20. Butcher
Swietko is still unconscious when men carry him from a hay cart they used to transport him to my cottage. I quickly clear off the mess left over after making protective pouches, and they lay him down on the table. His legs dangle over the edge, and I purse my lips, bringing a stool to support his feet.
Janek and Darobor are here, as is Waclaw. They watch me with suspicion, even Darobor, and I realize with a sinking feeling they aren’t here just to help. They will watch my every move to make sure I won’t do what Czeslawa accused me of.
Truthfully, it never even occurred to me I could not help Swietko. As soon as I saw him sobbing in the werewolf’s grip, he stopped being my enemy and became just a human being in desperate need of help.
But now that Czeslawa pointed out our enmity, I feel resentful that I have to go through such a gruesome ordeal just to save him. Because she was right. I hate Swietko. Why should I help him? But now, my own fate rides on his survival, too. There is a way out: I could say I see signs of werewolf infection spreading and admit to being wrong, but—that would be giving up.
And I don’t surrender. Not to Czeslawa’s stupid games. And not to Woland.
Woland.He expects me to beg him to save myself and the village now that I saw what the werewolf can do. And yes, it is tempting. To just be rid of the threat. To not have to face it again.
But I am made of stronger stuff than this.
“Mix the vodka with hot water,” I tell Janek, pointing at a cauldron I left simmering over my hearth earlier. “Make sure it’s not too hot and give him small sips so he doesn’t choke.”
Janek nods and heads for the hearth, his steps steady. The saw and wood ax he brought in from Darobor’s shed are on my cupboard. I point at the tools.
“Clean the saw with vodka. You don’t have to wipe the ax if it’s clean. The fire will do the job.”
Darobor nods and gets down to work. Waclaw stands by the door, simply watching without a word. I swallow convulsively, looking at Swietko’s mauled arm. The skin is pale, the flesh already damaged by the lack of blood flow, the wound gaping and red. I wish I could ask Wiosna if I should cut already, but with the men here, I can’t risk talking to her.
We raise Swietko up and make him drink the diluted spirit. It goes down smoothly, and once the cup is dry, I direct Janek to make more. He feeds the fire, too, and we put the blade of the ax in the hearth to heat it.
I’ve never done this so I don’t know how long the metal must stay in the fire. Wiosna is quiet, so hopefully, I’m doing things right.
Just when I’m about to start, the door bangs open. Alina, Swietko’s wife, barges in.
“Dear gods,” she breathes, taking in the sight of her husband on my table. “Is he… Is he going to…”
“I don’t know,” I cut in sharply. “He lost a lot of blood and he’ll lose his arm. I’m sorry, I know you’re worried, but if you can’t stay calm, you have to leave. This will be gruesome.”
She stares at me, her lips working wordlessly. Her round face is bloodless, her kerchief askew, revealing disheveled, strawberry-blonde hair. Tears well in her blue eyes. I know she loves her husband and desperately wants to have children with him. And yet, I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for her.
I have a terrible, disgusting job to do. That’s the only thing I focus on.
“I’ll wait with you outside, Alina,” Waclaw says quietly, putting his arm around her.
That shakes her out of her stupor.
“No.” She steps closer until his arm falls away from her shoulders. “I’ll stay. Just… Please.”
She looks at me with big, desperate eyes, and I nod once, waving her to my made bed in case she needs to sit. I hope she doesn’t faint, but then, Alina doesn’t strike me as a squeamish person.
And she doesn’t need to beg me. I’ll do everything in my might to save Swietko, not even to prove it to Czeslawa at this point. I’ll do it to show Woland he can’t have me. Not after what he’s done. Not ever.
“He’ll need another tourniquet,”Wiosna says gravely. “If you cut below the current one, the stump will heal badly. It might get infected.”
I nod. I feel all jittery, but surprisingly enough, my hands are steady when I reach for my supplies. I wrap a wide belt of linen for wound dressing a bit above my makeshift tourniquet, cinching the new one tight with a large spoon. The new tourniquet is just under Swietko’s armpit. He’ll lose the entire arm, then.
