“Steal her away, you mean? Take her from her mother, who loves her?” Vasya dragged in air. “You should think of what happened to your own children first.”
“No,” said the woman. “I didn’t need them, little serpents.” Her eyes were savage, and Vasya wondered if it were solitude or magic that had planted this deep seed of madness inside her, that she would reject her children so. “You will have my powers and my chyerti, great-granddaughter.”
Vasya got up and went and knelt at the old woman’s side. “You honor me,” she said, forcing her voice to calm. “At dusk I was a vagabond, and now I am someone’s great-grandchild.”
The old woman sat stiff, puzzled, watching Vasya with reluctant hope.
“But,” she finished, “it was for my sake that the Bear was freed; I must see him bound anew.”
“The Bear’s amusements do not concern you. He was long a prisoner; don’t you think he deserves a little sunlight?”
“He just tried to kill me,” said Vasya acidly. “That is one amusement that concerns me.”
“You cannot stand against him. You are too young, and you have seen the dangers of too much magic. He is the cleverest of the chyerti. If I had not come, you would have died.” One withered hand reached out and caught Vasya’s. “Stay here and learn, child.”
“I will,” said Vasya. “I will. If the Bear is bound then I will come back and be your heir and learn. But I must see my family safe. Can you help me?”
The old woman withdrew her hand. Hostility was winning out over the hope in her face. “I will not help you. I am steward of this lake, these woods; I care not for the world beyond.”
“Can you at least tell me where the winter-king is imprisoned?” asked Vasya.
The woman laughed. Really laughed, throwing her head back with a cackle. “Do you think his brother will have just left him lying, like a kitten he forgot to drown?” Her eyes narrowed. “Or are you just like Tamara? Choosing a man over your own kin?”
“No,” said Vasya. “But I need his help to bind the Bear again. Do you know where he is?” Despite her efforts at calm, a hard edge was creeping back into her own voice.
“Not on any of my lands.”
Lady Midnight was still standing in the shadows, listening intently. Baba Yaga has three servants, riders all: Day, Dusk, and Night, that was how the story went. “Nevertheless,” said Vasya, “I am going to find him.”
“You don’t know where to start.”
“I am going to start in Midnight,” said Vasya shortly, with another glance at the midnight-demon. “Surely if it includes every midnight that ever was, one of them contains Morozko in his prison.”
“It is a land so vast your mind cannot understand it.”
“Will you help me then?” Vasya asked again, looking into the face that was the mirror of her own. “Please. Babushka, I am sure there is a way.”
The woman’s mouth worked. She seemed to hesitate. Vasya’s heart leaped with sudden hope.
But then the witch turned stiffly away, jaw set. “You are as bad as Tamara, as bad as Varvara, as bad as either of those wicked girls. I will not help you, fool. You will only get yourself killed, and for nothing, after your precious winter-king went to such lengths to see you safe.” She was on her feet. Vasya was too.
“Wait,” she said. “Please.” Midnight stood motionless in the darkness.
Furiously the old woman said, “If you think better of your foolishness, come back and perhaps I will reconsider. If not—well, I let my own daughters go. A great-granddaughter should be even easier.”
Then she stepped into the darkness and was gone.
14.
Vodianoy
VASYA WISHED SHE COULD CRY. Part of her soul yearned after her great-grandmother, as it yearned after the mother she’d never known, after her dead nurse, and the elder sister who’d gone away so young. But how could she live quietly in a land of magic while the Bear was loose, her family in danger, the winter-king left to rot?
“You are too alike,” said a familiar voice. Vasya raised her head. Midnight slipped out of the shadows. “Rash. Heedless.” The moonlight kindled the chyert’s pale hair to white fire. “So, you mean to seek the winter-king?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Curiosity,” said Midnight, lightly.
Vasya didn’t believe her. “Are you going to tell the Bear?” she asked.
“Why should I? He will only laugh. You cannot get Morozko out. You will only die trying.”
