The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  It was all she could do to gather her thoughts. Somewhere out there her father was alive, she was sure of that. She’d need to keep her head clear if she was ever going to find him, but the sight of the devastation had unnerved her.

  Suddenly she froze; another sound had entered the forest. There it was again, a footfall laid clumsily along the track. She darted into the bushes. Someone was singing, the noise so unexpected that she almost burst out laughing. After the shock of the clearing she’d never expected to hear anything so carefree in the forest ever again.

  Carefully she made her way through the undergrowth, fox-silent, past a hawthorn thicket. Here the forest thinned, the trees grew sparse and the ground fell away steeply to form the slope of a ridge. Down below a woman danced, a basket made from birch bark swinging loosely in her hands. It was Alia.

  Had the woyaks gone? Iwa wondered. Still she was cautious, her ears straining to catch the faintest sound as she pushed herself hard against the ground and wondered if she dare risk calling out. In the distance, she could pick out the sounds of the river. They were too close to the camp and the well-worn paths for Iwa’s liking. What if the woyaks hadn’t gone and this was a trap?

  Down below, Alia’s song continued, her voice sweet as she bent over a clutch of herbs. She was close now, almost at the foot of the ridge. She was alone and her clothes had been cleaned, the white dress which gripped tight around her hips fluttered in the light breeze. Her hair was combed and braided, and behind her ears a few bronze rings jangled. Iwa recognised them as the ones a trader had given to Alia during the last clan meet. She’d always been proud of those rings, always keeping them well-oiled and only ever wearing them on special occasions.

  Could the woyaks have gone? Suddenly from the depths Iwa’s heart leapt. Now there would be no need for woyaks and krols and things would be as they always were. So the spirits had driven the Poles away. Perhaps the hunters had returned and brought her father back.

  Giving thanks to the Leszy, Iwa was about to signal when she heard the sound of footsteps and the scuff of hardened leather from further down the track. She drew back and ducked behind a bush. This was not one of the clan.

  ‘You shouldn’t have followed me.’ Alia smiled as she turned to face a woyak. He was young and his head was bare, but he must have recently been wearing a helmet because his long blond hair was pressed flat against his skull and matted with sweat. ‘I’ve known these paths since I was a girl; I have nothing to fear from the Leszy.’

  ‘Maybe not. I doubt any of the Leszy would wish harm on one so fair.’ The woyak smiled too but there was a trace of unease in his voice, a hint of desperation as he scanned the top of the ridge. ‘Still, there’s something wrong about this place.’

  ‘Don’t they have trees in the lands of the Poles?’ Alia mocked. ‘Do you think these trees so awful? You should have more reverence for Matka Ziemia, who gives so generously of her bounty.’

  ‘It is not the trees I’m worried about. Nor Matka Ziemia.’

  ‘The hunters have gone.’ Alia danced forward, the basket swinging carelessly from her arms. ‘We’ve had no sign or trace of them. So do not be afraid, my little woyak.’

  ‘It’s not the hunters,’ he said sharply.

  ‘No curse lurks here.’ Now she’d grown serious, the basket still in her arms. ‘The Leszy of these trees have ever been kind.’

  ‘There is a curse upon this place.’

  ‘Then it is you who have brought it here.’ She drew back and bowed under the woyak’s scowl. ‘Nothing here has ever caused me hurt.’

  ‘We should be getting back all the same, I don’t want to be caught out here.’

  ‘Whatever lurks within the forest comes only by night, and long before then we’ll be back in the camp. Don’t you trust your priest?’

  ‘Wislaw has an instinct for such, it’s true,’ the woyak said, but he kept his gaze firmly on the forest, hungry eyes peering into the briars.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alia said, as she knelt down and began to dig away at a clutch of roots, ‘there is enough marjoram here to cure your Krol’s aching head.’ With that, she took out a thin bladed knife and began to scrape the earth away. ‘You can go back to the others if you want, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Grunmir said to keep watch. We don’t want your friends to catch a hold of you.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Alia replied, and began to hum the sacred tune of gathering, her tiny curved knife working in short careful strokes as she cleared away a clod of earth from the tangle of roots.

