Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

34. Rodzanica

“I’ll be right out,” I call and quickly wipe my legs. Gods, this is beyond messy. I really should spend the day lying in bed, like always.

I do my best not to look tormented with pain when I open the front door. Darobor is outside, and he touches his fingers to his straw hat.

“Good day, whisperer. I wanted to offer my services helping you move. Our hay is all but done, and we have some time before the hemp is good for harvest. I can spare a few afternoons.”

I blink a few times, desperately wracking my brain. Does it mean Czeslawa is gone already? Does he want me to move to her cottage? Or… Am I being banished? Has Ida said something despite her promise? Oh gods.

“Move?” I ask finally, hoping he will clarify.

Darobor strokes his mustache. “Well, yes. Czeslawa left this morning, and you’re the only other whisperer we have. Unless you want to stay here?”

I hope the relief isn’t too obvious on my face. “Yes, certainly. The day after tomorrow? Would that be good for you?”

He touches the rim of his hat with a small bow. “As you wish. I’ll get my girl to help, too. Might do her some good, seeing a whisperer’s cottage and whatnot.”

I nod dumbly, not commenting on the daughter remark for now. “See you then. Thank you,” I manage, and he bows again before he leaves.

I close my door before I sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands. And then I cry. I cry long and hard, my entire body shaking with sobs, my womb hurting worse and worse, just like it did when I laughed.

And just like when I laughed earlier, I can’t stop. My hands are wet from tears, my face hot, eyes stinging, and I only weep harder. The last time I cried like this was five years ago, when I found Wiosna cold and lifeless in her bed.

Even though I know she’s in Nawie, safe and well, it’s like I’ve lost her all over again. I grieve and mourn, and I’ll probably feel like crying for weeks to come. It doesn’t help that I hurt so much, my body at its lowest.

This is all backwards. I should celebrate. Czeslawa left, just like I wanted. I am the whisperer now, and everyone will come to me with problems big or small. I will finally be safe in my community. They won’t cast me out now, despite suspicions and gossip. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and it feels hollow and fake.

Now that I know gods and demons are real, now that I know for certain there is life beyond death, the quiet life of a village whisperer isn’t enough. I crave all the things Woland seduced me with. Magic, travel, and power.

On top of it, I can’t stop thinking about how woefully unprepared I am. I thought Wiosna would be with me, supporting me through the transition. But now, Woland is planning another nasty thing, and I am all alone, responsible for everyone in the village.

I have the knowledge and skills, but what if I have to face another bies or licho knows what?

Finally, I get up off the floor with a curse. I bring in another bucket of water from the well, clenching my teeth hard not to moan in pain. I’ve cried my quota of tears and sobs for the next five years. That’s enough weakness.

So I wash myself, braid my hair, and make my herbal brew to keep myself functional.

And then I start planning.

Woland doesn’t appear over the next two days. I spend them mostly in bed, arranging everything for the move in my head. It distracts me from the pain.

It rains both days, and I know people are happy and probably thanking the zerca for praying well. The crops desperately need water now that the hay is made. I welcome the cooler temperatures and the fresh, humid quality to the air. Rain after a drought always smells divine.

The day Darobor is supposed to come, I’m well again, the bleeding almost over. I pack my meager possessions and cut off the herbs drying under my roof so I can take them with me.

As we walk through the village, all my possessions in a cart drawn by Darobor’s donkey, his daughter, Sara, keeps pelting me with questions as she skips around the muddy puddles.

“Is it true you were in the sacred circle on Kupala Night?” she asks, her blue eyes sparkling with interest over plump cheeks.

“Yes. It was an accident.”

“And you saw Strzybog from up close? And the Rodzanica?”

I sigh and nod. Nothing beats the curiosity of children.

“Strzybog smiled a lot and the Rodzanica, not even once. He was very handsome, with golden hair and beard. And when he blew air with his mouth, like so,” I say, pursing my lips to blow out a focused stream of air, “he made wind.”

Sara almost falls into a puddle, her eyes focused on my face in rapture. I catch her arm and keep her upright.

“Careful or you’ll have a mud bath,” I tell her with a fond smile. “Do you know who a Rodzanica is?”

Sara shakes her head. Darobor gives me an approving nod, and I nod back. I suspect why he involved his daughter in my move, and it flatters me to no end. It really helps that the girl is so curious and lively. I like her already.

