37. Noon
I’m hidden among the branches of a tall pear tree on the balk between Bogdan’s and Darobor’s fields. They’ve been feuding over this pear tree for years now, although amicably. At one point, Jarota proposed it should be felled and the timber equally divided between the two field owners, but luckily, both Bogdan and Darobor like their pear moonshine better than justice.
So the tree stands, and I’ve climbed it to have a good view of the spot where the poludnica appeared yesterday. Dadzbog rises steadily higher and higher up the sky, and so far, all I see is golden wheat swayed this way and that by the gentle wind.
I’m wearing a straw hat and have a flask with me, from which I take small sips as I watch. Everyone has gone off the fields for now. It’s quiet, empty, deceptively safe.
Then, just from the corner of my eye, I see a flutter of white. I turn and push a small branch aside to have a better look. There she is.
Just like Bogdan told me, it’s a woman in white. Her back is to me, and I see her loose, golden hair, but not her face. She seems carefree, walking among the wheat, her palms caressing it.
A sound carries to me. Something eerie, yet familiar. A lullaby. A moment later, the poludnica drifts closer, though her face is still turned away, and I hear the words.
Sleep, my darling, and I shall
Brush all nightmares from your brow.
Sleep, beloved, on my breast,
Let me give you peaceful rest.
I wish I could see her legs to know how she moves, but the lower half of her body is buried in the wheat. She seems to not walk but drift through it, getting closer and closer, and it looks like she’s moving backwards. Or is her hair brushed over her face? I squint, gripping a branch to keep myself steady.
My heart picks up the pace, and a metallic taste of fear fills my mouth.
She comes closer still. And closer. I see the details now. The ripped lace on her short sleeve. The dirt and tangles in her hair. The unhealthy, purplish pallor of her fingers as she strokes the tips of the wheat stalks.
She still sings the song, the same stanza over and over again, even though I know this lullaby has over eight different ones, getting progressively lewder. It’s a song about a woman deceiving her sister’s husband into having sex with her.
To distract myself from the terror that creeps up my gut, chilling me from within, I try to remember how the last stanza goes. A moment later, I have it.
In the darkness we shall lie,
Our bodies joint as one,
And though you will call her name,
It’s my body you will take.
The poludnica is here. She enters the tall grasses of the balk. I see a glimpse of her long dress, and then she’s almost under the tree, hovering right on the edge of shadow.
I stop breathing. My throat is tight with terror, and I have to keep telling myself Woland won’t let me die. I’m too important for whatever it is he wants. He’ll save me if she attacks.
I will not die, I will not die, I will not die.
I am safe. And yet, when the poludnica finally turns around, I scream in terror.
Her face is monstrous. Her eyes are milky white, skin dirty with scabs, but it’s her mouth that shocks me the most. It’s wide open, split up her cheeks, her jaw unhinged. In that raw, red mouth, fangs and sharp teeth glisten, mostly white, some stained. She stands there, almost directly underneath me, and stares, that devilish mouth wide open, like she can’t close it.
She looks at once terrifying and helpless. That long, golden hair and a white, innocent dress are so incongruous with her split-open maw.
I force myself to stop screaming and breathe. Tears stream down my face. I don’t dare blink. She is completely motionless, even her dress still, even though the grasses surrounding her sway.
She stares and stares, and I stare back, too terrified to speak. But I have to do something. My knife is at my thigh, and I don’t care what Woland said about her being invincible. If I get within a slashing distance, I’ll try my best.
My entire body trembles, making me think I might fall. She is so still, she looks like a painting, and my palms get sweatier the longer I look at her disfigured features. I have to correct my grip on the branch when my fingers grow slick.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
I have the ridiculous thought that if Wiosna was here, she’d tell me off for swearing. Right after she was done screaming. Or maybe she wouldn’t scream. No, she’d tell me how harmless the poludnica is, just like she did with the zmora.
But I know better. This is the bies that killed Jacek, and now she has her milky eyes on me.
