Vasya. “I am glad to see you.”
“Marina, Marushka, where am I? I am cold. I have been so frightened.”
“It is all right,” said Vasya, fighting tears. “It will be all right.” She wrapped her arms around the death-smelling thing. “You need not be frightened now.” From beyond there came another roar. Dunya jerked in Vasya’s arms. “Hush,” said Vasya, as to a child. “Don’t look.” She tasted salt on her lips.
Suddenly Morozko was beside her. He was breathing fast, and he had a wild look to match Solovey’s. “You are a mad fool, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said. He caught up a handful of snow and pressed it to her bleeding arm. It froze solid, clotting the blood. When she brushed away the excess, she found the wound sheathed in a thin layer of ice.
“What has happened?” said Vasya.
“The chyerti stand,” replied Morozko grimly. “But it will not last. Your stepmother is dead, and so the Bear is loose. He will break out now soon—soon.”
The fighting had come back into the clearing. The wood-spirits were as children beside the Bear’s bulk. He had grown; his shoulders seemed to split the sky. He seized the polevik in vast jaws and flung it away. The rusalka stood at his side, shrieking a wordless cry. The Bear threw back his great shaggy head. “Free!” he roared, snarling, laughing. He seized the leshy, and Vasya heard wood splintering.
“You must help them, then,” snapped Vasya. “Why are you here?”
Morozko narrowed his eyes and said nothing. Vasya wondered, for a ridiculous instant, if he had come back to keep her from killing herself. The white mare laid her nose against Dunya’s withered cheek. “I know you,” the old lady whispered to the horse. “You are so beautiful.” Then Dunya saw Morozko and a faint fear crept back into her eyes. “I know you, too,” she said.
“You will not see me again, Avdotya Mikhailovna, I very much hope,” said Morozko. But his voice was gentle.
“Take her,” said Vasya quickly. “Let her die in truth now, so that she will not be afraid. Look, already she is forgetting.”
It was true. The clarity had begun to fade from Dunya’s face. “And you, Vasya?” Morozko said. “If I take her, I must leave this place.”
Vasya thought of facing the Bear without him and she wavered. “How long will you be gone?”
“An instant. An hour. One cannot tell.”
Behind them the Bear called out. Dunya shook at the summons. “I must go to him,” she whispered. “I must—Marushka, please.”
Vasya gathered her resolve. “I have an idea,” she said.
“It would be better—”
“No,” snapped Vasya. “Take her away now. Please. She was my mother.” She seized the frost-demon’s arm with both hands. “The white mare said you were a giver of gifts. Do this for me now, Morozko. I beg you.”
There was a long silence. Morozko looked at the battle beyond them. He looked back at her. For a flickering instant, his glance strayed into the trees. Vasya looked where he did and saw nothing. But suddenly the frost-demon smiled.
“Very well,” Morozko said. Unexpectedly he reached out and drew her close and kissed her, quick and fierce. She looked up at him wide-eyed. “You must hold on, then,” he said. “As long as you may. Be brave.”
He stepped back. “Come, Avdotya Mikhailovna, and take the road with me.”
Suddenly he and Dunya were astride the white horse, and only a crumpled, bloody, empty thing lay in the snow at Vasya’s feet.
“Farewell,” whispered Vasya, fighting the urge to call him back. Then they were gone, the white horse and her two riders.
Vasya took a deep breath. The Bear had thrown off the last of his attackers. Now he wore the scarred face of a man, but a tall, strong man, with cruel hands. He laughed. “Well done,” he said. “I am always trying to get rid of him myself. He is a cold thing, devushka. I am the fire; I will warm you. Come here, little vedma, and live forever.”
He beckoned. His eyes seemed to drag at her. His power flooded the clearing and the wounded chyerti shrank before him.
Vasya breathed in a frightened breath. But Solovey was at her side. She felt his sinewy neck under her hand and then, blindly, she clambered onto his back. “Better a thousand deaths,” she said to the Bear.