There is a narrow strip of skin between the two tight wraps of fabric, showing me where to cut.
“I’m making another tourniquet to make sure I cut off all the bad flesh,” I say.
Explaining things is something Wiosna abhorred, because she claimed most villagers were too addled by pain or fear to understand her. If she explained anything, it was for my sake only. But as a young girl following the whisperer from sickbed to sickbed, I appreciated the explanations more than I could express.
Logic and facts helped me stay calm. Understanding why a procedure was necessary made it appear less gruesome.
And so I explain every step and reason for it in clipped, quiet words as I turn the spoon, tightening the tourniquet. Then, with no reasons to delay any longer, I gulp some vodka straight from the bottle. It goes down my throat like cold fire.
“If he wakes up, you’ll have to hold him so I can cut straight,” I say, calmed by the spirit.
Because it has to be me. That’s one of the most fundamental rules of whispering: the whisperer is the one who cuts, sews back together, and administers medicine. Even if the job is hard like this, it cannot be delegated.
Because if something goes wrong, a whisperer will be forgiven. It’s a part of the job. But another person might be crushed by grief and guilt, and so, I can’t ask anyone here to help me with the cutting.
It’s for me only.
Swietko is still unconscious, his breathing ragged and harsh, but I can’t imagine he’ll stay that way while I saw off his arm. Cold sweat trickles down my spine, my dress tacky with it.
Gods. I’m really doing it.
“Is the saw clean?”
Darobor hands me the gleaming blade. I clench my jaw and steel myself.
One deep breath. Two. I cut.
The sound of sawing through human flesh and bone is like nothing I’ve ever heard. It’s visceral, wet, and jarring when the blade hits bone. I fight the urge to heave, my throat so tight, I can barely breathe. It’s easy enough to cut through skin and muscle, but once I reach bone, it becomes a struggle.
“Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh gods,” Alina repeats, rocking back and forth like a lost child. Her hands are clenched tight and pressed to her chest. I am about to snarl at her to shut up, because I’m sick and tired of the gods right now. They are the ones who brought this curse upon us.
I don’t get a chance to say anything harsh and cruel, because Swietko wakes up.
His scream of utter, inhuman agony drowns out all the other sounds, and I can’t believe I thought Alina’s mindless prayer annoying. This is a thousand times worse.
“Hold him!” I bark through clenched teeth, doing my best to keep his arm steady.
Darobor presses Swietko’s shoulder into the tabletop, Janek leans into his legs, and Waclaw grips his head. I saw, back and forth, back and forth, the blade crunching against bone. My arms burn, my dress is heavy with sweat, but I don’t stop. The faster I get it done, the shorter his suffering.
“You’re almost through,”Wiosna says, her voice calm. Teacherly. “Keep going. You can’t fail now.”
Her steady presence sparks a new wave of determination, letting me ignore the pain in my body, the fear of getting it wrong. I saw and saw while Swietko screams and screams. His mindless, animal suffering hacks at my soul, seeping into my mind like poison.
His flesh is red, blood trickling slowly from the wound. I clearly see where the layer of his skin ends and raw muscle begins. His bone is so white in the red. I cut, stroke after stroke, and he screams in inhuman agony.
For a moment, I am confused. Am I a healer or a butcher?
“Keep going!”Wiosna hisses, and I realize I’ve slowed down. My strength is flagging.
There is not enough will in me to heal, not enough determination to save him. I will fail.
But I cannot. Woland wants me to lose. He wants people to die. I must keep going.
And so, I let the healer in me go and reach for the butcher. I feed rage into my body, letting it flow freely. Hating Swietko is so easy, after all. I remember the names he called me. How he pushed me into the fire circle. The way he always looked at me, with a scornful sneer, like I was no better than vermin.
Gripped by hate and vengeance, I pant in fury, no longer feeling pain. I work faster, harder, and Swietko screams louder, and louder, and louder… Each scream feeds my rage, making me go harder. The sight of his face twisted with unbearable pain feeds a dark, hungry place inside me.
More. More pain. More agony.
