18. Voices
“The gods have spoken!” Jarota cries, throwing a fistful of herbs into the fire. They burst with a flurry of sparks, making the crowd gathered around him gasp.
I look at the sky, making sure the moon hasn’t risen yet. It’s almost sundown, but the werewolf can become active at daytime, provided the moon is in the sky.
We’re safe for now. Chors is still asleep.
The people gathered around me are quiet, even the children. Usually, they chase each other around the square while their mothers periodically hiss at the little urchins to keep quiet. But not today.
The square is a large space right in the middle of the village. The grass is well-trodden, bare ground shining through in patches. This is where Jarota augurs and traveling tradespeople set out their wares when they visit. When it’s unoccupied, children play here.
Now they stand still, their eyes huge with fear.
Because for the first time in our lives, we have a real bies to deal with. And also for the first time, we know the gods are real. Everyone saw them at Kupala.
Jarota launches into a lengthy prayer, thanking the gods for their wisdom. He cuts open a black hen and looks intently at its entrails. I am grudgingly impressed by how well he pretends. If I didn’t know he had the answer already, I would believe that he read the truth out of the chicken corpse.
When the zerca prays, my eyes wander. They snag on Swietko, who stands aside with a group of men bearing pitchforks, scythes, and wood-chopping axes. They are ready to defend the village and just wait for the zerca to tell them which way to point their weapons.
Swietko and his friend, Tolimir, are the only ones who have hunting weapons, the former bearing a short spear, the latter—a bow. Other men use traps to get wild meat, so Swietko and Tolimir are the only hunters who take down bigger prey.
As our only huntsmen, they are burdened with the most responsibility to take down the bies. I see it in the tense lines of their bodies, the deep wrinkles marking their fierce expressions. I remember how cowardly Swietko behaved at Kupala, and it makes me wonder. Will he look this determined and grave when the werewolf appears or will he drop his spear and run?
The other men look scared, even though they stand tall and bear their makeshift weapons with confidence. The fear is in their eyes, deep and primal.
A shiver of unease crawls down my spine. With everyone strung so tightly, it would take one word from Jarota to make those pitchforks point at me. He wouldn’t even have to name me, just say a witch slaughtered the lambs.
I’d be impaled on a pitchfork in no time. My new position is tenuous at best, and even then, there is a thin line between whispering and doing magic. That is why the silver knife I inherited from Wiosna is now hidden under my dress, strapped to my thigh so no one will see it.
Wiosna bought it from a traveling tradesman many years ago, and there are marks on the knife that make it look magical. She claimed they don’t do squat, and the only value of the knife is its silver blade. Still, she kept it hidden for all these years and told me to do the same after I got it.
If anyone sees it on me, they’ll jump to conclusions too fast for me to protect myself. Especially Swietko.
“Fear, mortals! Fear and fight, because a curse fell upon you!”
Jarota’s eyes bulge, and I sigh, locking my thoughts away. It’s time. He’s leading into the big reveal.
People around me mutter nervously, and Jarota puts in a long pause for good measure. I tap my foot impatiently, glancing at the sky. Still no moon, but it’s close.
“A terrible bies stalks our animals and children. A beast from the deepest caverns of Nawie! Weles’ own creation!”
There are a few gasps, and I force myself not to roll my eyes. This is a bit much, which Wiosna confirms with a scornful whisper in my ear.
“Nawie, my foot! That bies never saw the gods’ lands. Those that make it to Nawie stay there, because the vast caves of Weles’ domain are better than the mortal plane.”
I blink, looking at Jarota as he launches into another worshipful prayer, clearly milking his moment. But I don’t really see him as my face tightens into a thoughtful frown. Something isn’t right. What did Wiosna just say?
Then it hits me. Everything she’s told me until now could have been an echo of the things she said when she was alive. But now, she suddenly spoke about the afterlife like she knows it. Like she saw it.
I breathe evenly, thinking it through. Could it be possible I really have Wiosna’s spirit following me around? And if so, how did it happen? Is it magic? Can she teach me?
When Jarota cries out in a desperate, ululating voice and shouts, “A werewolf hunts in our lands! A man by day, a horrible beast by night, he hunts for meat and blood. Beware! Beware the werewolf!” I gasp, but not for the same reason everyone around me does.
Because Woland spoke to me, too. I heard his voice just like I hear Wiosna’s. Could it mean he was really there? Does he follow me around, invisible yet present?
