Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

5. Queen

The wall of flaming branches in front of me calms, and, for a moment, I swear the heat dissipates as pleasant coolness soothes my skin. The silence of the gathered people is hungry, expectant. The moment stretches as I wait for my doom.

Surely, the sacred flames will reach for me any moment. They will tangle in my thrice becursed chaplet and my mother’s ill-fated dress and swallow me whole.

I wait. The fire crackles, calm and warm, and the heat, so unbearable just moments before when I stood farther away, slides over my skin through my clothes. It licks down my neck and collarbones and then lower, caressing the valley between my breasts.

My heart beats too fast, making me dizzy, and yet I stand strong. I don’t dare close my eyes. Slowly, I realize nothing’s going to happen. I don’t dare think it yet, but I feel it in my bones.

I’m safe.

And those watching probably realize it, too. Someone laughs, someone grumbles, and a murmur of dissatisfaction spreads through the crowd.

“You gave me such a fright!” Bogna says in an undertone, appearing by my side. The fire remains calm, not reacting to her presence.

Finally, I breathe out a long, soothing breath and draw in hot air. Bogna takes my hand and leads me away like I’m a child. My daze dispels, and I shake my head, welcoming the balmy air on my face as we put the fire behind our backs.

“What’s everyone saying?” I ask quietly.

Even though the flames spared me, I know how damaging any abnormal behavior of the Kupala fire is. And what happened was far from normal. No one would accept those hungry, licking flames as a simple result of burning pine needles or wet wood.

“They are disappointed,” Bogna says ruefully. “For a moment, we were sure the fire would devour you. It looked like… reaching hands. It was terrifying. But then, you stepped close, and it was all gone. Thankfully.”

Even though my legs are weak, the terror still coursing in my veins, I let go of Bogna’s hand. “Thank you. It was… I don’t know what happened.”

She sighs and pats my arm, looking up seriously. “I think Swietko hates you. He kept chanting ‘burn her, burn her, burn her’ under his nose.”

I nod, keeping my spine straight even though my body wants to sag in relief. Swietko’s hate is nothing compared to that terror I just felt, and the most important thing is that no one can accuse me of witchcraft now that the fire didn’t burn me. I can handle gossip, but as long as I wasn’t burned or marked, no one has a reason to run me out.

“He was rude to me today. I might have mocked his impotence,” I whisper, because we’re drawing close to a long bench laden with food and drink. A dozen people stand around with cups in their hands.

Bogna’s startled laughter quickly turns into a hum of disapproval. “You should be more careful. While many of us sure wish we could say whatever we want, there’s a reason why we don’t.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh, awkwardly squeezing her shoulder. I’m no good with touching people, but Bogna likes and expects it, so I make an effort. “I’ll do better.”

We stop by the bench and Bogna busies herself, pouring us both wine. People mostly ignore us, but Czeslawa, who stands nearby with the zerca, gives me a disdainful look.

“Pretty flowers,” she says, eyes narrowing on my chaplet.

She’s twenty years older than me, her brown hair already turning silver at her temples, now covered with a white kerchief. Dark, beady eyes burn shrewdly in her thin, elongated face. In the past, I’ve compared her unkindly to a horse, but now I have far better reasons to dislike her.

Like her turning Bogna away when she needed help the most.

“Thank you,” I say with an arch nod, tamping down on another flare of panic as I think that, of course, she’s suspicious. She’s a whisperer. She knows as well as I do normal poppies don’t look so sumptuous after being picked.

But I’ve been through my trial already. I’m safe for another year, and that’s what I focus on right now to stop my heart from galloping with fear.

Czeslawa’s mouth twists with contempt and Jarota, the zerca, gives me a perfunctory look and turns away. He’s in his fifties and just became our zerca when I was born. Wiosna always said he was a hack.

“Watch him after he lays a sacrifice, will you?” she told me once. “When everyone leaves, he takes the dead chicken home to boil for broth. A real sacrifice should be burned so it finds its way to the gods.”

Hack or not, Jarota has the respect of our people. Once, in the middle of a very dry summer when the lack of rain almost killed the crops, he made a flamboyant sacrifice that everyone gathered to watch. He killed a lamb, burned some herbs and said a few flowery prayers. The very next day, it rained.

