40. Singed
I sleep for a few hours until dawn, and then attend Magda’s burial in the morning. Both she and Jacek are buried in the graveyard outside the village, because Jarota decided their deaths weren’t violent enough to justify burning their remains.
If there is no gore, that means a death was peaceful in his opinion. I decide to have an eye on those fresh graves just in case, because with Woland plotting against me, I don’t trust the dead not to turn into upirs or something.
At least, dealing with upirs is easy. You just have to dig out the remains during the day, when they are inactive, cut off the upir’s head, and put it between their legs. That way, they get stuck forever and can’t come out to suck people’s blood.
The burial is sparsely attended, because everyone is out in the fields, getting as much work done as they can before noon. The sun is hot and bright, the weather perfect for reaping.
Ida isn’t here. I know, because I look twice, but then, it’s no wonder. She’s most likely in Janek’s field, reaping with everyone. Even small children and the elderly, who normally wouldn’t have to come out in this heat, are out there, working since dawn.
I nod at a few of Jacek and Magda’s neighbors and other villagers who came because they don’t own any land. Sobiemir, the carpenter, waves me over while Milka, his wife, herds their four children down the path back to the village.
When he greets me, I control my face with effort, because the image of his wife sucking off Jarota at Kupala is still vivid in my mind. And yet, it doesn’t seem to have done any damage. If there was any strife between husband and wife, it played out in the privacy of their home.
“Good day, whisperer,” he says as we follow his family down the path. “I meant to look in on you. Do you have time to come in and renew the protections against woodworms in my workshop? Czeslawa did it some time ago, but ever since her shed collapsed…”
“Of course,” I answer when he trails off, clearly unwilling to speak badly about my predecessor.
I wonder briefly where she is and whether she got safely to her home village. A spark of triumph lightens my chest, because she’s gone now, and I’m in her place despite how awful my odds were before Kupala.
She lost and I won.
“I will make you a bench or a small table in return,” Sobiemir promises, tugging on his blond mustache peppered with silver hairs.
I nod. “Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow. I have one chore to do today, and it’s likely to take until dusk.”
Once I get home, I look over the things I prepared, making sure I have everything. Nerves buzz under my skin, and I pace my cottage, waiting for noon to approach. When I can’t stand it any longer, I grab my bundle with cold nettle brew, rope, a hammer, and three thick, rusty nails, each as long as my forearm.
The thought of using them makes my gorge rise, but I can’t give up now. The poludnica already murdered two people, and I’m determined to get rid of her, once and for all, without Woland’s help.
As I set out, I pass people coming back from the fields. Some look angry about the forced break, some relieved. I pass Ida, who supports Janek’s old grandma as she walks unsteadily, sweat glistening in her deep wrinkles.
Ida doesn’t even spare me a glance. I wonder if she’ll come back once her supply of herbs runs out, or if she’ll endure her husband’s demands.
Darobor is the last I encounter. He stands on the path leading into the fields. He looks at the still unharvested swathes of golden wheat, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. I join him and look, too. There is no figure in white yet.
“It doesn’t feel right for you to go alone,” he says, his mouth set. “She kills women, too. It could have been you yesterday.”
“Magda wanted to die,” I say, my voice firm.
I don’t want him to be a dutiful protector right now, and he absolutely will try to help me if I don’t deter him. I want Darobor to be safe. He’s one of the few people I truly respect and trust, though I’m sure if he learned the truth about me, he’d hate and fear me.
All the more reason to hide well.
“I was safe yesterday because I stayed in the shade all the time,” I lie. “I’ll be safe today, too. And hopefully, tomorrow everyone can work through until noon, though I’d prefer the children and elderly to stay home during the worst heat.”
Like Janek’s grandma. She should be home, sitting in shade and drinking cold beer.
I resolve to do rounds through the fields and monitor everyone with a frail constitution tomorrow. And if someone looks sickly, I’ll just order them to go home. No one will dare to disobey the whisperer.
But first, I have a poludnica to catch.
It will be bloody. I’d rather no one saw it, especially Darobor. Watching me amputate a mauled arm is one thing. But when he sees what I do to the poludnica…
“Go home,” I command, harsher than I should. “Tell everyone to avoid the fields today, and tomorrow, the threat will be gone. This is how you can help, so go and make sure no one distracts me. I am the whisperer, Darobor. I promise I’ll be safe.”
His mouth thins and anger flickers in his blue eyes, but after a moment, he nods sharply.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
I make sure he’s truly gone before I set out for the pear tree on the balk. My bundle isn’t heavy, but it weighs on me.
At this moment, I hate Woland with a passion for trying to force my hand. I hate being here, and he’s to blame. And yes, I will kill the poludnica and keep telling him no, but it will cost me.