“Well,” said Vasya, “you would rather I died, it seems, judging by our last meeting. Why not tell me where he is, and I’ll be dead the sooner?”
Polunochnitsa looked amused. “It wouldn’t do any good if I did. Getting somewhere in Midnight is not so simple as knowing where you mean to go.”
“How do you travel by midnight then?”
Polunochnitsa said softly, “There is no north in Midnight, no south. No east or west; no here or there. You must only hold your destination in your mind and walk, and not falter in the darkness, for there is no telling how long it will take to get where you wish to go.”
“Is that all? Why did Varvara make me touch an oak-sapling then?”
Polunochnitsa snorted. “A little that one knows, but she does not understand. Affinity makes it easier to travel. Like calls to like. Blood calls to blood. It is easiest to go to your own kin. You couldn’t reach the tree by the lake alone because you used a weak affinity—oak-tree to oak-tree.” Her expression went sly. “Perhaps it won’t be hard for you to find the winter-king, little maiden. There is an affinity there, surely. After all, he loved you enough to yield up his freedom. Perhaps he is longing for you even now.”
Vasya had never heard anything more ridiculous. But all she said was, “How do I get into Midnight?”
“Every night, when the hour comes, my realm is there, for those with eyes to see.”
“Very well. How do I get out of Midnight again?”
“The easiest way? Go to sleep.” Midnight was watching her intently now. “And your sleeping mind will seek the dawn.”
Ded Grib popped out from under a log.
“Where were you in all this excitement?” Vasya asked him.
“Hiding,” said the mushroom-spirit succinctly. “I am glad you are not dead.” He gave Midnight a nervous glance. “Better not go looking for the winter-king, though. You’ll get killed, and after I have gone through so much trouble to be your ally.”
“I must,” said Vasya. “He sacrificed himself for me.”
She saw Midnight’s eyes narrow. She was deadly serious, but she’d not spoken in the tones of a lovelorn maiden.
“That was his choice, not yours,” said Ded Grib, looking more uneasy than ever.
Vasya, without another word, went to Pozhar, stopped a healthy distance away from where the mare was grazing. Pozhar liked to bite. “Lady, are you all kin? You and the other horses that are birds?”
Pozhar flicked her ears in annoyance. Of course we are, she said. Her leg already looked much better.
Vasya took a deep breath. “Then will you do me a kindness?”
Pozhar at once shied. You are not getting on my back, she said.
Vasya thought she heard Polunochnitsa laugh. “No,” Vasya said. “I would not ask it of you. I meant to ask—will you come through Midnight with me? Take me to Morozko’s white mare? Blood calls to blood, I learn.”
This last was for Polunochnitsa’s benefit. She could almost feel Polunochnitsa’s arrested stare.
Pozhar was still for a moment. Her great, golden ears flicked once, back and forth, uncertainly. I suppose I will try, said Pozhar irritably, and stamped. If that is all. But you are still not getting on my back.
“Just as well,” Vasya said. “I have a broken rib.”
Ded Grib was frowning. “Didn�
��t you just say—?”
“Will no one credit me with common sense?” Vasya demanded, stalking back to the fire. “Affinity guides one through the land of Midnight. Well and good, but I am not fool enough to trust the tie between Morozko and me, that was made up of lies and longing and half-truths. Especially since I suspect that the Bear might be expecting me to, and get myself killed in the process.”
Judging by Polunochnitsa’s face, that was the exact thing he was expecting. “Even if you do find him,” she said, recovering, “you won’t be able to get the winter-king out.”
“One task at a time,” said Vasya. She took a handful of strawberries from her basket, held them out. “Will you tell me something else, Lady Midnight?”
“Oh, is it bribery now?” But Polunochnitsa took the fruit, bent her head to the sweetness. “Tell you what?”
“Will the Bear or his servants follow me, if I go into Midnight after Morozko?”