When others watch Jarota with wide eyes, I look frantically around, turning on the spot. I search for the glimmer of yellow eyes, the hulking shadow of the beast. My heart flutters in alarm when I see the shape of antlers in a rose bush, the coil of a tail in a discarded piece of rope, tendrils of menacing shadow crawling up the wall of a cottage.
Illusions, all of them. Just my terrified mind acting out the terror he planted inside me last night. Woland’s claws on my throat, his threats in my ear—that was real. But the shadows pretending to be him are just the concoctions of my exhausted brain.
When I see nothing out of the ordinary, just the dirt road running through the village, a cottage on the other side of it, and the grassy space where Jarota usually augurs, I force myself to relax. If the devil really speaks to me, there is nothing I can do apart from making sure not to trust him.
I already know he can appear here in the flesh like he did last night. And I am still no closer to protecting myself from his presence and his touch.
When bitter fear and shame fill my chest like heavy stones, I clench my fists and force Woland out of my mind. I have a werewolf to deal with.
“How do we slay the beast?” Darobor asks, clutching his scythe.
The sharp, crescent-shaped blade that is usually parallel to the handle has been reattached so the tip points up into the sky. Darobor turned his scythe into something akin to a spear. He means business. He’s also the only one who keeps the fear out of his eyes, even though I have no doubt he’s afraid.
His wife just gave him a third son three moons ago. The duty to protect his loved ones must strengthen his resolve.
“Cut off its head,” Waclaw grunts, his hand firm on the pitchfork. He’s ready to avenge his lambs. “No bies can kill without a head.”
The men nod and mutter in agreement. Jarota looks troubled for a moment but then his face lightens up. He looks straight at me.
“Silver also harms werewolves,” he says. “You can ask young Jaga if she has any.”
The pit of my stomach crawls with nausea when everyone’s eyes turn to me. I’ve been trained all my life to avoid attention, and all the times when people looked at me too intently ended up with me getting chased and hurt.
But this is different. I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the heaviness in my throat. This is another step in my path to claim the post of the whisperer. I can’t miss this chance out of fear.
My voice sounds strong enough when I speak up.
“All the silver I had went into making protections for your homes. I never had enough to make a weapon, but there is enough to keep the bies away from your homes and barns.”
Murmurs and whispers break out in the crowd. I look steadily back into all the eyes regarding me with distrust and surprise. To the side, I notice Ida speaking quietly to her two friends and pointing at me with a great deal of nodding. Like she’s trying to convince them of something.
Ida, my champion. The world has truly become a strange place.
“I have protections for anyone who wants them,” I continue, catching Czeslawa’s venomous look. “But make haste if you want them. Everyone who isn’t going to fight should be on protected land before moonrise.”
People glance at the sky with fearful expressions. When they look back at me, I see distrust warring with fear, and for a moment, my heart freezes. Have things really changed enough for people to trust my whispering? Or was it all in my head? Will I stand here like a fool, having offered all the hard work that I sacrificed sleep to do, only to be left alone and rejected?
A beat passes. Another. And then, the first person rushes to my side, then another, and another. In the matter of a minute, I am surrounded by a crowd clamoring for my protections.
“Jaga, serve me first! I’ll give you a goose! A plump goose!”
“I’ll take two, for my home and my son’s! He’ll keep you supplied with wood this winter! Please, Jaga!”
“Please, we need protection, too! My daughters are so little. I beg you, protect them from the bies.”
“I have a limited supply!” I shout over the noise. “Everyone who gets protections from me has a duty to take in those who didn’t get any!”
Everyone nods eagerly, and I lead the procession of customers to my cottage, walking swiftly now. I’ll have to trust they’ll keep their promises, because there is no time for them to fetch the geese, hens, and wood they promise.
But that’s fine. I am not Czeslawa, who turns away people in need. My jaw clenches when I remember how Bogna looked on my doorstep that night when she ran to me.
I am a true whisperer. And if someone conveniently forgets to pay, I’m sure I can find a way to remind them.
“Look at that, Jagusia!” Wiosna croons in my ear, calling me the endearment she only used when she was very pleased with me. “How they follow you, like a flock of lost sheep. This is the most power a whisperer’s ever had.”
I nod curtly, doing my best not to look pleased about her excitement. Unlike Wiosna, I can’t fully enjoy it now, because my feverish urgency overshadows everything else. The moon will rise soon and the beast will come hunting.