Wiosna said he was a lucky bastard. Now, I’m just thankful he pays me no attention. Fire trial or not, if Jarota said one word against me, I’d be banished.

The headache that sprung in my temples after the spell earlier comes back, drumming on my skull from the inside. I blink heavily, turning away from the hostile glances of people at the table.

Gods, how I long for the solitude of my cottage. But Bogna presses a cup into my hands, so I accept my fate and stay. I have to. Being seen out and about is almost as important as the Kupala trial. If I stayed in my cottage, avoiding everyone like I want to, the gossip would soon grow too malicious to control.

People fear what they don’t know. I have to show myself, make myself known, so they see me as someone ordinary.

Gods. The lengths I go to just so my tribe lets me live among them. Maybe striking out on my own into the woods wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Surely I can avoid bears and wolves, and I certainly know what to do with evil spirits and creatures. Somehow, I don’t think it will be worse than this.

And yet, the bone crushing fear presses my ribs from the inside whenever I think about the darkness of the woods being my new home. The fear of that night comes back, and no matter how much I try to push it away—they are dead and you’re alive, you’re safe, you’re whole, there is no knife in your guts—the fear only grows stronger.

And that’s why I stay. Like the coward I am.

I convince Bogna to go to her friends and she does, admonishing me not to make any more enemies. Standing aside, I am clearly visible for everyone who cares to look, yet far enough so nobody decides to talk to me. I nurse my cup of wine, taking small sips, but mostly I just watch.

The envy and longing raise their ugly heads as I look at the villagers, who laugh and dance to the sounds of flutes and drums. Everyone lets loose as feverish excitement fills the air. Fires burn, mead flows in a steady stream, and the laughter and shouts grow louder and shriller.

All I can do is watch from afar. I’ve never been a part of any celebration, never allowed to be merry and carefree like everyone else in the village.

It’s so unfair, I want to hurl insults at them all.

Soon, the maidens come back from the woods, their dresses new and pretty, each more revealing than the last. They are flushed, their eyes sparkling with anticipation as they flirt with the boys. Already the Kupala Night courting begins, eager hands settling on warm bodies, for now just fondling through the clothes.

Wives go to their husbands to keep an eye on them as everyone watches the maidens. Soon, the young women ditch the boys and make a circle around the Kupala fire, dancing hand in hand as the golden light of the flames caresses their skin and chaplets. They sing to the beat of the drums, calling on Mokosz to bestow fertility and on Jutrzenka to delay the dawn so the night can last longer.

Through all this, I stand alone, feeling more wretched by the minute even as my foot taps out the rhythm. My body wants to dance, and the denial makes my skin tingle with tightness. Up in the sky, Chors makes his slow ascent, as lonely as I am.

This is the shortest night of the year, yet to me, it always seems like the longest.

Soon, Jarota puts away his cup and straightens his robe with fastidious movements. He clears his throat a few times and tests out his voice. It’s time for the blessing, then.

I glance at the ring of five fires by the river. We haven’t had a divine visitor in generations and yet, every year men devoutly put together those fires and keep them lit throughout the night. The walls between worlds are thin on Kupala Night, and if a god deigns to visit us, this is where they’ll appear.

The circle is empty, of course. I doubt gods take interest in mortals these days.

Jarota comes over to the big bonfire in the middle of the meadow and the maidens scatter, abandoning their dance. I sigh and put my empty cup away, coming closer as the zerca rolls back the wide sleeves of his robe. He has a pouch of herbs he’ll sprinkle over the flames: poppies, chamomile, sage. Harmless things that will make the smoke more fragrant and the people breathing it in, dizzy.

“Come forth, come forth! Let us thank the gods for their gifts and honor them by making merry and being fruitful!”

People gather around the big fire, but I stay away. I don’t want to be affected by the hypnotic smoke. I know Jarota uses it to give himself some legitimacy.

As the zerca, he’s supposed to have the gods’ favor. He’ll call on them now, and then he’ll pretend they answered. People will breathe in the smoke and see things.

Though with how drunk some of them already are, I don’t think the smoke is necessary.

