Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

14. Yarrow

I sit in front of my cottage, shelling peas into a pot. It’s early evening, the only time when I dare to sit outside. At this late hour, barely anyone walks down the path by my house, and so I can soak up the rays of the dying sun without being assaulted by scornful looks.

It’s been over four weeks since Kupala Night. The hole in my chest is even bigger than it was then.

“I know what you’re thinking, girl, and you’re wrong. It’s not really your fault.”

Wiosna’s voice floats over the lush mint growing in the herb patch in front of my cottage. It’s not the first time I hear her since Kupala, and I do my best to ignore it. To react would be to admit there’s something wrong with me.

Hearing voices isn’t normal.

“Remember, Jaga, you only see one facet of the truth. There is more to it, like there always is. Maybe what happened was a blessing. Maybe the devil did her a favor.”

“Ouch,” I hiss when the blade slips, cutting my finger.

I suck my bleeding fingertip into my mouth, shaking my head to clear it. I don’t know whether I’ve actually started hearing voices of the dead or if I’m going mad. I haven’t slept through the night ever since it happened, so it’s likely my exhausted mind plays tricks on me.

I remind myself Wiosna’s dead and can’t speak to me.

And yet, her voice sounds so real, if slightly off, like there’s a barely distorted echo to it. As if she’s really there, but maybe in another room.

Only, I know she can’t really be here and it’s not her real voice. If anything, it’s the devil’s trick. Another lie designed to… what, make me trust him again? I snort under my breath, reaching for the knife.

Kupala is over, the gods and devils are gone, and I’ll never see Woland again. Just like I won’t see Bogna.

Most likely, it’s my own mind going mad with the need to justify what happened. Wiosna’s words are something I made up to alleviate my guilt, except, it will never work. I saw Bogna’s mangled skull. I saw the fear and suffering etched onto what remained of her face, just as I see it every night in my nightmares.

“There is nothing good or redeeming about her death,” I hiss softly, feeling unhinged voicing my thoughts, and yet needing to argue with the ghostly voice. “It’s preposterous to even think that.”

“Suit yourself,”Wiosna says with her usual haughty impatience.

I almost smile hearing it. I never expected to miss that tone of voice, because it exasperated me to no end when she was alive. And yet, here we are.

Or maybe hearing voices is natural when you’re all alone, having gotten your only friend killed. Since I have no one to talk to, my mind makes up people just so that I’m not stuck all the time with the one person I loathe the most in the world: myself.

“I’m losing my mind,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh, pish,”Wiosna says, and I can almost see the dismissive wave of her hand. “Young people. Always so dramatic.”

“Yes, I am,” I whisper, letting the last pea fall in the pot.

My task done, I sit back, looking at the dark line of the forest in the distance. The sky turns pink and purple, but the glorious sunset only makes the ache in my chest worse. Bogna will never see this beauty again.

And yes, maybe she’s happier now, a light, carefree soul flitting around the branches of the eternal tree in Wyraj.

But more likely, she is stuck here, her soul tied to the earth forever by the violence of her death. Her body was burned to prevent it, but who knows if burning the remains actually works? If gods are real, all types of bies could be, too, and who knows where they come from. Bogna might turn up next summer, maybe as a poludnica taking people’s sanity in the fields at noon or a wila seducing young men in the woods to kill them off.

Before, I never questioned the old tales, accepting the natural order of things. Violent death meant a violent afterlife, filled with blood and killing, a curse on the mortals left behind. Souls of those violently murdered were supposed to turn into various sorts of bloodthirsty bies, trapped on the mortal coil, denied entrance into Wyraj. It seemed to make sense when I was younger.

Yet now, I feel angry. Why should Bogna suffer as an undead creature forever just because her husband was a violent monster? Shouldn’t she be allowed to rest, finally?

And Przemyslaw wasn’t even really punished for killing his wife. The elders decided to banish him, and so he went into the woods at dawn after Kupala, not even allowed to witness his wife’s funeral—not that I think he deserved to say goodbye after what he did.

But I do think he should have been thrown onto the burning pyre. He should have burned with her body. Instead, he walked free.

Hopefully, a kobold or a bear will find him in the woods and deliver the justice his own elders were too cowardly to serve. But more likely, he’ll just find another village and build a new life for himself while Bogna’s ashes nourish the earth, her spirit forever trapped because of what he did.

“Still moping, poppy girl. I thought you were made of stronger stuff.”

I jump to my feet and look around wildly, clutching the small knife in my hand. His voice is real, as if he’s just behind me, whispering indecencies in my ear like he did that night. And yet, there is a certain echo to it, a softer edge. As if the voice filters through a thick veil.

As I take in the herb garden in front of my house, the path half-hidden by the hedge, and the fields stretching further down on my right, I see no one.

