by Karah Sutton
But before she had time to panic, there was a cough behind her. She spun around, nearly losing her footing as her legs twisted together.
Leto gasped as though he’d been holding his breath since he’d been stabbed. He coughed and rolled onto his stomach. Horror slithered across his face as he took in the strangeness of the room and his eyes came to rest on Zima.
What have you done? he said to her, his voice small and shaking.
“S-saved you,” Zima stammered.
But how did I get here? Where is Zima?
How could she explain? She struggled for the words, her new tongue heavy and dull. “Me…Baba Yaga…she’s”— Zima gestured out the doorway, pointing where she last saw her own tail—“she disappeared.” She shook her head, trying to force her mouth to form the words.
Leto pushed himself up onto his paws, then rounded on her. He seemed to have grown in size, and his features were warped into an expression Zima once saw Grom wear while fighting off a bear. He arched his back and bared his fangs. His side was still smeared with blood.
You have done something to her, he said, his voice rumbling. You will regret this….
The words made Zima tremble. “Wait—I’m Zima!” she blurted out. “It’s me!” Her hands thumped her chest.
Her brother stared at her, then bared his fangs once more. I am not falling for your tricks.
He swiped at her. Zima suddenly realized how frail a witch body was when faced with the fangs and claws of a wolf—even her little brother’s. She threw her arms up in front of her face in defense and screamed, to no one in particular, “Help!”
The floor of the hut jolted beneath her feet, and Zima was thrown off-balance. Leto staggered sideways and crashed into the wall. He crumpled and fell, and then the splintered floorboards slid out from under him, leaving a gaping hole between Leto and the forest floor below. Leto tumbled through the hole to the ground, and the wooden floor slid back into place, shutting him out and blocking him from view.
Without warning, the whole house shuddered and shook. The herbs hanging from the ceiling swayed as jars, books, and skulls bounced on their shelves. Zima shuffled to the window and saw trees flashing past, the forest outside a blur. It took her a moment to realize that the house was running.
“Where are we going?” Zima cried. The voice that escaped from her mouth was dry and cracked, like the wooden wheels of village carts turning over the dirt and rocks of the road. “Wait—STOP!”
The house halted. Jars slid along the shelves but stopped before tumbling off, as if they were held by magic. From somewhere above her left shoulder, there came a squawk.
She turned around and tilted her chin up. On a bookshelf near the ceiling sat a raven, clicking his curved beak at her. He ruffled his glossy black feathers and squawked again.
“Quiet,” snapped Zima. The whispers in her head and bones had swelled to a low chatter, and she fought to ignore them as she stepped forward to peek through the window. Nothing about the trees outside looked familiar. She sniffed, but the witch’s nose could smell nothing. There was no way to tell where in the forest they were.
The raven flapped his wings. Now you’ve done it, he said. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t leave the hut, and don’t move the hut. You’ll only break things.
Zima’s eyes snapped to the raven. “I…what?” she said, beginning to breathe very hard. She’d never been able to understand a raven before. It seemed that now that she was a witch, she could.
You asked for help. So the house…helped! He spoke the words very slowly, as though he expected Zima to struggle to understand them. He was right.
“But it didn’t help! Baba Yaga changed me into a witch, and now the house has taken me somewhere, far from my family. This is worse! Much worse!”
Shh, don’t let the house hear you. The raven looked up toward the rafters, as if checking for signs that the hut was angry. After a moment he seemed satisfied that they weren’t overheard, and continued, Fragile ego, this house. But very loyal. It will do anything and come from anywhere to help Baba Yaga, so long as she asks nicely.
The raven hopped off the shelf and swooped down to stand on the table. But I’m sorry to say it can’t make you a wolf again. He didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned his head and began grooming himself, prodding his beak into his dark feathers. When he finished, he twirled to Zima and said cheerfully, Though that brother of yours was going to make things worse than they are now, believe you me. You’ve been a witch for five minutes and you already have an enemy.
His jolly tone pressed into her, and all at once the dangers of the day overwhelmed her. Zima collapsed into a chair. There was nothing, no Leto, no pack, no Veter, no one who knew the sacrifice she’d made. There was no going back.
Zima stared in silence at the fire. How had everything gone so wrong? This had been her best chance to prove she could protect their pack, and now she was cursed and separated from them. Grom would never have gotten into such a mess.
A tapping sound from the far corner made her start. The raven was cramming his beak into a cranny between the wall and the floor. When he noticed Zima staring, he said, Beg pardon, don’t let me interrupt your reverie. Was just hoping to catch this spider. The spider, taking advantage of the raven’s distraction, scurried from the nook, but the raven quickly snapped it up in his beak and swallowed.
“Do you know how I can change back?” Zima asked. She flexed her fingers and pinched the frayed ends of the wrap around her bony shoulders.
You can’t, the raven said, still poking about the floor. Only Baba Yaga can reverse the spell.
“But Baba Yaga said there was something a spell needed…,” Zima said, half hoping, half expecting the raven to repeat it back to her. He didn’t. She continued, “That there’s some way to get the forest to listen to you.” The raven still didn’t speak. She staggered over to stand in front of him, nearly toppling over. The witch’s cane wobbled as she leaned on it. She knelt down, so that her face was right in front of his. One of her knees made a popping sound. “Do you know how?”