Jarota drones on about calling the gods’ favor and thanks each of them in turn. Dadzbog, for giving us warmth and light. Mokosz, for making our fields and animals fertile. Perun, for ruling us fairly. And others, all the gods on Perun’s side, those he created, those he took in, and his children. Like always, Jarota doesn’t even speak the name of Weles.

Because people think it’s a curse.

When he’s done, he throws a fistful of herbs into the fire with a flamboyant gesture. The flames spark and sizzle as pungent smoke rises into the sky. I know this is just for show and gods don’t really listen to Jarota. And yet, I can’t help glancing at the ring of fires by the river, to my right.

I long to see a god, just once. Maybe even talk to them if I can, because I’m running out of ways to become the powerful witch who saved me. And if I don’t become her, I’ll die. My twelve-year-old self will die.

But when I look at the circle prepared for the gods, it is, of course, empty. Like always.

Jarota bids everyone to celebrate in ways that will please the gods and retreats, pouring himself a full cup of mead. To the left, a gaggle of young men gather in the shadows, shoving each other and laughing. Their linen shirts are open, their faces flushed and shiny with sweat. Drink and fire heated them up, and now they are rearing to go.

They try to get their eyes on the new Kupala queen.

A distance away, in the light of a small bonfire, the maidens have gathered. They shoot sultry looks at the boys, knowing very well they are being watched. After Jarota interrupted their dancing, the girls chose their queen, and like I predicted, it’s Ida.

They strip her bare.

“Crown the queen! Crown the queen!” the girls chant as the boys shush each other and shove to get a better view.

Ida stands naked, the fair hair between her thighs glistening with honey. The girls always put food between their legs for Kupala and don’t care about the consequences as long as it gets each of them an eager tongue between her thighs.

In a moment of soul-crushing honesty, I admit I’d like that, too. But not from any of these boys. Not from anyone I know.

The young men jostle and bicker, their eyes glistening in the dark. The Kupala queen is usually the prettiest, most popular of the girls. Every boy here practically weeps with gratitude for the treat of seeing her naked. Some of them have never seen a girl in just her skin. It will be their first time fucking, too.

Tonight, everyone but me will get some. Ida more than others if she’s willing.

I don’t envy her this, I tell myself, even as something bitter twists in my stomach. Tonight, she’s the prettiest. She commands the attention of everyone—she is their center, their Great Oak that grows in the middle of the world. I can almost feel the warmth of the power she wields, and I also know I’ll never get to have it.

If she’s the Great Oak, I am a gnarled, twisted pine tree that grows on unfriendly soil against the odds. No one admires me. No one chooses me to be their queen. And it’s shallow and vain, but a part of me longs for this attention. To just taste it once. To have it once.

But once is all she gets—what anyone gets. Next year, Ida will be dethroned. Every Kupala, another girl is the queen.

The girls giggle, bringing out the robe of flowers and grasses they wove for their queen. They will drape it over Ida to mark their choice.

“We choose you, Kupala queen! Let us bask in your beauty and favor. Let us all be as beautiful as you tonight.”

The girls wrap the woven flower robe around Ida’s naked body, tying it around her breasts and stomach, covering her sticky thighs. She is crowned their queen, and soon, they carry her into the forest, where she’ll bequest her favors. As they go, they sing the customary Kupala song.

Oh, Kupala queen, the fairest of us all,

Give us some of your charms so our skin can glow.

Give us a few of the sparks that dance in your eyes,

Make our limbs lithe so each can claim her prize.

With hoots of laughter, the girls disappear between the trees and the boys follow, not even trying to stick to the shadows. They shout and warn the girls to hide well if they want to keep their secrets, and some of the maidens turn and blow them kisses.

I sigh and swirl the dregs of wine in my cup, mercilessly stomping down on all the bitter, resentful feelings that rise in my chest. I should be among those girls, carefree and joyful as I flaunt my charms. Instead, I have to stay here among the older adults, alone and pitiful.

I shake my head. No, I’m not going to suffer any more ignominy tonight. I put my cup away with a thump and look around one last time at the burning fires, the black outlines of spruces against the starry sky, at the people laughing and talking in raucous voices.

I turn to go home when my heart swells with painful terror in my throat.

The circle of bonfires by the river is no longer empty. Someone is there.