The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  ‘Will that rid us of this curse?’

  ‘There is no other way.’

  ‘Then it is best that it is done quickly,’ Krol Gawel said as he strode off into the camp. For a second nobody dared move. Not that they cared too much for this girl, but none of them wanted to see blood spilled in such a way. To appease the gods was natural but none of them wanted to cower behind magic and spells.

  ‘Take her,’ Wislaw cried.

  ‘Listen to me!’ Iwa began to struggle but the woyaks grabbed her, rough hands pinning her to the ground. Like the krol, they wanted things to be done quickly now that the decision had been made.

  And maybe the gods would look down and lift the curse. Piórun had always looked favourably upon them. ‘Can’t you see, Wislaw’s tricked you,’ she wailed, but her words were lost in the din. She felt her limbs torn as she was lifted up, her legs kicking against her captors. But they were desperate men, eager for the blood that might deliver them from the terrors of the forest.

  Wislaw watched, a smile playing over his thin lips as, still screaming, she was carried away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In the deeper forest there was a glade hidden by a thick copse of spruce trees. No track led to it, and if Iwa hadn’t followed a tiny brook that wound its way into the glade she’d never have found it. Here the ground became muddy, the sunlight broken by the branches so that even in summer there was a slight coldness to the ground.

  At first she thought that the ground was too muddy and would suck her down, but the brook wasn’t large enough for that. It was here that some of the best flowers would grow. In the height of summer the girls would ask her to take them there. None could find the spot after and she’d had always delighted in picking the hardest, longest route. Most of the girls thought that they’d gone into the depths of the forest. A few even became scared, glancing over their shoulders and praying to the Leszy. Sometimes, when they weren’t looking, she’d throw a rock into the thickets to startle them.

  It wasn’t just the joke that amused her. For once she was the centre of attention. Even Alia didn’t know of a better place to find the best lavender and myrtle and where the trees were covered with ivy.

  All the girls would run, giggling as they tried to pick the best of the flowers, each trying to outdo the others. Soon the summer solstice would be upon them and it would be time to dance round the Kupała fire and hope that they would catch one of the young hunters. Of course the ones with the largest and prettiest headdresses would stand the best chance and so everyone wanted some myrtle and lavender. Those flowers were held sacred on Kupała’s night.

  Other clans had their own traditions, but the Bison Grass always held that lavender and myrtle looked best by firelight. Each headdress would naturally be wound with bison grass, but that had to be cut by one of the Szeptun witches, who would whisper her magic into the stalks.

  Then the women would take the flowers back to the camp and begin weaving their headdresses. Even the older hunters took an interest, anxious to know how the women were progressing. How else would the other clans know of their prowess? They had to be seen to provide enough so that the women had the time to make the headdresses, and the more elaborate and time-consuming the costume, the greater would be their esteem. You could always tell a poor season’s hunt by the scrawny headdresses.

  For once Iwa could be useful. All the women came to her, even Alia. Iwa felt herself there now, bathed in the scent of the lavender as the breeze played across the sprigs of myrtle. But then there was a harsh gust of wind, and a great darkness fell across the glade. Had Simargl, the winged hound of doomsday, been let loose to eat the sun? She reached out her hand, but the flowers had gone. Then she was aware of a great pain behind her eyes. Her cheek stung and there was a sharp pain which brought with it a wince as she tried to move.

  Help me, Iwa cried. But it was no use, there was no trace of her voice, scraped thin in the blackness, the words lost like snow in the wind. A beam of light broke through a crack in the world. Iwa’s head throbbed so that she moved through a wall of numbness and pain, her limbs disjointed as if carved from wood.

  Around her the world was blurred, a shaft of light splintering through the blackness, so bright that it stung her eyes. She tried to move, fighting down a wave of nausea as the world drifted back to focus. The darkness became a hastily constructed wall, through which the sun dripped lazily onto a dirt floor. So she was in the hut again, her hands tied as before, but at least the spit had been lowered so that her feet touched the ground. At least I’ll make a comfortable sacrifice. Her heart sank, part of her still looking for a trace of the glade, but there was nothing, not even a sprig of myrtle. If only she could go back and find that dream.