The raven looked up, assessing her. He seemed ready to give a pert answer, but then shrugged. Don’t suppose it matters telling you. It requires an object. All witches have a magic object that allows them to channel power from the earth.
Relief washed over Zima. She’d assumed magic would require something much more sinister. “And what is hers?”
The raven narrowed his eyes. No trying to do magic. He hopped onto an uppermost shelf and repeated, Don’t talk to anyone, don’t leave the hut, don’t move the hut, and don’t try to do magic. With a look up to the rafters he gave a dramatic sigh and said, to no one in particular, I have too many things to do to include mothering this wolf on the list. Then he prodded his beak into his wing once more, spitting out the bits of dirt that he plucked from between his feathers.
Zima swallowed. She could feel her temper rising, creeping up into her frizzy hair. But it wouldn’t do to upset the raven; she needed an ally. She shoved the anger down again and fought to keep her voice steady. “Aren’t you supposed to help the witch? That’s me now. So you should help me.”
Nice try, but I don’t help people for free, you know. Not even Baba Yaga. I’ve already helped you without payment.
“How?” she asked.
I told you about needing the object. You can’t expect me to find it for you too. Especially when she said she didn’t want you doing magic. He continued preening. No payment is worth defying orders.
“Payment?” This was the second time he’d used that word. It wasn’t something she’d heard of before. “What do you mean?”
The raven sighed. It’s when you give something to someone in exchange for what you want. You give me a gift, and I give you one.
“Like a trade?”
Yes, exactly.
“What sort of payment?”
The raven cocked his head, thinking. Favors, information. But when I can, I like to be paid in blackberries. Baba Yaga ke
eps an ever-ripe bush just for me. He puffed up his feathers importantly.
Was this how the humans and Baba Yaga acted all the time? Zima tried to imagine a world where she only did things for others when they gave her something, and where she was only worried about what was best for herself instead of her pack. It left a foul taste on her tongue.
And anyway, the raven continued, I don’t know what her object is. She never told me, and the crafty old crone always seemed to use different objects when she performed spells, so I could never figure it out.
Zima sank into a chair. She tried to picture what Baba Yaga had done when performing the spell, but her thoughts had been so focused on Leto, everything else was a blur.
How was she ever going to discover which of all the hundreds of jars, containers, knickknacks, and bits of clutter crowding the hut held the witch’s powers? Now that she looked around, it almost seemed like the witch collected items for the purpose of making the task impossible. Various lanterns, vases, and piles of bones were tucked away in corners. On one small table was a bucket filled with nothing but rocks. It seemed like something the witch would do: choose an average, boring rock to hold her powers, and then keep it in a pile of other rocks.
As Zima searched, sometimes she could almost make out the words of the chattering whispers in her head, especially when she held certain objects, like a dagger she found tucked under the bed, and when she touched the enormous stone bowl. Yet those objects seemed no more magical than the soil stuck to her shoes. It seemed that whatever it was the voices had to say, it wasn’t how to do magic or become a wolf again.
She longed for her wolf nose. She could have sniffed out the object in an instant. It was a marvel that witches were able to do anything with such a terrible sense of smell.
Her old body creaked as she moved a few steps to investigate the next shelf. Having hands, though, was a welcome change, even ones that ached and throbbed as she flexed the fingers. It was nice to be able to pick up jars without using her mouth.
But the next object she picked up, a vase, slipped from between her fingers, which were not yet used to gripping and holding. The vase shattered on the wooden floor, and the pieces that remained were sharp as teeth. The raven sighed and gestured to an object, a long and sturdy branch with a bunch of grass and twigs tied to its end, leaning against the wall near the door. At first Zima couldn’t see how the bundle of sticks would help. But after the raven snapped at her that it was called a broom, that she was holding it upside down and told her how to use it, she was able to sweep the shards of the vase into one of the witch’s empty buckets.
She collapsed on the witch’s bed. The wooden slats squeaked under her weight. “So you won’t help me find my magic object, but you will help me learn how to use a broom?” she said, failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
The last thing I need is to cut my toe chasing a spider, said the raven haughtily. And you are much better equipped to use that broom than I am.
Zima curled into a ball, wishing she could wrap her tail around herself. Lying down in this body wasn’t very comfortable; it was no wonder Baba Yaga slept on a bed. Her feet throbbed. Her breaths were ragged and shallow. The whispers were an endless drone, making her head feel foggy and slow. Baba Yaga was every bit as evil as she’d always heard, for leaving Zima alone in this perplexing body in her unfamiliar hut.
Nadya sat in the dirt outside the orphanage, her back to the wall, and the doll splayed in her lap for closer inspection. It was made of wood, with whittled head, hands, and legs, and wrapped in a woven flax dress. It was an ugly thing, with half its grass hair falling out and its tiny clothes in tatters. She hadn’t held a doll in years, but something about its painted smile was comforting.