  Iwa was about to slip away when there was a snap of a twig. Suddenly the woyak tensed, his spear drawn ready. ‘You can come out,’ he yelled to cover his fear, ‘there’s no use hiding.’ Another twig snapped – some fox cub playing in the undergrowth perhaps. Iwa lay perfectly still and pressed her head to the ground. If only she’d kept further into the scrub.

  ‘It’s no use,’ the woyak called, as he scanned the tree line. Behind him Alia smirked as she gathered up her basket. ‘You can’t hide.’

  Suddenly Iwa realised how much her hands were trembling, the temptation to run growing with each breath. Move and you are lost. The words of the hunters came back to her. You must be as still as the mountains, still as the earth, for even the tiniest flicker will give you away.

  ‘Come out,’ the woyak called, his voice more urgent now, ‘or else I’ll gut you like a spit-roasted boar!’

  Iwa lay still, fighting down the temptation to run as she pressed herself into the ground. Maybe she could get under cover before the woyak could climb the ridge. Would he even dare follow me into the forest? She kept her body close to the earth, hardly moving as she heard the woyak come closer. Now was the time to prove that she would wait. The mockery of Kazik and the others came back to her. Desperately she gulped back her fear, her limbs almost willing her to break cover and rush for the safety of the forest.

  And, in her panic, part of her almost believed that she could get up and start to run before the woyak was upon her. Safety seemed such a short distance away, surely it could be no more than a few steps? She need only have the courage to spring up.

  But it was a fool’s notion. The woyak would be on her before she’d managed to get to her feet. I must stay, still as the hiding deer, soft as the grass in spring.

  At the end of the great clan meet, after the solstice and the rituals of Kupała had been observed, the men would chase the maidens into the forest in a mock hunt.The children often practiced a similar game of their own, watched over by the old ones, who made sure that they didn’t stray too far or anger the goddess by interfering with the main rites. Even those too young to be interested in girls were keen to practice their hunting skills and show how well they could track through the forest.

  Since she was six she’d taken part, and she’d been good at it too, but she’d never imagined that the game would ever be practiced in such deadly earnest.

  ‘A hunter,’ Alia said, placing the marjoram in her basket, ‘would never be so careless.’ But the woyak didn’t take his eyes from the ridge, his spear drawn as Alia came up to him.

  ‘The trees have you jumping at shadows,’ she whispered over his shoulder. ‘If it was one of the clan you wouldn’t have heard a sound until his blade had slit your pretty white throat. And your demon can only come out at night. See, the Leszy is kind, can you not hear her laugh in the breeze?’

  Still he didn’t move, his spear held out before him as if ready to stab at the trees. ‘You can carry the basket if you wish,’ Alia nudged him. With one final glance, the woyak moved quickly, his free hand reaching out for her. ‘Leave me alone, you idiot!’ she said as she twisted out of the woyak’s grasp, but her voice was playful. ‘Do you think of nothing else? One moment you were ready to jump at shadows and already you’re—’ Giggling, Alia had no chance to finish the sentence before he grabbed at her again.

  This time she twisted easily out of his grasp and stepped away, her face twisted into a look of mock disdain as s
he slapped at his hand.

  ‘Who would be interested in herbs when there’s such as you about?’ He was playful too now, relieved that there really had been nothing to trouble him, but there was still an edge to his voice, a trace of fear as if he was trying to mask his feelings.

  With studied casualness he looked the girl up and down, her body swaying behind that tight white dress, with only the occasional fretful glance to the forest to betray his true feelings. This place smelt too much of sap for him, sap and death. How could anybody live surrounded by trees? And if it hadn’t been for them he would have taken this girl long ago. But this place had unnerved him and, behind his playful grasps, he was angry at her teasing and the fact that he’d been caught out so easily.

  But that Wislaw was right. Give the old priest his due for knowing his art. There was something about the trees. All these strange scents, the herbs and grasses which smothered the air in a thick choking pall. How did the clean wind ever get in past the trees, except from the river of course, and then it would carry the chill of the waters.