“There are three Rodzanica sisters,” I explain. “They are triplets, which means they were born the same day and look identical. Their mother is Mokosz, and their father is Rod, the god who is responsible for herding the ancestral souls to Wyraj.”

I glance sideways at the girl and father, and then shrug. Wiosna never hid the more adult themes in the stories she told me, and at eleven, Sara is old enough to hear them.

“And Rod is actually also the son of Mokosz,” I say, glancing at Darobor. “That means, he mated with his mother and got her pregnant, and that’s how the Rodzanica goddesses were born.”

“With his mother?” Sara repeats incredulously. “Eew!”

I grin. “This is exactly what Perun, the husband of Mokosz, thought. He wasn’t even that betrayed by the fact that Mokosz slept with another man, because she does it all the time—for example, she had a very long affair with Weles, Perun’s brother. In fact, Rod is the son of Mokosz and Weles, which might explain why Perun doesn’t like him much. Officially, Perun couldn’t abide the fact that those three goddesses were born from an incestuous union. Incest means mating between close family members. It’s forbidden by the gods.”

Darobor is silent, but when I glance at him, he doesn’t seem put out by the things I’m teaching his daughter. Sara frowns, jumping over a puddle.

“But if it’s forbidden, why did Mokosz and Rod do it?”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. Gods will create rules and laws, but when it comes to following them, they feel exempt.”

“Rules are for peasants,” Darobor mutters, and I nod.

Sara looks from him to me with an inquisitive frown.

“It means that those who have power set rules for those who are less powerful, and then don’t follow them themselves,” I explain. “Back to the sisters. When Perun found out about them, he sent them to Nawie as punishment. As you know, Nawie is where Weles rules. It’s said to be an entire kingdom underground, with a lot of caverns, glittering jewels, even terrifying winged serpents.”

Sara pouts. “It doesn’t sound like a punishment. I’d like to go there!”

“And you will,” I promise. “Everyone goes there after death. But the Rodzanica sisters were sent into Nawie as little girls and were forbidden from ever going outside, into the sun. They grew up in the caverns, becoming pale and withdrawn. When they were young women, Perun remembered them, and since he was in a merciful mood, he lifted their punishment.”

“So they can get out now?” Sara’s cheeks are red from keeping a good walking pace, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Yes. But the pallor they were shrouded in as children never left. They are pale, sad, and serious, and rarely speak. Also, Perun didn’t really free them. They aren’t like Strzybog, who can go where he wants and spend his days blowing wind up women’s skirts. The Rodzanica sisters have a job.”

“Does Strzybog really do that?” Sara asks, looking indignant.

I snort with laughter, but then I notice we’re almost to the whisperer’s cottage. My cottage. I need to wrap up the story.

“I suspect he does. As for the Rodzanicas, they have to be present at the cradle of every child that’s born. It’s their job to decide the baby’s fate in the world. Once they decide, they leave an invisible mark on the child’s forehead, and it can’t be washed away by any means. It’s forever, and it’s definite. The Rodzanicas decide whom you’ll marry, how many children you’ll have, when you’ll die. Everything. It’s all written in that little sign.”

Sara gapes at me for a few steps, but then the cart comes to a halt, the donkey huffing. Darobor pats its flank and turns to Sara.

“Go tell your mama I’m almost done. She can give you some sweet cream for a job well done.”

The girl jumps up in excitement and runs away, but stops and turns before she reaches the bend in the road.

“Thank you, whisperer! It was a nice story!”

I nod and give her a wave. When she’s gone, I turn to her father. “Well, I really like that girl. She has spirit.”

He touches the rim of his hat. “I hoped you would. Sara is a curious child, eager to learn. We were thinking with Jana that maybe you’d like to take her on as an apprentice.”

I thought it might be about that, and I’m still so pleased and flattered Darobor and his wife want to effectively give me their child. It’s a gesture of great trust, one I never thought I would experience. It feels too good to be true.

“I’m only just starting out,” I say, watching him intently. “Why haven’t you sent her to train with Czeslawa? Sara’s old enough.”

He scratches his nape, blue eyes cast down under his bushy eyebrows. “Well, we weren’t able to afford Czeslawa’s fee,” he answers finally. “But now I’m glad because I’d rather Sara trained with you. You proved yourself, Jaga. With Swietko.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You saw me cut off his arm and that convinced you I would be a good teacher for your daughter?”

He looks me straight in the eyes, his face serious, as he shakes his head. “No. I saw you save an enemy’s life even though you had an excuse not to. You have integrity and courage that’s truly rare. That is why I want Sara to train with you. If we can afford it, that is.”