So Woland’s voice is simply another facet of my madness. I sit down heavily, trying to take in a deep breath and failing. Ever since that night, it’s like there’s an iron band around my ribs, keeping my lungs from expanding. Every breath I take is shallow and barely enough.

When another voice trails over from the path, I am ready to scream just to drown out the dead. I stop myself at the last moment when I recognize the impatient ring of Ida’s voice.

“She said she knew what would help, and after Czeslawa’s ointment didn’t work, I’m not going to see her again. You can go there if you like.”

I frown and sit back, hiding the knife in my apron. When two kerchiefed heads appear over the hedge, I breathe out with force, trying to coax my body into calmness.

“No, I’m done with her. She took a hen, too. And the ointment didn’t even work,” says Ola, Ida’s best friend.

When the two newly married girls open my gate, I am composed enough not to scream like a strzyga, even though I badly want to. Ola, the younger and plainer of the two, falters when she sees me. But Ida gives me a sharp nod and comes over in sure, even steps.

“Good evening, girls,” I say, my voice hollow and calm. I don’t know yet what this is about, but I have an idea from the overheard bit of conversation.

This should be good.

“Hello, Jaga,” Ida says, giving me a challenging look. I sigh and stand up, not just to be polite, but to rise up to her challenge. “Can we come in?”

I study them closely. Only a moon ago, I saw them both on their backs in the grass, with their legs thrown open, faces twisted in ecstasy. Now, they are proper little wives, their heads covered, their dresses long enough to swirl around their ankles. Each carries a wicker basket, and that’s what finally makes me nod.

For the last month, I ate mostly the produce from my garden and whatever I scavenged in the woods. I’m starving for something more sustaining, like butter, cream, or eggs.

“Come in.”

I follow them inside my one-room cottage. The girls stop by my table, its wood scrubbed raw, and I nod at the stools. They sit, putting their baskets in their laps, and watch me warily as if I’m about to sprout a pair of horns. I sigh, rolling my eyes, and turn to the shelf where I keep my herbal remedies.

“Let me guess. Itching, burning, and unpleasant smell, isn’t it?” I ask, picking up two small linen bags. I used to put the right doses of Przemyslaw’s medicine in those for Bogna, but she won’t ever need them again.

“Yes,” Ida says, sounding annoyed. I glance at her over my shoulder, and she gives me an unpleasant, forced smile. “If I hadn’t heard from my mother that this is common after Kupala, I’d think you cursed us. Because you clearly knew this would happen.”

I snort at that, shaking my head as I take two earthen pots of dried herbs to the table and then my mortar and pestle, too.

“Of course, I knew. Word of advice: don’t put food where it doesn’t belong,” I say, smirking under my breath.

And yet, the triumph of being right feels stale and washed out. I’d love to share it with Bogna later, but with her gone, it’s like it’s all for nothing. I don’t even feel like sticking it to Ida now that she needs my help. My fight with her belongs to the past, and besides, it’s so meaningless.

Two girls fighting over which has a nicer chaplet. So childish. Oh, well. At least I’ll eat a nice supper tonight.

Ida scoffs. “Like you hadn’t done that, too. That traveler who caught your chaplet ate you like he was starving. What did you put between your legs for him?”

My hand spasms as I measure out the right dose of dried yarrow into my mortar. I swallow and check that I didn’t put in too much, and then I add in the dried shepherd’s purse blossoms.

So Ida saw me, but she didn’t see Woland in his real form. She saw him as the handsome man who caught my chaplet. It’s just as well. I can do without people gossiping about how I lay with the devil.

“Nothing,” I say with a bitter smile. “Catch the right man and he’ll eat you out without the honey. Now, girls. What have you got for me?”

Ida gives me a belligerent look and rolls back the embroidered napkin hiding the contents of her basket. I swallow thickly. There are a dozen eggs, a flask of mead, a thick cut of ham, and half a loaf of bread. It’s so fresh, it steams.

Ola’s basket has cream and a small wheel of cheese decorated with sprigs of rosemary. Her parents have a dozen milk cows. Her mother is known for making the best cheese in the village.

“That will be enough,” I say, nodding archly to hide how my mouth waters. I’ll have a meal fit for a queen. “And I can’t believe Czeslawa demanded a hen. What kind of ointment did she give you?”

Ola squeaks and gives Ida a spooked look. Oh, right. She doesn’t know I overheard their conversation.

Ida pats her back roughly. “She heard us talking when we came. Honestly, Ola. Have a little trust, will you? If Jaga was a witch, she would have saved Bogna. They were friends.”

Blood drains from my face. Oh gods. Is this what people say about me now? That I can’t be a witch because I let my best friend die? I should really snap out of my daze and pay attention to the gossip, but truth is, I am too battered, too insane to spend time among normal people.