  He gave one last glance at the bracken. At least there was still time before the darkness. Even now, with the sun still high, the thought of it made him shiver, so he reached out to her and hoped that she wouldn’t realise his fear.

  ‘And what if that precious Grunmir of yours catches us?’ Alia’s voice was light but maybe she too was hiding something. For all her outward gaiety there was a trace of sadness, her movement more slow and laboured than usual to Iwa’s knowing eyes as she looked for more herbs.

  ‘What do I care for that?’ he laughed.

  ‘Oh, you would if he were here. I have seen how you all bow and scrape to him: “Yes, Grunmir, no, Grunmir, at once, Grunmir”.’

  ‘The others, maybe, but not me.’

  ‘Don’t you lie to me,’ Alia said as he made another lunge for her. ‘You woyaks are all so very brave behind his back, but it’s a different story to his face.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that where I’m concerned. Grunmir has no hold over me.’

  Alia turned to face him, her fingers lingering across his jaw. ‘My valiant little woyak,’ she said, bending forward to give him a quick kiss, but her gaze carried past his shoulder to linger on the trees. ‘I don’t know what I would do without you, my brave boy.’ He bent over to return the kiss, but she had already eluded his grasp again.

  ‘Don’t play games with me,’ he said, a touch roughly. ‘I’m as much of a man as any of them.’

  But Alia had picked up her basket and held it out between them like a shield. ‘I’m sure you are, my battle-hardened woyak. You just happen to do whatever Grunmir says out of your own free will.’

  ‘That Grunmir is nothing but an oaf.’

  ‘And you are the one to tell him that to his face, I suppose?’ Alia turned to walk away, but the woyak caught her and spun her round.

  ‘If you wish, I would, and I’d not have any fear of Grunmir.’

  ‘Perhaps… I’d like to see that.’ Alia stroked his chin playfully. ‘But then again, maybe not: I’d hate to see how Fang would carve that pretty face of yours.’ She leant in to whisper in his ear but again her gaze strayed to the forest. ‘I would have you intact, my pretty young woyak.’

  ‘And I always thought that you women like to drool over the odd battle scar or two.’ The woyak’s laughter was cut short as Alia pushed him away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but she didn’t move. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He paused and put his arm uncertainly on her shoulder. ‘That is,’ he added, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ Katchka’s knife must have bitten deep, because the thin trace of a scar ran all the way from below Alia’s eye to the tip of her jaw. ‘It’s just that the other girls…’

  ‘Then I suggest that you go find some trader’s daughter and talk to her of brave battle scars: I’ll even give you a few to be getting on with since you’ll never get any in warfare.’

  The woyak was about to say something but Alia silenced him with a kiss. ‘Come on: we’ll be missed,’ she said as she led him away, ‘and it wouldn’t do for you to keep Grunmir waiting.’

  Iwa was about to move, but the woyak cast one last glance over his shoulder, a cold look on his face. She watched as they disappeared into the trees before levering herself from the ground.

  From behind her there was a rustle in the undergrowth. She should have heard it long ago, but had been too caught up with Alia and the woyak. She sprang up, her muscles coiled ready to run for the safety of the trees, part of her cursing her mistake. A true hunter would never have been so foolish.

  But it was too late. A hand grabbed her from behind, the fingers digging deep into her mouth as her head was twisted round with such force that she thought her neck might snap. Frantically she kicked out, her heels jabbing hard against a leg as she bit down on the hand. But the grip held firm and her mouth choked with the scent of hardened leather as she was lifted off the ground and the hard edge of a pommel was jabbed into the small of her back.

  ‘Keep struggling and you’ll taste the other end,’ a voice said. She was lowered to the ground and spun round to face a young boy only a few years older than herself. Maybe he would have passed as handsome, had his face not held so much fear. ‘You’re only a girl,’ he said in disbelief, as Iwa readied herself for another kick.

  Behind him a couple of figures came out from the trees. One of them was Grunmir.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘So where have you been hiding?’ Grunmir grabbed her shoulder, his iron-clad fingers digging deep into her flesh. His voice was cold and his eyes were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept in days. Fang hung from his waist, the blade glinting cruelly. ‘I’d half a mind that you must have slipped back into the waters, little Rusalka.’ The young woyak released his grip so that Grunmir could pull her closer as his voice took on a harsher note. ‘Better for you if you had stayed there. Perhaps it is you who makes the river sing so sweetly. Is it your voice we hear in the night, the one that calls softly with the tide?’

