Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

4. Fire

We reach the meadow as dusk gives way to night, the sky growing heavy with dark purples and blues. The brightest star, Lady of the Night, glimmers over the horizon in the east. God Chors begins his nightly walk across the sky, his silver face almost round. It will be full moon in a few nights.

A collective laughter soars high into the night sky, men and women standing in a large group by the biggest bonfire laughing at a joke. It’s not yet rowdy, but the atmosphere of celebration makes everyone relaxed.

Children run here and there. They will stay for now, when it’s still tame, but when the celebrating turns bawdy, they’ll be sent home.

The big Kupala fire burns tall and bright in the middle of the meadow. It’s built to be higher than any man, shooting gold sparks into the air smelling of evening dew, smoke, and herbs. Dotted around the huge meadow are smaller fires, a large ring of five just at the edge of the river.

“Oh, look at them!” Bogna whispers, her voice growing wistful as she eyes a group of young women, a dozen or so, emerging from the river. Their thin shifts cling to their bodies, dark nipples and hair between their legs contrasting with the white of their clothes.

All girls wear chaplets and it’s clear they worked hard on them today. Robust, flowery crowns rest on intricate braided updos, colorful and stunning. Those chaplets will play an important role in the Kupala rituals tonight, deciding the girls’ fates.

I watch them closely and finally relax, a smirk tugging at my lips. Those chaplets are beautiful, the flowers fresh enough. But none of the girls wear poppies as sumptuous as mine. None of their flowers are as deep in their color, as alive. It was worth the nosebleed and pain.

To at least have this.

“I wonder which one will be queen this year,” Bogna whispers, the longing in her voice obvious.

Not me, that’s for sure. I was never invited to join the young maidens’ rituals and would never be picked their queen.

The same longing Bogna can’t hide blooms in my chest as I watch the girls throw arms around each other and laugh, their faces clear of worry, their eyes flashing coquettishly at the group of young men standing by a bonfire nearby. The men watch them with covetous eyes, talking in hushed voices between small sips of mead and wine.

Older men, those already married, glance at the maidens, too. I bet many of them will go off into the bushes with girls who are not their wives. That’s the essence of Kupala Night—naked bodies, sweat, and sex.

“Ida,” I answer Bogna’s question.

Even now, Ida stands in the middle of the group, the center all girls revolve around. Ida is the most popular of them, not only because she’s the prettiest and has the wealthiest parents, but also because of her natural charm and boldness. She walks tall, looks people in the eyes with a smile, and doesn’t shy away from showing off her naked body.

Like now. Her shift is the thinnest, her taut nipples the clearest through the material.

For one agonizing moment, I can’t subdue the visceral craving in my gut. It washes over me, acidic and powerful, making my fists clench and my chest hollow. It’s a desperate, hopeless ache that could easily turn into hate.

I pack it deep into myself, regaining control. And yet, I can’t hide this intimate knowledge of my deepest desire from myself.

Because tonight, I want to be her.

I want to be Ida, with the beautiful wheat-gold hair she flaunts with confidence. It’s loose, falling down her back almost to her buttocks like a gold curtain. I keep mine braided and tucked away, knowing it for the curse it is.

It’s not just the beautiful hair I crave. I want her eyes, summer sky blue and perfectly matching. Eyes that laugh and challenge and beckon, unlike mine that scare and repel.

My eyes almost got me killed. Hers get her attention, admiration, kind words and eager lips.

Finally, I want her body. She’s shorter and fuller than me, with generous breasts and hips, her waist narrow, her limbs lithe. As close to a goddess as a woman can be, and I can’t compare with my tall stature and narrow hips.

Even more than her body, I want the looks she gets. No one has ever looked at me like the men look at her now.

With unabashed, primal hunger.

I already know so many will lap at her honey tonight. And when the chaplets float down the river, all boys will try to catch hers, but only the strongest one will win.

That’s the natural order of things. The most beautiful, popular girl always falls to the best fed, wealthiest lad. The two most blessed will be joined, their blessings combined, their luck multiplied.

I want all that and I will never have it.

And I know their joy is fleeting. One night is all the girls get, all Bogna got, as well. Most of the maidens will find husbands tonight and likely get pregnant, losing their right to bear a chaplet forever.

After this, they’ll be married matrons like Bogna. With their hair covered and fates sealed, they will bear children, tend to the hearth and home, and look at the new batch of Kupala maidens with the same longing Bogna has in her eyes.