And yet, I know I’ll relive this moment later in my mind. Many, many times. It’s heady to feel these people’s need for me, to have their utter trust and confidence. They promise me the world because they believe my protections will save them.
“Well, well, poppy girl. You’ve done well turning a profit for yourself. Better hope your little whispering magics don’t fail, hm?”
I shudder, doing my best to ignore Woland’s mocking voice. I hand out the pouches with quick explanations about how to use them. Those who have a set of four race away to bury them fast, and soon, my hands are empty, the crowd in front of my cottage disappointed and frightened.
“Go, take your families, and hide with those whose houses are protected. You can stay with Waclaw, Roza, Ida and Janek, Kalina…”
I recite the names of those who got my pouches, and people quickly decide among themselves who will go where. They nod and hasten away, some saying distracted goodbyes, some in silence. I am left alone on the threshold of my cottage, the warm evening wind blowing through my skirts.
For long minutes, I just stand there, waiting and watching. Shouts and talk resound in the village, people preparing for the bies. Darobor’s voice carries in the wind, too distant to understand the words, but the tone of command is clear.
In the east, the reddish face of the full moon emerges from behind the line of black trees. It’s night. And the werewolf will soon hunt.
“Wiosna?” I mutter under my breath. “Are you here?”
It’s the first time I address her directly, believing it’s really her. I was so convinced she was just a figment of my imagination, I didn’t have the courage to engage with her, fearing it would plunge me deeper into madness.
But now I’m starting to think she’s real. And if so, I need her.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, dear girl,” she says with a satisfied huff.
It’s the same sound she’d make when she told me the freshest gossip. Wiosna loved excitement and she knew all the secrets that went on in the village. I relax slightly, though I don’t like the fact she treats this situation like juicy gossip.
“Do you think the men have a chance against the werewolf?” I whisper, giving voice to my biggest doubt.
Because if they don’t slay the beast, no amount of protection will save this village. I know from the folktales werewolves haunt their places of origin until no one’s left alive. So, if I want to avoid having to ask Woland for help, I might have to fight the beast myself.
That’s the biggest cause of my uncertainty.
I might be a great runner and a decent whisperer, but I am no fighter. I wield a knife with confidence only when cutting herbs.
“It’s the only thing they are useful for, isn’t it?” Wiosna scoffs. “They’d better kill it. Oh, and Jaga? Remember a bite from a werewolf doesn’t spread the curse. I’ll just bet it’s the kind of idiotic bit of lore Czeslawa believes.”
That piques my interest. Wiosna never told me anything about the bites being infectious.
“How does one become a werewolf, exactly?” I ask.
In the tales it was always a curse, but what kind? I suspect this werewolf is Woland’s creation—that’s what the devil implied, anyway. I don’t know if I can trust him, though. Any of the gods who came to our Kupala celebrations could have cursed Przemyslaw, as far as I know.
And I know little, as it turns out.
“A werewolf is a rare type of bies in that it’s made from a living person,”Wiosna says in her teaching voice. My lips tip up in a fond smile. I missed that tone. “It’s usually someone who committed a great evil and became doomed while still alive.”
“But who makes it happen?” I ask, frustrated.
“A god. Someone powerful enough. Someone who rules over life and death.”
She falls quiet, and I listen closely to the sounds of the night. It’s calmer now, most people hidden in their homes, though I doubt many will sleep tonight. I see the glow of a torch moving beyond a neighbor’s garden. The men are patrolling.
“Don’t underestimate him,” she suddenly says, and I’m confused whom she means until she adds, “He is truly powerful if he can send a living person to damnation. And he did that just for folly, Jaga. He wants you very much.”
“But why?” I groan, clenching my fists. “There is nothing special about me. Why would Wol… why would he be so interested in me?”
Wiosna is quiet, but I don’t expect her to answer. Instead, I climb on a rickety stool in front of my cottage so I can see better. My land is protected, so the werewolf shouldn’t be able to come in. Yet, I’m still uneasy. Those protections haven’t been tested.
What if Woland is right? What if they fail?
“There is one thing,”Wiosna says carefully. I frown, having forgotten what our conversation was about. “But I’m not sure if I should…”
A panicked man’s shout coming from the other side of the village interrupts her. I hop off my stool and rush in that direction, my insides tight with terror, the silver knife on my thigh burning like a burden.
The beast is here.