A breeze ripped past her, dancing through the doll’s hair before rushing to tug dry leaves from the branches of the trees lining the edge of the forest. Six days—that’s all the time she had left before her life changed. She just had to prove that she was worthy of joining Katerina in the castle.
She pulled the doll closer, as if Katerina’s wisdom and instruction might somehow rub off. Yet as she held it, something seemed amiss. It was hard to put into thoughts or words, too silly to even think of saying. Though if she let her thoughts speak the truth, she would admit: the doll felt almost…alive.
She looked at it again more closely. Did the smile seem expressive? No, that wasn’t it. Maybe she could feel Katerina’s love for this childhood toy, as though it had burrowed its way into the doll’s body.
But it made her feel uneasy too, like the doll was watching her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it had life pulsing beneath its wooden skin. And then, for a moment, she thought she heard a whisper.
Nadya dropped the doll with a yelp of surprise.
She was imagining things.
Pinching its little hand between her fingers, she gingerly picked up the doll. Though she knew she was imagining things, she still wasn’t eager to touch it. She took the stairs two at a time as she returned to the room she shared with the other girls. It was empty—everyone was probably still out in the village, enjoying the excitement of seeing Katerina in her finery in the tsar’s carriage. The only sound was the squeak of the floorboards under her feet. Nadya worked to step more lightly, knowing it’s what Katerina would want from a perfectly behaved girl.
But what to do with the doll? She didn’t like looking at it, so for the time being she slid it under her lumpy pillow out of view.
With a last glance behind her, she left to finish her chores. If she had any hope of proving to Mrs. Orlova that she could go to the castle, she must do everything that was expected of her before she was asked, and with no mistakes.
Later that night, when Nadya returned to the room and prepared for bed, the doll sat on a table next to the window, its head leaning against the glass as though it were looking out at the forest. Mrs. Orlova must have picked it up and set it there, though Nadya was sure she hadn’t seen the matron enter the room all day.
Zima snatched another bottle from the shelf, straining her ears to decipher the murmuring voices around her. She wanted to find the magic object and restore herself to her wolf body as soon as possible. The voices continued to mutter and jabber, but gave no indication that this item was more magical than any of the other items she’d held.
She returned the vial to the shelf, and her belly gave an irritated grumble. She’d been ignoring the pangs of hunger all morning, but at this point her stomach seemed to be threatening to eat itself.
There were herbs and mushrooms hanging from the rafters, but the mushrooms weren’t ones Zima knew. They might be poisonous. She grabbed a bit of dill, an herb she recognized, and began to nibble it. But if she was going to be stuck as a witch for much longer, she would have to find something more substantial to eat.
The fire still burned, and over it hung the enormous cauldron. She stared at the fire, a cold dread prickling in her chest. This fire wasn’t like the one that had ravaged the trees and ripped her family apart. When her father had taken her to the edge of the village all those moons ago, he had explained how humans knew how to tame fire and control it—how they used it for things like cooking and warmth. She would have to trust that this fire wasn’t the wild, untamable kind she’d seen in the past.
She peered inside the cauldron, where gray sludge bubbled. Maybe the sludge was some sort of food? It smelled like it might be edible, with hints of honey and sage, though it was hard to tell with this terrible witch nose. Her gnarled finger touched the surface of the liquid. Ouch! Was human food always this hot? She seized a wooden rod with a rounded end that hung on a hook nearby, and was just poking out her tongue for a small taste when—
I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, said the raven. He shook his feathers and blinked at her sleepily from his nook in the rafters.
“What is it?”
Not food.
Zima groaned. “Can’t you just tell me?”
I could, but I don’
t see why I should.
Zima shoved the stick back on the hook, where it clattered against the stone wall of the fireplace. “Then why did you tell me not to eat it? Why tell me some things and not others?”
The raven swooped over to the windowsill and began poking with his beak at the latch holding it closed. Because if you ate it and then died here in the hut, I’d have to find a way to drag you outside. Last thing I need is a dead body that’s too big for me to move.
It was hard to tell whether he really meant this. She couldn’t believe he was so uncaring. A low growl rumbled in her throat. “Well, if I die of starvation, you’ll be stuck with my body anyway,” she snapped.
The raven glared at her, then jabbed his beak at a set of shelves. You can eat anything in those sacks. And she uses the cauldron for scrying.
Zima plunked a hand into a brown cloth bag and yanked out some sort of knobbly root. Her stomach groaned, and she bit into it. It crunched, and a warm, spicy flavor made her mouth tingle.
“There, now, was that so hard?” she said to the raven, smiling. Flecks of the root leapt from her mouth as she tried to talk and chew at the same time. Then she asked, “What’s scrying?” She’d never heard that word before.
It shows visions of things.
“What sorts of visions?”
The raven let out a dramatic sigh. Nothing you need to know about.
Zima matched his sigh, making it as dramatic as possible. “You can’t expect me to sit here forever, not knowing what she’s doing in my body. I need to know something!”
I’ve told you plenty of things. I just told you what food to eat and what the cauldron does.
“But you haven’t told—”
The raven flapped his wings and squawked in agitation. Fine, fine, he sighed, I’ll tell you! But if you whine again, I won’t answer a single other question, understood?