The scarred lip lifted and she saw the gleam of his long teeth. “Come, then,” he said coldly. “Slave or loyal servant, the choice is yours. But you are mine either way.” He was growing as he spoke, and suddenly the man was a bear again, with jaws to swallow the world. He grinned at her. “Oh, you are afraid. They are always afraid at the end. But the fear of the brave—that is best.”
Vasya thought her heart would beat its way out of her breast. But aloud she said, in a small, strangled voice, “I see the folk of the wood. But what of the domovoi, and the bannik, and the vazila? Come to me now, children of my people’s hearths, for my need is very great.” She ripped the skin of ice off the wound in her arm, so that her blood tumbled forth. The blue jewel was glowing beneath her clothes.
There was an instant of stillness in the clearing, broken by the chime of Alyosha’s sword and the grunts of the chyerti who still fought. Her brother was surrounded by three of the Bear’s people. Vasya saw his face intent, the gleam of blood on his arm and cheek.
“Come to me now,” said Vasya, desperately. “As I ever loved you, and you loved me; remember the blood I shed, and the bread I gave.”
Still there was silence. The Bear scraped the earth with his great forefeet. “And now you will despair,” he said. “Despair is even better than fear.” He put his tongue out like a snake, as though to taste the air.
Foolish girl, thought Vasya. How could the household-spirits come? They are bound to our hearths. She tasted blood, bitter and salty in her mouth.
“We can at least save my brother,” Vasya said to Solovey, and the horse bugled defiance. One of the Bear’s great paws flashed out, taking them by surprise, and the horse barely dodged. He backed, ears flat to his head, and the great paw drew back to strike again.
Suddenly all the domoviye, all the bathhouse-guardians and dooryard spirits from all the dwellings in Lesnaya Zemlya, were thronging at their feet. Solovey had to pick up his hooves to keep from stepping on them, and then the vazila sprang onto Solovey’s withers. The little domovoi from her own house brandished a live coal in one sooty hand.
For the first time, the Bear looked uncertain. “Impossible,” he muttered. “Impossible. They do not leave their houses.”
The household-spirits roared out strange challenges and Solovey pawed the muddy earth.
But then Vasya’s heart sprang into her throat and seemed to hang there, hammering. The rusalka had borne Alyosha to earth. Vasya saw his sword go flying; she saw him freeze, entranced, looking up at the naked woman. She saw her fingers go round his throat.
The Bear laughed. “Stay where you are, all of you. Or this one dies.”
“Remember,” Vasya called to the rusalka, desperately, across the clearing. “I threw flowers for you, and now I shed my blood. Rem
ember!”
The rusalka froze, perfectly still except for the water running down her hair. Her hands around Alyosha’s throat slackened.
Alyosha struck out, renewing the struggle, but the Bear was too near.
“Come on!” cried Vasya to Solovey, to all of her ragged army. “Go—he is my brother!”
But at that moment, a great bellow of rage came from the other end of the clearing.
Vasya glanced aside and saw her father standing there, his sword in his hand.
THE BEAR WAS TWICE and thrice the size of an ordinary bear. It had only one eye; half its face was a mass of scars. The good eye gleamed, the color of thin shadow on snow. It wasn’t sleepy, like an ordinary bear, but alight with hunger and giddy malice.
Before the Bear was Vasya, unmistakable, tiny before the beast, riding a dark horse. But Alyosha, his son, lay almost beneath the beast’s feet, and the great mouth reached down…
Pyotr bellowed, a cry of love and rage. The beast whipped his head around. “So many visitors,” he said. “Silence for a thousand lives of men, and then the world descends upon me. Well, I will not object. One at a time, though. First the boy.”
But at that moment, a naked woman, green-skinned, water glittering on her long hair, shrieked and sprang onto the Bear’s back, clutching him with her hands and teeth. Next instant, Pyotr’s daughter cried aloud and the great horse charged, striking out at the beast with its forefeet. With them came all manner of strange creatures, tall and thin, tiny and bearded, male and female. They threw themselves together upon the Bear, shrieking in their high, strange voices. The beast fell back beneath them.
