7. Wine
“Wash your face, idiot girl,” Nyja hisses as the screams grow louder, the music grinding to a halt in a chaos of shrill flute sounds and uneven drumbeats.
I look away from the demon, back in control of my own body. When I wipe the wetness from my cheek, there is dark red blood on my hand.
“Now,” Nyja says, her voice like a powerful beat that pushes into my ribcage and seizes my heart. I gasp for breath and stumble to the river, kneeling on the grassy bank as I quickly wash blood off my cheeks and out of my eyes.
My hands shake and my body feels like in the throes of sickness, weak and trembling, my heart losing its rhythm, confused. I spit into the river, and my spit is dark with blood.
I can’t believe it, yet I also can’t disbelieve it when the proof is so clear before me. Speaking his name makes my tongue bleed. And looking at him makes me weep bloody tears.
Yet, he forces me to look. If his appearance alone didn’t convince me he is a demon, that very act would. And yet, both Nyja and Strzybog seem familiar with him. They treat him like their equal—or maybe even someone superior?
I don’t understand it.
When I stand up and take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, the chaos quiets slowly. I risk a glance behind. Everyone gathers into a silent, tense crowd far away from the gods and yet close enough to see. Jarota stands slightly in front of the crowd, twisting his hands helplessly around his staff.
It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do.
I chance a look inside the circle, bracing for the sting in my eyes, but the demon shrouds himself in shadows again. Now, I can’t even see his silhouette. He’s just a menacing black cloud in the back. If I didn’t know he was there, I would just think it’s some aspect of the presence of the gods.
I think he’s hiding from everyone else here, and yet, he revealed himself for me to see. And even forced me to look. Why?
My nape tingles and I turn my eyes away, wiping my wet face and nervously righting my chaplet on my head. Then I look at the fires again, especially the one that sputters and chokes, giving more smoke than heat now.
“Um… What happens if that fire goes out?” I whisper, hoping only the gods hear me while the mortals don’t.
Surely, they’d find a way to fault me for speaking to the gods before the zerca.
No one answers me. Nyja speaks up, facing the crowd.
“Thank you for inviting us to spend Kupala Night in your midst,” she says in a clear, strong voice that carries easily to the farthest reaches of the meadow. I don’t know if it’s magic or charisma, but she speaks like she’s used to addressing large gatherings.
“We thank you, oh, blessed ones,” Jarota replies, not even half as loudly as Nyja. His voice trembles, but he seems to have found his footing. “We haven’t had such an honor in lifetimes, divine ones. Please, tell us what you require.”
“Keep the fires lit. If even one goes out, we’ll leave this place,” Nyja says at once, and I slowly take a step back. Because I suddenly realize I’m standing suspiciously close. I should make my way to the crowd.
There’s immense safety in being one of many.
As I think it, taking another cautious step, pain explodes over my left breast, as if a knife cut my skin. I hiss in surprise and look up. A pair of deep yellow eyes, focused on me, flashes in the black smoke and then vanishes.
Do not run away, is the unspoken order.
I freeze in terror and uncertainty, not even knowing how I know that’s what he wants. I’m itching to feel my chest to see if blood blooms over the place that still radiates sharp pain, but I don’t dare move, not even to look down. My guts twist into tight knots of anxiety, because I realize the circle doesn’t really hold them back.
His magic can clearly cross the line of fires.
“Swietko, Darobor,” Jarota calls out at once. “Feed the fires so our guests can stay and bless us with their presence. And thank you, oh mighty…” He frowns as if trying to place who she is. He fails, just as I did.
“I am Nyja, the lady of the last breath,” she says, her voice suddenly sounding kinder, softer, like a caress from a loving hand. Yet, it carries, and people gasp, some falling to their knees right away. Nyja smiles without showing her teeth.
“Thank you, oh mighty, beautiful goddess, Nyja!” the zerca calls, standing taller.
I think he finally realizes he’s doing the one thing his entire life and vocation was always about—speaking to the gods. Pride and sense of importance radiate from him as Nyja inclines her head with a gracious smile.