I know all that. And yet, I can’t fully leash the envy spreading dark, angry wings in my chest right now. Because I should be among them. I should be one of the merry crowd, dipping in the river and tempting boys with sultry looks. I should be given this right to be a wild, untamed temptress even for just one night.

To shine my beauty and challenge with my eyes. To laugh with other girls and wear my chaplet proudly, anticipating the moment it will float down the river. To hope and feel beautiful and wanted as boys fight for the right to jump with me over the fire.

Yet all I get are hateful looks, muttered curses, and spit on my doorstep.

“She looks so pretty,” Bogna says with a nod. “The cornflowers and mullein suit her. And the roses! I think her chaplet is the most beautiful apart from yours.”

I smile bitterly. Suddenly, the magic I did, the spell that cost me so much, seems so pointless. Because Bogna is right, my spelled chaplet is the most beautiful tonight. And yet, it means nothing because nobody wants to catch it.

To be fair, I don’t want it caught by any of the village boys. I just want to be included. To belong.

I scoff at my folly. No chaplet will ever achieve such a feat. I could wear a crown and still be an outcast.

“Go find your friends,” I tell Bogna, nodding at the group of young mothers nearby.

Some of them have small babies at home and should be resting, and yet, they are here. Because they know very well what happens at Kupala and came over to watch their husbands.

I don’t pity those women even though they are pitiful. But it’s their own fault they have to stand here, exhausted and suspicious of their men.

If they had come to me, I would have given them herbs to make their husbands’ pricks useless for tonight. I know Wiosna had a supply and sold most of it right before Kupala. The new whisperer either doesn’t know the right recipe or doesn’t offer it to young mothers. Or maybe her price is too high to afford. She’s much more expensive than Wiosna was.

“I won’t leave you alone,” Bogna says resolutely, and I laugh.

“Go and do me a favor,” I say, not because I really want Bogna to do anything for me but because I know standing by me in public makes her a target. “Find out if Czeslawa offered them herbs to ensure their husbands’ fidelity. If not, you can hint I might have something for them. For next year.”

Bogna lights up, her big, innocent eyes creasing in a smile. Right now, she looks so childlike. Her face is open and trusting, her joy obvious and bright.

That only makes me hate her husband more. I’d gladly poison him myself, but Bogna forbade it. She has a good soul, pure and sweet, and so she’d never let him get hurt. Even though he almost killed her.

We don’t speak about the children he murdered. Although he only beat the first pregnancy out of her, she miscarried the next two, as well. Her womb is broken after the trauma.

So yes, I think he deserves to die. I’d gladly put poison in his beer if Bogna allowed it.

She goes happily now, eager for her new mission. I stay in place, looking around the large meadow to see if everyone is here. I’ll have to do my little show like every year to ensure they don’t kick me out, and I’d rather all villagers witnessed it. This way, I’ll avoid gossip.

The maidens fling water off their bodies and gather dry clothes from a large, flat stone by the shore. They pick up their baskets with oils and honey, and my lip curls even as my heart stutters with a fresh wave of envy.

They will get dressed in the forest where no one can see, though I’m sure the young men will follow to peek. Before they dress, they will anoint each other with fragrant oils and put honey between their legs for the boys to lap at later tonight.

I know enough about the female body to foresee the unpleasant consequences. Unlike the honey, they won’t be sweet. And yet, jealousy squeezes my heart in a chilly grip because I want to celebrate tonight. Like everyone.

But when the girls pass by me, they give me disdainful looks. Some snicker, covering their mouths with their hands as they size me up, their eyebrows arching until their gazes snag on my chaplet.

When Ida sees it, her mockery turns to anger. This is a reason to be glad I did the spell, I decide. If Ida is angry, that means my chaplet must be truly as splendid as I think.

She stops in front of me, looking boldly up, the group of girls at her back like a gathering of wilas.

“Hello, witch,” she says, her voice lilting in mockery. “Who’s the hapless boy you’re trying to entice with this sad little crown? I’d better warn him you’re planning to ensnare him with magic.”

I’m so used to the hurt of rejection, I barely register it as I draw power from my joyless triumph. At least they envy me for something, too.

“There is no one in this village who can tempt me,” I say, and it’s the truth. “Have your sad little boys. I don’t want them. You’re safe from me.”

Ida’s face flushes deep pink, twisting with fury. The sight gives me a vicious jab of pleasure. She’s not so pretty now, is she? But she quickly schools her features into a fake sweet smile and comes closer until the grasses from her chaplet tickle my nose.

“Because you’d rather lie with the devil, wouldn’t you? Like a witch.” Her whisper carries, and a few girls gasp at her audacity.