I scoff, warmth spreading in my belly from his praise. Darobor’s respect means so much more than anyone else’s. And even though I have a sick, nagging feeling in my chest that I don’t deserve it—because I ultimately enjoyed butchering Swietko—I still take his compliment.

“Whisperers don’t take payment for training apprentices,” I say with an emphatic nod. “She’ll work for her keep. That’s how it’s done. But Darobor, you must know I will not shelter her. She will see a lot of pain, and when she’s older, she will learn shameful, intimate secrets about her neighbors and even family. It’s not easy, being a whisperer. Think it through, and if you’re still interested in the fall, come see me.”

He nods. We unload the cart, all my possessions deposited in neat piles on the table for patients in the first, most spacious room of the cottage. Once everything is here, Darobor touches the rim of his hat and leaves, and I simply stand and look around, my hands pressed to my chest.

I haven’t been here in five years, ever since Wiosna died. The room hasn’t changed much, probably because Czeslawa rarely used it for patients. There are the same two windows, making this the best lit room in the cottage.

A small metal stove sits by the wall, an uneven pipe for letting out the smoke stuck into a hole in the wall. The large table dominates the center of the room, and by the walls stand tall cupboards and a bench for preparing ingredients.

The floorboards creak in greeting as I slowly walk up to a cupboard, opening it. Wiosna’s old tools are still here, and many jars and pots, baskets, and clean linen for tying up wounds. I look into every drawer and space, compiling a list of everything that’s at my disposal. It’s not shabby at all. It looks like Czeslawa left behind some of her herbs, though not any tinctures and potions.

Two side-by-side doorways on the wall opposite the door leading outside connect this room with the other two. The door on the right leads into the bedroom with a large bed and a few shelves for clothes. The doorway on the left has no door, and I glimpse the kitchen with a big hearth built into the wall it shares with the bedroom, meaning the fire in the kitchen keeps it warm, too.

The cottage is built of good stone, the roof beams are healthy, and the thatch must have been freshly laid this spring. If I’m lucky, I can live to old age here. I can die in the same bed Wiosna died in.

Only two months ago, this would have been a dream come true. Then why can’t I enjoy it?

I sigh and wipe my face, and then I get down to work.

When night falls, the cottage and the entire lot surrounding it are smudged with tansy and sage, the well is blessed and cleansed with a few sandthorn berries, and the pile of wood dust that’s left of the shed is buried in a hole in the ground, a new hawthorn sapling planted on top.

I’m not taking any chances.

Only once the space is thoroughly cleared do I sit down for supper. I choke down a salad of chopped nettle that I always have after my menses to replenish the blood, and wash it down with thick sour milk. Then I go to bed, biding my zmora to watch over me while I sleep. Even though the cottage is foreign to me now, too big and strange, I fall asleep at once.

Over the next few days, everyone who can looks in to leave a small gift and welcome me to my official post as a whisperer. Those who championed me in the recent weeks are the first to visit, and then come the others. Those who scoffed at me, called me a witch, or bullied me as a child.

Lubka, who spat on my doorstep before Kupala celebrations, comes over with her three daughters. They are all smiles as they offer me a dozen eggs as my welcome gift. I accept, my smile a mere pinching of my lips to let them know they aren’t forgiven. Yet when I notice a rash on the youngest girl’s face, I offer them a poultice, and later that day, Lubka sends over another dozen eggs.

Thus, bridges are rebuilt, relationships mended.

It’s a time of triumph for me, something I dreamed about for years. To be in power. To have those who scorned me crawl back on their knees, begging for forgiveness.

None of it brings me joy.

All pregnant women visit. Ida’s sister, a few other women, and almost all the Kupala maidens come in so I can take over after Czeslawa. My beauty potions sell out in a day, and I only leave one behind, hopelessly waiting for Ida, but she never shows.

All of it is far less exciting than I expected, until one day, a bit past noon, a commotion breaks out down the road. I come out, wiping my wet hands on my apron, and watch as three men carry a fourth, shouting for people to make way, to help them, to tell the whisperer.

I rush to open the gate and show them in, but even before they lay him down on my table, I already know he’s dead. His face is pale and clammy, mouth blue and dry, eyes sunken. When I ask what happened, one of his companions takes out a simple wooden protection charm he wears on a string around his neck. He kisses it with trembling lips and whispers the name of the bies.

“Poludnica.”