  ‘Yaroslav,’ she hissed but, on the other side of the hut, the figure didn’t move. They’d taken away the tarpaulin and there was no hint of a guard, but she kept her voice low all the same. ‘Yaroslav,’ she whispered again, but still he didn’t move.

  ‘So they did not kill you then.’ It was Katchka who spoke, her head bowed as she came into the hut. ‘Those woyaks were so scared that they almost didn’t wait for the sacrificial preparations. I thought they’d gut you right there on the shore, if it hadn’t been for that idiot priest.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to thank him when the time comes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty.’ Katchka hobbled nearer, a bowl of water slopping in her hands. ‘The woyaks are scared, many of the women too: even now some of them plan to rip you to shreds rather than wait for Piórun’s pleasure. Only Wislaw holds them back.’

  ‘So that he can kill me later?’

  The old woman shrugged. ‘Life is life: I am sick of it. Soon I will join my beloved Baptcha in the spirit world. The best days have already passed.’ Katchka spat on the floor. ‘I have no stomach for those that are to come.’

  ‘Did you see the demon?’ Iwa asked as she looked round for some form of escape. The crowd was ready to rip her to shreds. The world came hazily to her, through a dulled numbness. At least that served to smother the pain. Carefully she moved, testing her legs, half scared at what she might find. Maybe she could twist free of the bonds, but what then? Would she even be able to walk?

  ‘What time have I for such foolishness? Tomaz has a fever and I was with him most of the night. But I have grown so very old of late and had to give the child over to Maleva to nurse. Things are worse for her; she still has a husband out there in the forest, much good it does her. But I have nothing to live for. What do I care for demons? Let it rip my blood from my bones for all I care.

  ‘But you should thank the gods that the demon does not come every night, as it did at first, or else the crowd would have torn you to shreds in their eagerness to please this foreign god. I do not know what it is that these wretched men have dragged into the forest with them, but maybe it would have been better for you if the mob had got its way.’

  ‘So Wislaw has something special planned for me?’ Iwa looked round at the ropes that bound her firmly to the stake. Some of her vision had returned, but that only brought with it another sharp stabbing sensation. At least her limbs appeared to be working, but she had been badly battered.

  ‘He loves ceremony, that one; with him all is show. He has set the woyaks to build a stone altar in front of Krol Gawel’s ship, and a pyre too.’

  ‘And this will appease the thunder god?’ Iwa asked, as she tested the knots.

  ‘Who am I to say what will or won’t appease the gods? But I do not think Wislaw cares either, as long as there are woyaks to jump to his voice.’

  ‘So I am going to die to make him feel important?’

  ‘That and…’ Katchka paused mid breath, her mouth hanging open, but it was too late to take back the words. ‘That fool priest mutters in his sleep and I have heard him. He thinks that you have a way with the craft. By sacrificing you he imagines that he will be able to suck up your magic and draw it into him.’

  Slowly the old woman hobbled into
the back of the tent. Was Yaroslav still there? Why was he so still, so quiet? If only she could see him. There was the sound of the cloth dipped into water and then, as it was pressed wet against his face, he moaned.

  Straining, Iwa hung, a dull ache creeping along her arms. What had happened to him? She had to see. With a wince she tried to turn. A sharp stab of pain burned along her neck and along her forehead. She could just about make out the form of the old woman as she daubed the wet cloth against his face. There was something terrifying about the old woman now. Before, she had always seemed to be a fixed point: Katchka the wise, growing neither older nor younger. Now she limped on bad feet and the breath wheezed through her lips as she wrung out the cloth with trembling fingers.

  ‘I have water,’ she said, and held out a skin for Yaroslav. ‘Here,’ she came closer and let a little of the liquid dribble between his lips. ‘It’s clear mountain water from one of the mountain brooks, like we used to drink in better days, before this krol made us stay in one place.’

  ‘So they let you out of the camp,’ Yaroslav said, his voice so weak that Iwa trembled to hear it.