  Caught in his grip, Iwa didn’t even attempt an answer; there was nothing else to do but let her body go limp and pray that he’d let go. But the grip tightened, and she felt her skin bruising under his fingers. All her dreams of freedom had vanished, and her hope of finding Yaroslav too. Suddenly her father seemed more distant than ever. ‘Ah, but then I forget you are not a Rusalka. There isn’t much of the river about you.’

  Only then did his hand relax and Iwa fell at his feet. ‘Not a Bignica either, as I recall. No,’ he said as if surprised, ‘you are a girl.’

  ‘Did you expect anything else?’ she spluttered, instantly regretting her words as she tensed ready for the blow that would cuff her into submission. But it never came. Instead she was hauled up by her hair, the blood draining from her face.

  He let her hang for a moment. She was perfectly still, her eyes to the ground as he tightened his grip and felt her wince. Without even looking, she kicked out. Then he did strike her, a swift glancing blow, and she was silenced. He was not a cruel man as such but he knew how to get people to talk, the games he’d have to play to loosen a tongue. He paused, letting the fear build as he looked at her frail body through the hooded slits of his battle helm. This needed to be done quickly.

  She was sobbing now, an ugly red welt throbbing on the side of her face where his mailed hand had caught her. But for all that there was a strength about her. She was a cunning one alright. Best not to underestimate her, or the lies she’d spin. No, he’d have to be careful.

  Around him he felt the others crowd round in their eagerness. Why didn’t he just bash the truth from her? She was only a little girl, after all, some woodland waif hardly worth the bother.

  But he’d spent some time amongst the nomads of the great steppes. They were not so different from these people. Even the Avars could not have set up a camp more efficiently or have gathered themselves so quickly once the fight was upon them. Lucky for you, he couldn’t help but think as he glanced at the men arou
nd him, that we caught them with the sleep in their eyes, or else you’d have more than a few more battle scars to nurse.

  Suddenly he almost despised these men who clung round him, their shields slung carelessly in their arms now that they only had a defenceless girl to face. Milksop boys, with the memory of their mother’s teats hardly wiped from them. Had none of them the wits to think that there might be other hunters about? Or had they become so caught up with relief that the sound they’d tracked had only been a young girl that they could think of nothing else?

  No, she would not think too much of a few bruises, nothing more than might be expected from a day in her hard life. In a way she was lucky. He’d heard of the Byzantine tortures and even seen more than one Moorish doctor turn his art down darker paths. And who could guess at Wislaw and his cunning should she ever fall into his hands? But he’d never had a liking for such things and they’d never came naturally to him.

  Yet, as he glanced to the tree line and felt the first pricks of fear, a sense of urgency came upon him. Almost instinctively he felt his fingers twist through her hair so that she was brought up again. Whatever this girl knew, there was more to her than any of the others guessed at.

  ‘A girl with big eyes,’ he said, ‘a prying girl, a sneaking, hiding little girl with spying eyes.’ He threw her to the ground. Better to tease the truth from her, but he’d need to soften her up further. Perhaps he should hand her over to one of the others. There were many more versed in the administration of pain than him. ‘So what have you been saying to your friends in the forest? Have you come to spy on us, little Bignica?’

  She tried to speak; her lips trembled but the words wouldn’t come. The woyaks gathered around, spear tips pointed down to her, each hoping that the old woyak would leave her to their mercies. ‘I hope you aren’t going to disappoint me with lies,’ he added almost casually. ‘I have often wondered how the hunters manage to raid our camp so easily, slipping so freely past our guards. Before, I’d always put it down to their own laxity; that and the vodka they swill down their throats when my back is turned.’ He shot a vicious glance across his shoulder and saw the others slink back. ‘But maybe the vodka is not the only reason,’ he continued, turning back to her. ‘Perhaps the hunters have a little help, a little help from a little girl.’