Midnight hesitated. “No,” she said. “He has enough to do in Moscow. If you want to throw your life away on a prison that cannot be breached, then that is your affair.” She smelled the strawberries again. “But I will give you a last warning. The midnights nearest you only cross distance. You can go into and out of them as you will. But the farther midnights—those cross years. If you fall asleep there, and lose the Midnight-road, then you will vanish like the dew, or your flesh fall at once to dust.”
Vasya shuddered. “How will I know which is near and which is far?”
“It doesn’t matter. If you wish to find the winter-king, you must not sleep until you do.”
She took a deep breath. “Then I will not fall asleep.”
* * *
VASYA WENT TO THE LAKE to take a long drink, and found the bagiennik writhing, furious, in the shallows. “The firebird has come back!” snarled the bagiennik. “Against all hope, to live again by the water. And perhaps there will be a great herd again, to fly over the lake at dawn. Now you are taking her away on your own foolish errand.”
“I am not forcing her to come with me,” said Vasya gently.
The bagiennik beat his tail against the water, wordlessly miserable.
Vasya said, “When Pozhar wishes to come back, she may. And—if I survive this, then I will come and live by the lake and learn, seek out all the scattered horses and tend them. In memory of my own, whom I loved very much. Will that content you?”
The bagiennik said nothing.
She turned away.
From behind the bagiennik said in a new voice, “I will hold you to your word.”
* * *
VASYA COLLECTED HER BASKET, the remains of her fish. From the grass, Ded Grib piped, “Are you leaving me behind?” He was sitting on a stump now, glowing an unpleasant green in the darkness.
Vasya said, dubiously, “I may go far from the lake.”
Ded Grib looked small and determined. “I am going with you anyway,” he said. “I am on your side, remember? Besides, I can’t fall to dust.”
“How comforting for you,” said Vasya coolly. “Why be on my side?”
“The Bear can make chyerti angry, stronger with wrath. But you can make us more real. I understand now. So does the bagiennik.” Ded Grib looked proud. “I am on your side and I am going with you. You would be lost without me.”
“Perhaps I would,” Vasya said, smiling. Then a note of doubt crept into her voice. “Are you going to walk?” He was very small.
“Yes,” said Ded Grib and marched off.
Pozhar shook her mane. Hurry up, she said to Vasya.
* * *
THE GOLDEN MARE WALKED into the night, taking mouthfuls of grass as she went. Sometimes if she found a good patch, she would put her head down to graze in earnest. Vasya did not hurry her, not wanting to irritate the gash in Pozhar’s foreleg, but she was anxiously wondering when she would start to get sleepy, wondering how many hours it would take…
No point in thinking of it. She had decided. Either she would succeed or she wouldn’t.
“I have never left the lake,” Ded Grib confided to Vasya as they walked. “Not since there were villages of men there and the children dreamed me alive, when they went mushrooming in autumn.”
“Villages?” asked Vasya. “By the lake?” By then they were walking in a strange glade, with rough grass and mud under her feet. The stars were low and warm in the generous sky: summertime stars.
“Yes,” said Ded Grib. “There used to be villages of men on the borders of the magic country. Sometimes if they were brave, men and women would go in, seeking adventure.”
“Perhaps men and women might be persuaded to do so again,” said Vasya, fired with the idea. “And they could live in peace with chyerti, safe from the evils of this world.”
Ded Grib looked doubtful, and Vasya sighed.
On they went, walk and halt and walk again. Now the night was cooler, now warmer. Now they were walking on rock, with wind whistling past Pozhar’s ears, now they were skirting a pond, with a full moon lying like a pearl in the center. All was still, all was silent. Vasya was weary, but nerves and her long sleep in the house by the lake kept her moving.
She was barefoot, her boots tied to her basket. Though her feet were sore, the ground felt good on her skin. Pozhar was a silver-gold glimmer between the trees, a little short on her wounded foreleg. Ded Grib was a fainter presence still, creeping from stump to rock to tree.
Vasya hoped that Midnight had been right about the Bear not following her. But she looked often over her shoulder and once or twice had to stop herself from telling the mare to hurry.