I’m lost in a frenzy of fury when his arm falls to the floor with a wet splat, barely missing my feet. I drop the saw and pant in the sudden silence. He faints again, and Janek is already by the hearth, carefully gripping the charred handle of the ax. The blade gleams orange.
“It’s hot,” he says, his voice thick like he’s keeping himself from retching.
I grab a towel from a wall hook behind me and wrap it around my palm.
“Hold him!” I snarl, my hands heating up from the handle and shaking from the weight of the ax.
And yet, a wild, buoyant joy sings in my veins. Because I get to brand Swietko. I will brand my enemy, press fire into his naked flesh, and make him hurt again.
After this, he will never be able to forget me. Whatever he did to me will pale in comparison to what I’m doing to him. And it doesn’t matter I’m saving his life, because I know deep down, Swietko would rather die.
He’d rather go out in the glory of fight than live the rest of his life as a cripple. He’ll hate me so much more if I save him, because he’ll owe me a debt that cannot be repaid.
Oh, how he’ll suffer. For the rest of his hopefully long life.
“Stop smiling,”Wiosna whispers harshly into my ear. “You look deranged.”
I didn’t even realize I was grinning. Now, I do my best to control my expression, but forcing back the grin does nothing to tame the exuberance in my chest. I press the hot iron to Swietko’s stump, press it hard and good, and his flesh sizzles.
The room fills with the scent of roast meat. Swietko wakes again, but this time, he doesn’t scream. His mouth is open in agony, all tendons in his neck taut like they are about to snap. He arches off the table. Waclaw and Darobor curse, desperately holding him down.
He seizes, and I remember I should have put a strip of leather in his mouth, but it’s too late for that. Then again, if he bites off his tongue, who am I to care? I won’t miss his insults.
“Jaga!” Wiosna barks in my ear, furious and upset. “Control yourself!”
Oh, yes, the smile. The wide, triumphant grin is back on my face, my teeth bared, my lips stretched so far, they tingle. I press them together and grunt, pulling the ax away. It sticks to Swietko’s meat for a moment, as if reluctant to part from him, and then it lets go. I drop it, backing away into the wall.
He collapses back on the table, shallow, painful breaths wheezing out of his mouth. I stare at the browned, sealed flesh where his arm just was. He looks so… lopsided. Wrong.
My knees shake. Suddenly, I’m drained. My vision swims, the room gently swaying around me as I lean against the wall. I pant, but the stench of burning flesh, so delightful just moments before, scratches my throat.
I want to retch and retch until it’s all gone. Until this entire ordeal is over.
“Stand straight. You’ll rest later. He needs more spirits, and then you need to make a tincture and a blood-replenishing brew. But first, remove the tourniquet. Now, girl. Open your eyes!”
I do as she says, taking in three wide, scared pairs of eyes glued to my face. Alina is the only one who doesn’t look at me. She’s at Swietko’s side, tears streaming soundlessly down her cheeks as she strokes his hair with a trembling hand.
I blink. Shake my head. And push away from the wall, barely catching my balance as my legs tremble under me.
“Right,” I grunt, my throat sore. “Please give him more to drink. But I have to… do this first.”
I unwind the spoon tightening the tourniquet and unwrap it, trying not to look at the burnt flesh. It’s horrible, and yet, I did what I had to. He stopped bleeding, and with any luck, he’ll live through the night.
But what about tomorrow? Can I trust Wiosna? Or is Czeslawa right and there’s a risk of Swietko changing into a werewolf?
Or maybe that’s all irrelevant since Woland is here, likely watching everything for his sick entertainment. If he cursed Przemyslaw, he can do the same to Swietko.
Gods. Why didn’t I consider that before?
“I’ll do it,” Alina says hoarsely, taking the cup from Janek’s hands.
I blink again, desperately trying to focus. My eyes fall on the arm under the table, and on the tools. There are burnt pieces of Swietko on the ax’s blade. I wonder if Darobor will use it after this.
But no, I have to focus. What did Wiosna say? Ah, treat the wound.
“Watch over him,” I tell them and go out without waiting for a reply.