She stares. I stare back. The song has ended, and all is silent.
Dadzbog is at his peak, meaning she’s at her strongest.
“Come and get me,” I say hoarsely, wondering if it will even work, terrified it might. “I’m right here. You just need to come closer.”
She shivers, and her entire body moves toward me in one jerky pull, but when a bit of shade falls on her hair, she recoils with a hiss. Saliva drips down her chin, clear and light pink in the sunlight, like it’s tinged with blood.
“Come on,” I urge her, a bit bolder, because it’s clearly not working. “I’m very tasty. Just come closer. You can grab me and drag me back into the sun. That’s just a bit of discomfort.”
My plan is simple: once she enters the shade, I’ll tackle her and keep her under the tree until she weakens.
She makes the same hissing sound, her hair rising and whipping around her face as if caught in a great wind. I swallow, keeping my eyes on her. She seems to rock on her feet, back and forth. Maybe she’s thinking.
Suddenly, she turns around. It’s not a human movement, more like a jerk of her entire body, and now she faces the other way, the song starting again. I don’t know where it comes from, because it’s impossible for the poludnica to sing with a mouth like that.
I look up in the direction she’s facing and my heart seizes with horrible understanding. Magda comes through the field, her head uncovered, mouth grim. She comes straight for the bies.
I have no time to wonder whether she’s here for revenge or to die. I’m too busy sliding down the tree, my dress catching on a branch and tearing on the way. The poludnica drifts toward Magda, her song growing louder in excitement.
“Magda! Run!” I scream, stumbling into a desperate chase.
Inexplicably, the poludnica is already halfway to Magda and getting closer every time I blink. I run, the wheat whipping my sides. Magda stops, and I think she freezes in terror. Too late, too late.
“No! Stop!” I wheeze out, my voice stifled by the effort of running in heat.
The poludnica falters, looking over her shoulder at me. I speed up, even though my side explodes with shocks of pain with my every step. My lungs burn, my throat closes up, and I gulp desperate, too small breaths, lurching through the wheat.
I’m almost to the poludnica when she raises her purplish hand. Magda is suddenly lifted above the ground, her back snapping into a taut arch. Her head is thrown back, body convulsing, but she makes no sound.
I run into the poludnica at full speed and we both fall, buried in the wheat. I snarl and sit on top of her, grabbing her nape. I press her face down into the dry ground.
She screeches despite her mouth being pressed right into the dirt, and seizes. She shakes so forcefully, I barely stay on. My shadow, short and squat under the midday sun, falls right on top of her. I lean in with a grunt, making sure it covers her head. Her screech grows louder. It hurts her.
Now, if only I had some rope on me. As it is, I keep pressing down with both hands to hold her, and I can’t even get my knife. We’re at an impasse, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep her here long enough for the sun to leave its zenith.
Suddenly, my vision explodes with white. A horrible, scalding heat covers every inch of my skin with blistering agony. I cry out, rolling off her, and still, it burns. Even though my eyes are closed, eyelids tightly sealed, I’m blinded by an unbearable light. My entire body tightens, water evaporating through my skin, my mind boiling in the heat. My heart struggles, each thud slower and slower.
My blood is like sludge, thickening as the water escapes, the heat making it rise into the sky in steam. I’m being cooked alive.
“No.”
It’s a word and yet not. Power bursts, laying the wheat flat over me, and suddenly, I can breathe again. Darkness slides over my eyes, and my heart beats fast again, pumping blood through me, each heartbeat bringing in more pain. I am in a cool, humid place, and I feel rather than see the steam rising from me in whorls as my body cools.
I don’t dare move. Everything hurts, my skin raw and scalded, my mind split open with the pain. I pant, but my throat is burned, too, as if the heat poured in through my mouth right into my lungs and stomach, burning everything on the way.
“I can’t decide whether you’re a complete fool or a cunning vixen,” Woland’s cool voice comes from nearby, the sound of it like purest relief.