I growl under my breath when I climb the tree. It’s better to focus on my anger and not to think about what I have to do. Keeping the noon lady from running before nighttime is tricky. After yesterday, I know holding her down on my own won’t work. She’s too strong.
Which is why I came up with my plan, but gods, do I hate it.
“Come to Mommy, ugly girl,” I mutter under my breath, doing my best to channel anger and confidence. “Let’s get it over with.”
I wait. Dadzbog’s emanation, as Chors called it, reaches the highest point in the sky, blinding me with its scorching light when I check its position. I grow more and more uneasy, looking out through the branches. Has she changed her hunting grounds? Did Woland move her away to thwart me?
The longer I wait, the sweatier I get, my head itching under my tight straw hat. I’m scared, but if I could, I would just get it done and over. The wait is killing me.
Finally, I spot a flutter of white in the distance. She drifts closer, the faint sounds of her song dancing in the hot air.
I brace myself. The poludnica seems deceptively slow, yet she reaches the balk in a shockingly short time. She stops where the shade doesn’t reach and looks at me in silence, the song ended. I grip my bundle with a sweaty hand, eyeing her mouth.
Gods. I really hope her jaw can’t close. If she bites me…
I cut off that thought before it makes me nauseous. Putting this off only makes things worse, so I slide down the tree, her milky eyes taking in my every move. When I’m in the grass, I cautiously come over. One step. Another small one. The sun is right overhead, and the tree gives little shade.
She makes a high-pitched, yearning sound when I stop just out of her reach.
“I’ll put you out of your misery, don’t you worry,” I say.
She swipes at me with her hand, faster than I expect, and I jump back, avoiding her fingers. Her nails aren’t that long, but they are filthy, her skin purplish. I would just bet she’s teeming with all kinds of sickness.
“No touching.”
She takes her hand back with a hiss, her skin paling even more where shadow fell on it. Her arm is ghostly white in patches.
I clench my jaw, my insides tensing with terror when I look at her teeth. Just please, don’t let her bite me.
Stifling the scream of bravado that wants to tear out of my throat, I leave the protection of the tree. In one jump, I’m almost to her, but suddenly, she’s ten steps away, hissing at me as her hair billows wildly despite there being no wind.
I just manage to retreat back into the shade when she reappears where I stood, her jaw open even wider, an inhuman, rusty shriek coming from her throat.
It’s sickening. I see her uvula vibrating from where I stand.
“You’re making this difficult for us both,” I growl, bouncing on my feet in preparation for another attack.
I lunge at her, but she avoids me. One moment she’s there, and the next, she’s a few paces to the left, screaming as her hair whips around her face. This time, I don’t run back to safety. I plant my feet, my teeth clenched to the point of pain, as she charges at me. Her arms are outstretched, fingers bent and ready to scratch.
She moves too fast. I make to grab her when she’s on me, but she slithers out of my grasp, her nails slashing down my left arm. Agonizing heat licks my skin, and I stagger back under the tree, gripping my arm and wheezing. The pain grows and grows, until I fall to my knees, my legs too weak to support me.
The poludnica stops her scream and just stands there, watching me. I think she’s grinning, though with that mouth, it’s hard to tell.
“Laugh while you can,” I hiss, gingerly removing my hand to see the wound.
The sight makes my guts twist with horror, and for a moment, I’m afraid I will hurl. I look away, but it doesn’t help. I’m breathing so fast, I’m dizzy, and still, I look again, trying to get accustomed to the sick, horrible sight.
Three deep, completely black gashes run down my arm. My flesh isn’t just burned, it’s completely singed to cinders. Pain radiates from the wounds, my arm growing numb, and I have to blink repeatedly when my vision swims.
Apparently, Chors’ mark doesn’t protect me from her touch. He could have mentioned it.
I look up. The poludnica titters, the sound eerie and unpleasant, and my anger flames into a fire that devours my fear.
I grin back, baring as many teeth as I can.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
She titters again, like a little girl during playtime, and I jump out at her with a roar. She avoids me, but I pivot, holding my bundle of weapons like a shield. Her teeth glint in the sun, saliva dripping down her chin. She lunges at me with her hands outstretched. I move away, gritting my teeth when the pain makes me stumble.
She tries to scratch my face, and I block her with my bundle. It falls apart, hammer and nails tumbling into wheat. I don’t let myself despair, just mark the place.
I’m getting this bitch, and I won’t let Woland save me again.
”Yes, you’re fast,” I grit out, blinking sweat from my eyes. “Come at me.”
When she lurches toward me with a vicious screech, I stand my ground. She aims for my face again, and I drop low at the last moment, barreling head-first into her stomach. Her shriek ends with a gasp, and we both land in the wheat.
But unlike yesterday, she’s face up, and I don’t have time to restrain her hands.