Meanwhile, there is no sign of the men Jarota ordered to feed the fires. I see a commotion in the crowd and a flash of Swietko’s red face as Darobor tries to drag him to the circle. Both are reluctant, but Darobor is a responsible man, one of the few who respect their wives and don’t abuse drink. He won’t turn his back on a direct order from the zerca.
Swietko is a piece of shit and a coward. He’s also the weaker of the two. Darobor drags him out of the crowd, and as soon as they are exposed and have no one to hide behind, Darobor lets go and Swietko straightens, pretending he didn’t have to be dragged out to do his duty.
“I thought mortals loved us,” Strzybog mutters, and I can’t tell whether he’s truly put out or mocking.
“Oh, they do,” the dragon answers, scorn clear in his voice. “As long as we stay away and don’t ever show our faces.”
I turn to object, because it’s obviously not the truth, but pause as Darobor and Swietko go over to the pile of wood at the edge of the meadow. They are tense, their eyes brimming with fear. Jarota looks proud, but his face is etched with wariness.
And the people behind him watch the gods with wide, fearful eyes, clearly on the brink of terror. They don’t run away only because nobody else is running. Yet, I have a distinct feeling any louder noise could startle them all into a stampede like a herd of sheep.
“Jaga likes us,” Nyja says, a playful smile on her lips as she looks at me. I can just see the edges of her sharp teeth. “She’s not afraid.”
“No, I’m not,” I say truthfully. “I’m terrified.”
Strzybog laughs suddenly, warm and pleasant. “You hide it well,” he says with a conspiratorial wink as a gust of gentle wind flies past my face, pressing to my cheek like a touch.
A moment later, Strzybog curses, clutching his side with a wince. He turns sharply to the menacing cloud of shadows behind him.
“What the fuck was that for?”
Woland doesn’t answer, and a queasy awareness crawls down my spine. I think my mind is trying to forget him among everything that’s happening, and when he obscures his presence, it’s easy. But maybe I should force myself to be aware of him at all times.
Somehow, I know. He’s the most dangerous of the gods. And if I’m not mistaken, Strzybog just touched me using the wind he commands, and Woland did something to punish him for it. That makes him even more terrifying. Because it’s one thing for him to make me, a mortal, bleed and hurt.
But Strzybog is a god. The fact Woland can hurt him sits wrong in my stomach, like a jagged rock. It just doesn’t fit, because Woland is no one. There is nobody by that name in our stories and folk tales, and certainly nobody that looks like him. Unless…
I glance at the dark cloud again, remembering what I saw. With my eyes bleeding and my heart pounding from terror, I couldn’t really make sense of it. But now, I remember his shape, the color of his skin, the tail, the hooves. The antlers don’t fit, because Wiosna always said he had horns, but she could have had it wrong, couldn”t she?
Everything else is just like in the stories. Well, save for his name, but as I think hard, trying to remember every detail, I don’t think he ever had a name in the stories. Even just calling him the devil was supposed to bring evil to one’s door.
No wonder his true name was forgotten.
I stare at the smoke shrouding him as I think, my breath growing faster and more laborious as my throat constricts, my legs tensing with the need to run. I have half a mind to kick one of the fires, the one closest to the river, into the water so he is forced to leave.
Because he is the devil. The most evil, horrible, disgusting of demons. The one who rules flies and other vermin; the one who drinks blood not for survival, like upirs, but for enjoyment.
The one who kills with a look and curses everything he touches.
And for some unfathomable reason, he’s taken an interest in me. My knees wobble as I swallow convulsively, trying to lessen the discomfort in my throat, but it only gets worse.
Especially when the shadows blow away for a moment, revealing those yellow irises that are still trained on me. My eyes sting sharply, and the shadows coalesce, hiding him again.
I flinch but stay put, remembering his power can reach me easily. It’s no use running. I have to find another way of escaping his attention.
Swietko and Darobor arrive, heaving a few dry logs each. If I weren’t so spooked and uneasy, I would laugh at how ungainly they look, trying to put the wood into the fire without stepping too close to the circle.
Strzybog looks half-amused, half-appalled, his mouth twisted in a pitying smile. But Foss, the dragon, doesn’t pity the men. With one big stride, he steps over to the very edge of the circle while Swietko is bent low over the ground, picking up another log. When he throws it into the flames and straightens, the dragon bares his fangs at him with a hiss.