Vasya half-tumbled from the horse’s back, seized Alyosha, and dragged him away. Pyotr heard her sobbing. “Lyoshka,” she cried. “Lyoshka.”
The stallion struck out with his forefeet again and backed up, protecting the boy and girl on the ground. Alyosha blinked dazedly about them. “Get up, Lyoshka,” pleaded Vasya. “Please, please.”
The Bear shook himself and most of the strange creatures were flung off. He lashed out with one paw, and the great stallion barely evaded the blow. The naked woman fell to the snow, water flying from her hair. Vasya threw herself over her half-conscious brother. Monstrous teeth reached for her unprotected back.
Pyotr could not remember running. But suddenly he found himself standing, gasping, between his children and the beast. He was steady except for his pounding heart, and he held his broadsword two-handed. Vasya stared at him as at an apparition. He saw her lips move. Father.
The Bear skidded to a halt. “Get you gone,” he snarled. He stretched out a clawed foot. Pyotr turned it with his sword and did not stir.
“My life is nothing,” said Pyotr. “I am not afraid.”
The Bear opened his mouth and roared. Vasya flinched. Still Pyotr did not move. “Stand aside,” said the Bear. “I will have the old witch’s children.”
Pyotr stepped deliberately forward. “I know no witches. These are my children.”
The Bear’s teeth snapped an inch from his face, and still he did not move.
“Get out,” said Pyotr. “You are nothing; you are only a story. Leave my lands in peace.”
The Bear snorted. “These woods are mine now.” But the eye rolled warily.
“What is your price?” said Pyotr. “I, too, have heard the old tales, and there is always a price.”
“As you like. Give me your daughter, and you will have peace.”
Pyotr glanced at Vasya. Their eyes met, and he saw her swallow hard. “That is my Marina’s lastborn,” he said. “That is my daughter. A man does not offer up another’s life. Still less the life of his own child.”
An instant of perfect silence.
“I offer you mine,” said Pyotr. He dropped his sword.
“No!” Vasya screamed. “Father, no! No!”
The Bear squinted its good eye and hesitated.
Suddenly Pyotr flung himself, empty-handed, at the lichen-colored chest. The Bear acted on instinct; he batted the man aside. There was a horrible crack. Pyotr flew like a straw doll and landed facedown in the snow.
THE BEAR HOWLED AND LEAPED after him. But Vasya was on her feet, all her fear forgotten. She screamed aloud in wordless fury and the Bear whipped round again.
Vasya heaved herself onto Solovey’s back. They charged the Bear. The girl was weeping; she had forgotten she held no weapon. The jewel at her breast burned cold, beating like another heart.
The Bear grinned broadly, tongue lolling doglike between its great teeth.
“Oh, yes,” it said, “Come here, little vedma, come here, little witch. You aren’t strong enough for me yet, and never will be. Come to me and join your poor father.”
But even as he spoke he was dwindling. The Bear became a man, a little, cringing man that peered up at them through a watering gray eye.
A white figure appeared beside Solovey, and a white hand touched the stallion’s straining neck. The horse put his head up and slowed. “No!” shouted Vasya. “No, Solovey, don’t stop.”
But the one-eyed man cringed down into the snow, and she felt Morozko’s hand on hers. “Enough, Vasya,” he said. “See? He is bound. It is over.”
She stared at the little man, blinking, dazed. “How?”
“Such is the strength of men,” said Morozko. He sounded strangely satisfied. “We who live forever can know no courage, nor do we love enough to give our lives. But your father could. His sacrifice bound the Bear. Pyotr Vladimirovich will die as he would have wished. It is over.”
“No,” said Vasya, pulling her hand away. “No…”
She pitched herself off Solovey. Medved cringed away, grumbling, but already she had forgotten him. She ran to her father’s head. Alyosha had gotten there before her. He pulled aside his father’s torn cloak. The blow had crushed Pyotr’s ribs on one side, and blood bubbled up between his lips. Vasya pressed her hands to the wounded place. Warmth flared into her hands. Her tears fell onto her father’s eyes. A hint of color tinged Pyotr’s graying skin, and his eyes opened. They fell on Vasya and brightened.