“Yet I am not the one calling his name,” I say cooly, even though my heart pounds faster and faster, the memory of the night when I did call the devil’s name flashing through my mind. The terror is still fresh, living in my guts like a viper, crawling out every time it senses my weakness.

I swallow, keeping the nausea down.

Ida’s fake smile drops, and she rears back as if slapped. Her red mouth twists, searching for a good response, but she finds none. Seeing the opportunity to make the most of my forced little show, I smile and nod.

Better get this over with, and Ida just gave me a useful opening. It’s time for my trial.

“But of course, we should always be careful of the evil hiding in our midst,” I say. “I am happy to prove my innocence.”

I walk around the group, heading for the big bonfire. The weight of their gazes prickles my nape, and I hear a few quiet words as the message spreads around the meadow.

“Jaga goes to the fire. Watch Jaga! Quickly, look!”

I’ve been tested by the Kupala fire every year since I was born. The first time, my mother brought me to the bonfire, pressing my wobbly head close to her chest and whispering soothing words because I was uneasy.

As soon as she approached, red sparks shot up into the sky, and there were so many. It was like a rain of fire. The people gasped and called for the gods to protect them, and then Wiosna came over to my mom, took me in her arms, and said that some idiot had clearly put a fresh pine branch into the fire and that caused the sparks.

Everyone listened to her. Whisperers have power and the obedience of their people.

She retreated with me in her arms and my mother approached the fire again. It was calm, and everyone breathed in relief, their eyes turning to me. The baby. Because if my mother alone didn’t anger the fire, surely it had to be me, all two moons old and barely able to hold my own head, yet already an evil witch.

Wiosna went over to the fire, confident and sure as she held me close, and nothing happened. No sparks. No signs from an angry god.

She told me about it when I began learning from her. By then, I understood there was something wrong with me. A reason why other children refused to play with me, why adults averted their eyes or prayed for protection when I passed.

Because nothing Wiosna did fully erased that first impression and fear, especially after I grew hair, and it was as red as sunset. But she saved us that night. If not for her intervention, both my mother and I would have been thrown out into the wilderness, because the sacred Kupala fire never lies.

It can always tell a witch apart. And once she’s revealed, people lose no time getting rid of her.

Gods save them from powerful women.

Now, I walk to the fire, not too slowly, but not in haste, either. I draw my show out for people to feel that thrill and for my victory to be even sweeter. Because I’ve dabbled in magic for years, and never did the fire reveal it at Kupala.

What if it does tonight?

A flicker of unease presses at my heart, and my steps slow as I look around. Everyone from the village is here, barring a few of the elders. The men are not yet drunk enough to be clumsy, and everyone watches sharply, their suspicions clear on their faces. There is no Wiosna to save me now if anything goes wrong.

And even though I’ve never faced the fire’s wrath in the past, tonight is different. The awareness crashes through me like a bolt from the sky. The fire’s heat that I already feel on my skin is probing, oppressive, and sweat beads on my nape.

I’ve blundered. In my foolish vanity, I might have made a deadly mistake that will be the end of me. Even worse, it will be the end for the twelve-year-old girl I’ve left behind in the woods, with a shaken heart and a lifetime of nightmares in her head.

I’ll never save her now.

Because I wear a chaplet spelled with magic on my head. And even if the sacred fire can’t sense whatever power lies within my soul, it surely detects the poppies.

Stupid, reckless Jaga.

But there’s nothing for it. If I turn back now, they’ll think I’m afraid of being tried. It will be as good as admitting I am a witch. So I can only move forward and hope. Or even pray.

The fire crackles and hisses, long tongues of flame suddenly reaching for me. For my chaplet. I halt, clenching my fists, fear squeezing my heart. If I go any closer, I’ll be burned. The Kupala fire destroys all magic to keep the celebration sacred.

“Go on! What are you waiting for?” I recognize Swietko’s voice and swallow convulsively. I take another step. The fire sizzles, a long flame reaching almost to my face. Someone behind me gasps. They clearly saw that and know as much as I do—this is not how ordinary fire behaves.

I am doomed.

“Whoever hears me, please,”I pray desperately in my mind, standing in front of the fire and knowing I have to take one more step. The fiery serpents reach for me again, and I hold my body rigid so as not to recoil. “Let the fire be calm. Please, whichever god will save me. I’ll do anything. Please, don’t let me get burned.”

Another shout comes from the crowd and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. The heat of the fire flows down my breasts and stomach, too hot to be pleasant. If no one hears my prayer, if no one saves me, it will be the last touch I feel.

I hold my breath and take the final step.