“Fuck!”
Swietko falls back on his ass, his mouth open in terror, his eyes popping out of their sockets. And no wonder. He just saw a scaled, fanged face with red eyes hissing at him.
If I had any self-control or calm left in me, I would hold back. But I don’t, and so I burst out laughing. Swietko looks utterly harmless with his hair disheveled, face frozen in terror, his legs akimbo as he sits in the grass, staring up at the dragon who probably just wanted to amuse himself with a stupid prank.
But as he turns his wide eyes on me, Swietko’s face contorts, twisting from fear to hate. The change is so fast and so striking, I blink, my laughter sticking in my throat.
Uh-oh. Shouldn’t have laughed.
He doesn’t say anything, just gets up with stiff movements and picks up another log to feed the next fire in line. When he’s done, he brushes past me, so close his shoulder knocks into mine as he hisses in my ear, “You will pay for this.”
Both Swietko and Darobor hurry back to the crowd, seeking safety in numbers. I slowly step away from the circle, hoping the shadows might hide me, but at this point, everyone already saw me up here. I’m scared to think what people will say after Kupala is over. Will this be the tipping point? Will my proximity to the gods everyone fears finally be the thing that drives me out of the village?
Or could it be my saving grace? After all, gods are revered.
Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it. At least I’m not inside the circle. I think I’d piss myself from terror if something forced me to be trapped with them.
“Thank you, dear friends,” Nyja calls out gracefully, and Jarota bows as if he single-handedly fed all the fires that now crackle merrily, strong and in no danger of going out.
“Can we offer you nourishment and drinks?” he asks, his voice much stronger now. He’s really in his element, which is fortunate. At least one person in the village is happy about the divine visit.
“Bring us five cups of your finest drink,” Nyja says, her demand coming naturally, like she’s used to giving orders.
Jarota bows deeply, and Nyja stands back, evidently done speaking. I can’t help but be awed by her manner, her confidence and the air of certainty. She is exactly where she wants to be, or fakes it perfectly.
I wish I could have such queenly air someday.
“I won’t drink their swill,” the dragon mutters, and I snort at his rudeness. He looks at me sharply. “If you have something to say, mortal girl, say it out loud.”
A cold prickle shivers down my spine, so I stand straighter and face him, pretending I’m not afraid.
“I thought higher beings such as yourself had better manners than mortals. I’m disappointed,” I say, my heart trying to choke me. “And our mead and plum wine are quite good, thank you.”
Meanwhile, Jarota looks around, evidently troubled. He’s trying to decide who should serve the wine. I suppose he thinks serving it himself is beneath him, or maybe he’s afraid of approaching the gods. Probably both.
I want to snort again, but I think better of it. Even though all I want is to be inconspicuous and safe, my every word and gesture only invite more scrutiny.
“Well, what if our lovely…” Jarota begins, his eyes settling somewhere in the crowd.
“Jaga should serve the wine!” Swietko’s loud voice breaks through. “Let her be useful for once!”
“That one really doesn’t like you,” Strzybog murmurs softly. I flinch, seeing he stands as close as the fires allow.
That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.
Jarota straightens. “And so it shall be! Jaga, bring the finest wine for our guests!”
I sigh and nod, gathering the skirts of my dress to walk swiftly to the bench with cups and drink when a cry of protest stops me in my tracks.
“No! If anyone should serve wine to the gods, it’s the Kupala queen!”
The crowd murmurs and parts, revealing a flushed, beautiful, red-lipped Ida. She stares at me with narrowed, challenging eyes.
Strzybog laughs, a gust of warm wind tangling between my bare ankles. “Spunky little thing, eh? I’ve always wanted to drink from the hand of a queen.”
He winks at me, and I grit my teeth. Reluctant just a minute ago, now I want nothing more than to be the one who will push a cup of wine into the gods’ hands. Especially Nyja’s.
Though, maybe not Woland’s. I drop my skirts and nod, letting Ida have it. But just when I take a step back, a deep, blood-chilling voice speaks, freezing the air with its menacing power.
“I shall take a cup from Jaga’s hand.”