“I couldn’t get out of the circle. Why didn’t you do anything?” I ask, my throat raw. “You were right there. Any of you could have stopped him.”

Ola breathes fast, her eyes wide and terrified. She looks ready to bolt, which Ida notices, as well. She grimaces and grabs Ola’s shoulder.

“For Perun’s sake, stay calm, you idiot.” When she’s certain Ola won’t run, she looks at me, her eyes bright and confident.

“No one did anything because we didn’t know he was like that. But you knew, didn’t you? Mother said Bogna came to you for herbs to keep him calm after he almost killed her two years ago. You kept him on a leash ever since then until this cursed Kupala. So, this is why we’re here. You’re good at this.”

Nausea and guilt churn in my belly, and I swallow it all down, focusing on grinding the herbs into a powder.

“You can say that,” I mutter, not looking at Ida.

She clears her throat and fidgets on the stool, looking around my cottage idly.

“So, where did he go? That traveler?” Ola breaks the uncomfortable silence, her voice trembling slightly.

“Guess he didn’t want to stay after what happened,” I say through clenched teeth, wishing for the hundredth time I could see Woland again, if only to bash his head in like Przemyslaw did Bogna’s.

“Lucky you,” Ida says, her voice turning light and teasing. “You got all the cream without having to marry him after.”

I stop grinding and look up sharply. She’s smiling, her lips revealing even white teeth, and yet, there is a world of anger in her eyes. We stare at each other until she breaks the contact, scoffing as she examines her nails.

“If you hear about anyone…” I start slowly, my throat so dry, I have to break off and swallow to be able to speak. “If you hear of any man being… short… with his wife, tell her to see me. My method can fail but… It mostly works.”

Ola looks confused, but when Ida looks up, the bitter smile on her face at least reaches her eyes now.

“Will do.”

I can’t believe I just offered Ida, of all people, to keep her husband subdued the way I did Bogna’s. Ida’s not my friend, and yet, the challenging, haughty look she gives me doesn’t hide the fear underneath. I know that fear. I saw it in my friend’s eyes every time she came to me for more herbs.

I shouldn’t offer to help another woman, not after I failed so thoroughly, but the words were out of my mouth before I could think. Because if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, I’ll do it. Even for Ida.

And it’s not like I truly failed with Przemyslaw. If it weren’t for Woland and his magic, my herbs would have done the job.

I shut off that thought and sigh, getting my brass measuring spoon. I divide the herb mixture between the two bags and then reach for two pots of ointment I made in preparation for Kupala. Bogna promised to bring me clients. And in a roundabout way, she did. I swallow, my stomach cramping at the thought.

“I want the bags and pots back,” I say, handing them to each girl. “The herbs are to be boiled for a bath. Boil the brew, let it cool a bit, and sit in it until the water grows cold. Then, put the ointment on. Put it on your husband, as well.”

“On my…” Ola repeats, looking confused and wide-eyed.

“All of him? I’m afraid you gave us too little, then,” Ida says, arching her eyebrow in a mocking challenge. I’m pretty sure she knows what I mean and just wants to tease me.

I sigh in exasperation, wishing for them to be gone already. Outside, the world plunges into late dusk. I’m more than ready for my next night of nightmares.

“Put it on his cock. If he opposes, stroke him using the ointment until he comes in your hand. That should clear it up.”

Ola giggles nervously while Ida rolls her eyes, standing up. “Thank you. Make sure you have more of that on hand because I’ll send the other girls to you. Czeslawa has no idea how to treat Kupala effects.”

“Or she just wants another hen from you,” I mutter, closing the door after them.

I know from Wiosna it’s what some whisperers do to milk wealthy clients. They’ll prescribe something that won’t help only to keep the client coming back. Wiosna never did that. She always treated everyone equally.

And I do, too.

I lean back against the closed door, exhausted by that one exchange. Even the food has no appeal now as I contemplate everything I found out from Ida. The worst piece of news is that Bogna’s death seems to have somehow redeemed me in the eyes of the village people.

Wiosna would tell me to appreciate the blessing inside the curse. I just want the curse reversed, and I’ll gladly give the blessing back.

But seeing as that’s impossible, I grit my teeth and repeat the vow I made that night. One day, I will get my revenge on the devil who killed her, no matter what it costs. He will pay. I just need to grow powerful enough to challenge him.

I’m about to go out to the well for water to wash up when a piercing female scream comes from a distance. It’s loud, full of fear, and it chills me to the bone. I wait for a beat, holding my breath and hoping it’s just a fluke or a figment of my imagination.

But then, the scream repeats, even louder than the first time. A heartbeat later, another voice joins in the chorus of terror.

I tear the door open and run out into the summer night, following the screams.