  ‘One of the women brought it,’ the old woman replied. ‘Nobody allows me free rein, Alia sees to that.’ She put the top of the skin into Yaroslav’s mouth and tipped it forward. ‘Mind you, who cares for me now? The woyaks only have eyes for young women and only notice me when they look for a spy. Alia and her girls keep a sharp watch, little escapes their gaze.’

  ‘And are you a spy?’ Iwa couldn’t help but ask as a ray of hope dawned inside her. If only she could somehow make contact with the hunters. They might have cast her out, but they still cared about Yaroslav. Enough to try and free him? He could still be useful. He knew the ways of these Poles. Maybe he could even convince the other clans to unite, his word would be trusted. Once again she began to believe in his plan. Surely, for all their warcraft and armour, the woyaks couldn’t defeat all the clans.

  But Katchka shook her head and laughed. ‘Do you think that I’d help those cowards? All they want is to raid the camp for food and clothes, they care nothing for us. Let Grunmir convince the krol that the hunters have help if he must, but I don’t think there is a traitor here. A lame man could get past those woyaks. All this talk of traitors and spies is just some foolishness that Grunmir’s cooked up because the woyaks are too drunk and too stupid to catch the hunters. Now the krol sees traitors everywhere and nobody trusts their shadows.’

  Katchka paused, a wry smile playing on her lips as she looked into the distance. ‘There was a time when you knew who could be counted upon. Now everyone makes their own allegiance and people forge and break sides at will, dancing round one another like winter foxes. As for the hunters, I’ll have no dealings with those who are too scared to slit a few drunken throats in the night.’

  ‘The woyaks are armed,’ Yaroslav croaked.

  Slowly Katchka dipped some meat into the water and pressed it into his mouth. ‘You men have a passion for excuses. Give me a knife and I would slaughter each and every woyak in the camp.’

  ‘A fool’s dream,’ Yaroslav said softly, ‘but I thank you for dreaming it. Soon they’ll kill me and my daughter, and there’ll be nobody to avenge us.’

  ‘You will have to find vengeance in the ancestor world. Here, I have managed to sneak a handful of berries,’ Katchka whispered as she cast a furtive glance at the door before taking out a small bag. ‘If only I’d get the chance, then I’ll show you how foolish my dreams are.’

  Suddenly a shadow glanced across the wood and Katchka snatched the cherries back into the bag. Someone whistled a simple tune that the women would often sing whilst they worked. One of the woyaks shouted and the girl laughed: it was Alia. Inside the hut Katchka froze, but the tune continued as the girl walked away. ‘And, if I had my knife, it wouldn’t only be the woyaks who’d die. But what’s the use, the best of us are dead already and the rest merely wait their turn. Only the worthless prosper.’

  ‘You must save my daughter,’ Yaroslav said softly.

  ‘I’ll do my best for her.’ Katchka held out a handful of mushrooms. ‘It is not much, and I had planned to use them myself, but don’t worry, we’ll cheat Wislaw of his sacrifice yet. I’ll mix them into a little broth so that she slips painlessly into the ancestor world.’

  ‘And I’ll be there to greet her,’ Yaroslav smiled.

  ‘No,’ Iwa said as she struggled against the knots.

  ‘Be sure to tell Baptcha that I shall be ready to meet him soon,’ Katchka said as she forced one of the berries into his mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry, your place shall be well prepared.’

  ‘We can leave, get out,’ Iwa said as she tried to twist free, the metal frame clanking. She wasn’t ready to die yet, not now that she had found her father. But the ropes held firm and she sank back down, her knees giving way as she hung limp, the strength draining from her as a fresh stab of pain ached along her ribs.

  ‘And all shall be sweet again,’ Katchka said, but her words were hollow, ‘and we shall join the eternal feast.’

  Well, guess who’ll end up having to pick all the berries for this eternal feast, Iwa thought, but she was too tired to say anything, not even moving when a woyak raised the cloth with the butt of his spear. ‘Hurry up in there,’ he said, ‘a worm would move faster.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Katchka said, ‘these are old bones, they do not hurry as well as they once did.’ Before she left she stopped and tipped the remnants of the water hastily down Iwa’s throat, but there was no food for her. ‘Hungry is better,’ Katchka whispered, ‘the mushrooms will work all the faster on an empty stomach. I have Tomaz’s fever to attend to, but once the worst is over, I’ll come for you. Forgive me, but at least your death will be painless, I’ll see to that. Anything would be better than to end up as fodder for that fool priest. I do not understand how he plans the sacrifice, but you are unlikely to end your days on the linden tree. My own death must follow yours soon after: I do not want Krol Gawel to have me tortured or to end up a victim of that Wislaw.’ With that she took the water skin and was gone.