I moan from how good it feels. His voice is like a cool blanket alleviating the pain and rawness of my skin.
“Don’t make those sounds,” he says. “I’m angry with you. Angry enough to get started on my final plan.”
“W-what is it?” I try to ask boldly, but what comes out of my mouth is a scratchy whisper.
“Oh, for Nawie’s sake,” he growls. “How can you be so mortal when you…”
But he breaks off with a curse. I try to open my eyes, but I’m not sure I manage. I barely feel my eyelids, and the quality of darkness around me doesn’t change. It’s pitch black and utterly soothing after the blinding light and heat the poludnica blasted me with.
A moment later, Woland’s large, cool hand rests on my forehead. Powerful relief spreads from it into my brain, down my spine, and into every inch of me. I sigh and moan, my fingers twitching, my toes pointing from pleasure. He curses through it all, and once the flood of bliss slows down to a trickle, he snatches his hand away.
And suddenly, I feel fine, apart from a headache and a tender spot right between my collarbones. This time, when I open my eyes, I see the soft textures of shadows surrounding me. Woland’s face looms above mine, his eyes glowing.
“I left you some pain in the hopes it will teach you something,” he says with annoyance. “This was beyond foolish, Jaga. I won’t always be able to save you.”
“I knew you’d come for me,” I say with a stupid grin, partly to irritate him further, partly to express my relief and gratitude. “Thank you. Even though it’s completely your fault I got hurt.”
He growls under his breath, brushing his hand roughly over his face. His eyes are closed. “If you’d only give in, you would never be hurt again.”
I snort at that. “What if I like to get hurt from time to time?”
He opens his eyes, giving me a speculative look. “Do you, now?”
He wraps his long fingers around my throat, his eyes focused on mine as he squeezes gradually harder until I choke against his hold. He doesn’t let go, his mouth curving in a predatory smile.
“Like this, poppy girl?” he whispers, his voice sending shivers across my flesh.
I nod. My torn dress hikes up my thighs, and then his fingers are right there, plucking at me as I slowly suffocate. And it shouldn’t be arousing, it should be anything but, yet I respond to his touch with embarrassing eagerness.
My legs fall open and I arch, pushing my pussy into his hand as if she’s a cat begging for a stroke.
Woland’s eyes grow hooded, and he squeezes my throat harder, his claws digging into my skin. I’m not sure, because the lack of air and the intense pleasure muddle my brain, but it seems like he’s bargaining with himself.
“Just one,” he murmurs, his touch growing harder, insistent to the point of pain. “Just to see.”
I shudder, desperately trying to draw in a breath, and he pinches my clit in the best possible way. A painful, shocking orgasm tears out of me, my scream of pleasure and agony blocked in my throat as he squeezes it harder. His fingers meet around my neck.
Ecstasy rolls through me, slamming up the column of my spine, making my eyes roll back. I seize, on the verge of dying from bliss, when it suddenly ends, and I can breathe again. My throat is bruised and tight, and I shake all over, but gods.
Was it magic or skill? I don’t know. All I know is, I can never replicate this on my own. No one else can, either.
I watch him with glazed eyes, my entire being sated and drunk on the orgasm he gave me. Woland avoids my gaze, his neutral mask shuttering his face. When I look down, his cock is hard and pulsing, arousal trickling down the side.
“Do you…” I try to ask, but only a wheeze comes out. I want to ask if he’d like me to touch him. My hands tingle with the eagerness to feel him in my palm, to give him pleasure.
But Woland closes his eyes, mouthing a silent, “Fuck.”
When he opens them, he looks cold, and all attempts at seduction die on my tongue. He touches a single finger to my throat, healing it, and then, his shadows disperse, taking him away. I sit up, blinking, alone in the sunny wheat field.
Right in front of me lies Magda, pale and lifeless. The poludnica is nowhere to be seen.
And now it’s my turn to curse.