It happens in a blink. Her unhinged maw curves up in a grin, and a red mist clouds her milky eyes.
She jabs her fingers into my wounds.
I howl with pain and collapse to the side, curling into a ball to protect myself. Hot agony stabs into my arm, the heat so searing, it feels like living fire. I’m dying. It’s not just my arm that hurts, it’s everything, like necrosis and rot spreading from the wounds into the rest of me with every heartbeat.
My mind tears open with the pain, my body flames bright, like I’m burning alive. I don’t dare look, don’t dare open my eyes, because I’m convinced I’ll see my skin and muscles disintegrating. It hurts like my meat is tearing off my bones.
The pain is so pure, it makes everything else disappear. I could sink into it and live in this endless agony, forever stuck, all of me burning away until all that’s left is the eternal burn.
But I’m not dead yet. With a force of will I didn’t know I possess, I claw my way out of the mindless suffering back into reality.
It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, yet I’m branded now. That kind of pain must damage the soul.
As I return to consciousness, something hard digs into my cheek. I know there’s no time, so I roll with a moan, barely avoiding another slash of her claws.
But I’m too weak to stand or roll again. And she’s too fast.
She straddles me, panting, pink droplets of hot saliva dripping onto my breasts and burning through my dress. I hiss when they hit, each a tiny burst of excruciating pain. And yet, it has nothing on the rotten, sizzling flame that devours my left arm.
The poludnica raises her hands high, tittering. Helpless rage slams into me, but no matter how hard I try to dislodge her, she stays on. Things look dire.
There is no sign of Woland.
My heart hammers with pain and fury, and I roll to shake her off, but I choose the wrong direction. When I try to roll left, the pain makes my vision go black for a blissful moment. Then I’m back, but much weaker, a constant, low moan coming out through my clenched teeth. The bies sits on top of me, her head tilted. She can’t speak, but I know her meaning.
She’s gloating.
I reach over my head with my right arm, feverishly searching through the wheat. There was that thing, I know. It should be somewhere here.
The poludnica makes as if to attack, her fingers flying at my face. When I flinch away, she titters and raises them again, moving her fingers tauntingly.
The wheat rustles around me. I search and search, reaching farther, as far as my hand will go, but there’s nothing. Only dry, crusty soil and rigid stalks. The poludnica feints another attack, and a sob bursts from my throat.
I can’t find it. Whatever it was, that hard thing under my cheek, I must have rolled too far from it. I can’t save myself. She’ll put her fingers in my eyes and boil my brain.
“Woland,” I choke out.
When I called Chors’ name yesterday, he came at once. This should work. I wait, my heart bursting with hope. He’ll come. Of course, he will. He will save me, because I’m too significant to lose.
The poludnica raises her head slowly, and I swallow with relief, sure she must have seen him. He’ll blast her off me in a second. He’ll heal me.
She turns her head left and right, titters again, and looks down at me, her head tilted to the side. More scalding saliva drips onto me, and she makes another sound, something mockingly pitying, and wipes a bead of wetness from my cheek. A tear.
Her touch burns, and I scream, thrashing, but she’s shockingly strong for such a waif of a girl.
I still brush through the wheat with my right hand, gripping the stalks, digging my fingers into the loose soil. My left arm lies useless by my side. I wish I could cut it off. It would hurt less.
The poludnica shakes her head, and then, her song comes again, clear and loud, sung in a sweet, female voice. Her mouth doesn’t move, her tongue and uvula, which I see when she leans over me, not moving.
Sleep, my darling, and I shall
Brush all nightmares from your brow.
She looks around again, slowly, as if for show, and then looks at me. A hoarse laughter comes out from her throat, clashing with the song.
I finally understand. Woland isn’t here. He’s not coming.
She nods once, seeing the despair and pain in my face. My fingers jerk to the side in one last desperate attempt, brushing against cool iron.
Oh gods.
The song swells, growing louder, the notes burgeoning with seductive passion. It’s a song of a temptress, and I hate it more than anything in the world. I’d do anything not to let this cursed melody be my funeral dirge.
Sleep, beloved, on my breast,
Let me give you peaceful rest.
Fury rushes through my veins, and it’s not even at her. I’m furious at Woland for trying to force my hand and then abandoning me. Even more, I hate the gods who curse those who die violently, as if having a horrible death isn’t punishment enough.
Most of all, I’m furious with myself for ending up here. I can do better.
The stanza doesn’t repeat after it ends. It’s quiet, not even the wind rustling the wheat. The poludnica looks up at the sky, raising her arms, as if giving worship to Dadzbog.
When she brings them down, she aims for my face, fingers curved to stab. Playtime’s over.
I grab the thick nail from the ground and jam it in her eye.