“Marina,” he croaked. “Marina.”
The breath sighed out of him and he did not take another.
“No,” Vasya whispered. “No.” She dug her fingertips into her father’s slack flesh. His chest heaved suddenly, like a bellows, but his eyes were fixed and staring. Vasya tasted blood where she’d bitten into her lip, and she fought the death as though it were her own, as though…
A cold long-fingered hand caught both of hers, leaching the warmth away. Vasya tried to wrench her hands free, but she could not. Morozko’s voice wafted icy air across her cheek. “Leave it, Vasya. He chose this; you cannot undo it.”
“Yes, I can,” she hissed back, breath catching in her throat. “It should have been me. Let me go!” Then the hand was gone, and she spun round. Morozko had already drawn away. She looked up into his face, pale and indifferent, cruel and just a little kind.
“Too late,” he said, and all around, the wind took up the words: Too late, too late.
And then the frost-demon had swung onto the white mare’s back, up behind another figure, that Vasya could only see out of the corner of her eye. “No,” she said, running after them. “Wait—Father.” But the white mare had already cantered off between the trees and disappeared into the darkness.
THE STILLNESS WAS SUDDEN and absolute. The one-eyed man slunk off into the undergrowth, and the chyerti disappeared into the winter forest. The rusalka laid a dripping hand on Vasya’s shoulder in passing. “Thank you, Vasilisa Petrovna,” she said.
Vasya made no answer.
Solovey nuzzled her gently.
Vasya did not heed. She was staring at nothing, holding her father’s hand while it slowly turned cold.
“Look,” whispered Alyosha, hoarse and wet-eyed. “The snowdrops are dying.”
It was true. The warm, sickly, death-smelling wind had chilled, sharpened, and the flowers wilted down onto the hard earth. It was not y
et midwinter, and their hour was months away. There was no clearing, no muddy space beneath a gray sky. There was only a huge old oak-tree, its branches twisted together. The village lay beyond, now clearly visible, a stone’s throw away. Day had broken and it was bitterly cold.
“Bound,” said Vasya. “The monster is bound. Father did it.” She reached out a stiff hand to pluck a drooping snowdrop.
“How came Father here?” said Alyosha in soft wonder. “He had—such a look about him. As if he knew what to do, and how, and why. He is with Mother now, by God’s grace.” Alyosha made the sign of the cross over his father’s body, rose, went to Anna, and repeated the gesture.
But Vasya did not move, nor did she answer.
She put the flower in her father’s hand. Then she laid her head against his chest and began, softly, to cry.
They kept a night’s vigil for Pyotr Vladimirovich and his wife. The two were buried together, with Pyotr between his first wife and his second. Though they mourned, the people did not despair. The miasma of death and defeat had gone from their fields and houses. Even the bedraggled remnants of half a burnt village, led past their gate by an exhausted Kolya, could not frighten them. The air bit gently, and the sun shone down, studding the snow with diamonds.
Vasya stood with her family, hooded and cloaked against the chill, and bore the people’s whispers. Vasilisa Petrovna disappeared. She returned on a winged horse. She should have been dead. Witch. Vasya remembered the touch of rope on her wrists, the cold look in Oleg’s eyes—a man she had known since childhood—and she made a decision.
When everyone else had gone, Vasya stood alone at her father’s grave in the dusk. She felt old and grim and tired.
“Can you hear me, Morozko?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, and then he was beside her.
She saw a subtle wariness in his face, and she laughed a laugh that was half a sob. “Afraid I will ask for my father back?”
“When I walked freely among men, the living would scream at me,” Morozko replied evenly. “They would seize my hand, the mane of my horse. The mothers begged me to take them, when I took up their children.”
The Bear and the Nightingale Page 29