  ‘Yaroslav,’ Iwa coughed. Still she couldn’t see him. On the other side of the hut the figure slumped, held up only by the ropes. Hopefully he was only sleeping. Then her face turned white and she began to struggle.

  You are unlikely to end your days on the linden tree. Katchka’s words came back to her. Only now did Iwa perceive their meaning. Often the clan would sacrifice animals to the gods. Most times it was a prized kill; the best of the hunt burned before the bones of Karnobog. Afterwards the remains would be hung from a sacred linden tree, the carcass turned to face the rising sun. But there were other, darker rituals to appease bloodier gods. Here the caucuses were hideously mutilated and their faces cut open before they were cast into some deep pit. Is that what Wislaw plans for me? Iwa struggled frantically, the blood dripping across her wrists as the ropes tightened about her. Maybe Wislaw could suck up her power in death. And may it bring him as much luck as it has done to me; but the idea of what he might do to her body was almost unbearable.

  ‘Yaroslav,’ she began to struggle with the ropes, ‘we have to get out of here.’

  ‘I will only slow you down,’ the voice from the other side of the hut came hoarse and broken. ‘Will you never learn? It is you who Wislaw wants: what am I to him? I have no power and I doubt that anyone will bother with me until the food begins to run out, and the woyaks will probably have gone long before then.’

  ‘Are you strong enough to take the path up to the autumn camp?’ Iwa asked as she felt the ropes begin to give.

  ‘Even if I could, what good would it do? That route is well known and even the woyaks would track us. No, you need to find one of the other ways, you were always so good at finding your path along the backwoods trails, slinking off so far that Godek could hardly find you. I never had the skill for that.’

  ‘Just let me get free.’ Above her wrist she could see the knot start to loosen. ‘Once
we’re free we can slip out of the camp.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate Grunmir. He keeps a careful watch. Many of the woyaks think now only of escape. If it hadn’t been for the demon they’d have fled long ago.’

  ‘So these woyaks aren’t as stupid as all that,’ she said, the ropes creaking under her weight. ‘They should have stayed in the lands of the Poles.’

  ‘But their eyes are sharp and Grunmir only puts his most trusted men on night guard. They’re not about to let anybody get past them and, even if I could get free, what then? I’m too old to go creeping through the backwoods tracks.

  ‘You flee – get out and find one of the clans: the Boar’s Tusk or the Wolf’s Jaw, those who hunt deep into the forest. They might hide you, but don’t think that Wislaw will give up on you, not if he thinks that he can steal your craft. He’ll convince Grunmir to send his woyaks after you – only the deep forest clans will be able to keep you safe. And don’t trust the Salmon, or any of the other freshwater clans: they have too much contact with the traders and too much love of their coin.’

  ‘You’ll be able to get out of the camp,’ Iwa said quickly, ‘and the forest paths aren’t as difficult as you think. The woyaks couldn’t find a herd of elk if they ran under their noses.’

  ‘Remember when I found you in the snowstorm?’

  ‘I was too young. Fleeting images only: cold and whiteness,’ she replied, anxious to keep him occupied. If only she could loosen the ropes a little. He needed to believe that he could escape. The thought that she might have to leave him was almost too much for her. Not after all she’d been through.

  ‘I dragged you from the snow, nothing more than a tiny bundle, your red deerskin cloak wrapped around you like a shroud.’

  ‘I thought that I’d been taken by the ancestors, or maybe I was so close to death that it was nothing more than an apparition. I had so many dreams after the cold left me.’ Iwa shivered. Much of what had happened lay forgotten, but she remembered the cold. Then there was the warm feeling as she collapsed to the ground, too young to realise that death was fast upon her.