The air is cooler now, and I gulp deep breaths, trying to clear out the stench of burned human flesh. And yet, it won’t leave entirely. It’s tangled in my hair and dress, stuck to my skin. I feel it on my lips, a greasy, revolting presence.
I go to my well and wash my hands and face in cold water, not caring that my hair and dress get wet, too. It makes things a bit better, and yet, I’m still weak and shaky when I get up and look at the sky. The moon is high, Chors watching over the mortal domain.
That stench is still in my mouth, so I pick a few leaves of mint and chew. Then, I head to my tall, robust mullein plants. Their tiny yellow flowers glint in the pale moonlight, and I gather a handful of the large, fleshy leaves, stroking the fuzz covering them so it won’t prickle.
Too soon, I’m back in the cottage, crushing the leaves on a clean strip of linen. Once juice comes out, I drape them carefully over Swietko’s stump and wrap it up so the compress stays on.
“Fresh mullein leaves are the best for healing wounds,” I say hoarsely, not lifting my head. “He has to stay here. Tonight, and possibly… tomorrow night, as well. It’s another full moon.”
I don’t look up, don’t explain. A marrow-deep weariness overwhelms me, and even though I speak and move, it feels like I am outside my body. When a heavy hand lands on my shoulder, I flinch and look up with a snarl. But it’s only Darobor, his eyes too piercing and kind, his expression steady.
“Can we speak outside?”
I nod numbly and follow him. As we walk out, Alina sings a mournful lullaby to Swietko. As if he’s her child in need of soothing.
“Will he turn, whisperer?” Darobor asks when we stand in front of my cottage, the cool air drying my sweat and promising relief.
I look up at the moon, feeling helpless and exhausted. There’s no use lying.
“He might. I don’t know.”
I look at him, really look, taking in the deep lines in his swarthy face. He is in his late thirties, and yet, this night aged him by at least ten years. I see silver hair around his temples, where earlier, there was only fair brown.
Then again, it might be the light of the moon making him look older.
His features are solid, a firm nose, thick brow ridges, cheeks full from eating well. He’s big and strong, and suddenly, I can’t help but feel grateful for him. He’s one of the few people I respect in our village.
It helps that he was never openly against me.
“You’re a good leader,” I say when he doesn’t speak, watching me with a deep frown. “With a strong stomach. It would have been slaughter without you.”
Darobor nods once. “You’re a good whisperer. You did well in there.”
He points at my cottage with his chin, and I sigh, trying to dislodge a sudden tightness in my chest. In my current state, I’m stripped of my usual defenses, and so his praise strikes close to the heart. I used to be so hungry for it as a child, and Wiosna dished it out so rarely.
I always went above and beyond to please her. And yet, Wiosna’s clipped affirmations of my skills never hit as close to home as Darobor’s does now.
Maybe it’s because cutting off Swietko’s arm was the hardest thing I ever did. Or maybe because Darobor is a man. There is something fatherly in his eyes as he watches me, pride mixed with worry, and a weak, suppressed part of me rears its head, ravenous for more. I shake my head, wishing I weren’t so exhausted.
I need to put my walls back up. It won’t do getting used to a man’s praise, becoming dependent on others. It’s not how I’ve survived until now.
“I’ll do my best to contain him if… If anything happens,” I offer. “But truly, I don’t know what to expect. The lore… It says he shouldn’t turn from the bite alone. But if the gods decide it, who’s to say what will happen?”
Darobor nods, taking my admission in stride. “Do you have a chain?”
I blink, too exhausted for my mind to work as fast as normal. When I get his meaning, I shake my head. “No. We used to have one, when we kept a goat, but I think my mother sold it.”
“I’ll bring you a chain.”
And with that, he’s gone. Soon, Waclaw and Janek leave, too, going back to their families. Alina stays by Swietko’s side, stroking his hair and murmuring a soothing song while I make a brew of St. John’s wort and dried rowan berries to help his blood replenish faster.
As I pour it down his throat, I don’t know whether I’m saving a human life or helping a new werewolf grow stronger.