Walking through a wooded hollow, with tall pines on all sides, she found herself thinking for the first time how pleasant it would be to make a bed of boughs and sleep until first light.
Hurriedly seeking a distraction, Vasya realized that it had been a while since she’d seen the mushroom-spirit’s green glow. She peered into the darkness, searching. “Ded Grib!” She scarcely dared to speak above a whisper, not knowing what dangers stalked this place. “Ded Grib!”
The mushroom-spirit popped out of the loam at her feet, sending Pozhar skittering backward. Even Vasya jumped. “Where have you been?” she asked him, sharp with fright.
“Helping!” said Ded Grib. He thrust something into her hands. Vasya realized that it was a sack of food. Not wild food, like her strawberries and dandelions, but flat camp-bread, smoked fish, a skin of mead. “Oh!” said Vasya. She tore off a piece of flatbread, gave it to him, gave another to the offended Pozhar, and tore off a third for herself. “Where did you get this?” she asked him, gnawing.
“There are men over there,” said Ded Grib. Vasya looked up and saw the faint glow of fires between the trees. Pozhar backed, nostrils flared uneasily. “But you shouldn’t go any nearer,” the mushroom-spirit added.
“Why not?” asked Vasya, puzzled.
“They are encamped near a river,” said Ded Grib matter-of-factly. “And the vodianoy there means to kill them.”
“Kill them?” said Vasya. “How? Why?”
“With water and fear I suppose,” said Ded Grib. “How else would he kill anyone? As to why, well, the Bear probably told him to. Most water-creatures are his, and he is putting forth his power all through Rus’ now. Let’s get away.”
Vasya hesitated. It was not pity for men drowned asleep that decided her; it was wondering why the Bear would want to kill these men in particular. You travel by midnight through affinity. What affinity would have drawn her here? Now? She peered again through the trees. Many fires; the camp was not a small one.
Then Vasya heard a faint, familiar rumbling, as though horses were coming near at a gallop over stones. But it was not horses.
The sound decided her. She thrust her basket at Ded Grib. “Stay here, both of you,” she said to the mare and to the mushroom-spirit. Barefoot, she dashed toward the glow
of the low-burning fires, raising her voice to shout through the dark, “You! The camp! Wake up! Wake up! The river is rising!”
She half-ran, half-slid down the steep sides of the gully where they had made camp. The horses were picketed and jerking at their lines; they knew what was happening. Vasya cut their pickets and the beasts bolted for higher ground.
A heavy hand fell on Vasya’s shoulder. “Horse-thieving, boy?” asked a man, his hand pinching, smelling of garlic and rotten teeth.
Vasya wrenched away. She might otherwise have been afraid of him, for the touch and the reek brought back raw memories. But now she had more pressing concerns. “Do I look like I am hiding a horse in my hat? I have saved your horses for you. Listen. The river is rising.”
The man turned his head to look, just as a wall of black water exploded from downstream, came racing past them. The hollow where the band had made camp was instantly awash. Men, half-asleep, were running everywhere in the darkness, shouting. The water was rising unnaturally fast, throwing men off their feet and frightening them by its very strangeness.
One man began calling orders. “First the silver!” he shouted. “Then the horses!”
But the water was rising faster and faster. A man was pulled down by the flood, then another. Many of the men made it to higher ground. But the one who’d been calling orders was still floundering in the wash.
As Vasya watched, the vodianoy, the river-king, shot out of the water directly in front of him.
The man couldn’t see the chyert. But he jerked back anyway, on some instinct older than sight, and nearly went under.
“Prince?” said the vodianoy. His laugh was the grinding of rocks in the flood. “I was king here when princes groveled in the mud of my river and threw in their daughters to ensure my favor. Now—drown.”
The black water surged and knocked the man off his feet.
Vasya had taken refuge in a tree, while the current raged below. Now she dove from a limb straight into the torrent. The water snatched at her with astonishing force, and she could feel the vodianoy’s rage in it.
The Winter of the Witch Page 13
