Devil's Deal: A Dark Fantasy Romance

45. Signs

The day isn’t as hot as the previous ones, the sky overcast with big, fluffy clouds, and so it isn’t as unpleasant to go about my chores. I gather herbs and dig up some beautiful knitbone roots, and after noon, I look in on a few of the oldest villagers working in the fields. Everyone fares well in the cooler weather.

In the evening, I don’t go to the river, only washing in a big basin. Woland doesn’t visit, but I meet him in my nightmares as the big black bear roaring my name as he chases me through the woods.

Next morning, after I’m done replanting some herbs from my previous cottage’s garden into my current one, Darobor and Sara come to visit. A faint drizzle falls from the sky, and I know the work in the fields will likely stop until it’s dry again.

“Sara really enjoyed your story about the Rodzanicas,” Darobor says, leaning against a tree while his daughter runs up to me to see what I’m doing. “Would you mind telling her a few more? And my wife asked me to invite you to dinner tomorrow if you’d like.”

I smile at the girl, who looks at my herbs with avid interest. “Of course. We can go inside since the rain’s picking up. I have some cold chicory brew with milk.”

I don’t even have to water my replanted herbs, because the drizzle will keep the soil soft and moist. They look sad and half-wilted now, but I’m sure they will perk up in no time. I buried a few charms in the soil and surrounded my garden plot with a perimeter of thorns. The herbs should be safe now.

Inside, Sara chatters about her own garden plot, where she grows her favorite vegetables. She tells me with pride her cucumbers are always the best, because she takes all the guano after mucking out the chicken coop and uses it to fertilize her garden.

Darobor sips his brew, looking at his daughter with a smile, and I listen with pleasure. I really like children. Being able to talk to them now that their parents no longer warn them about me is probably the best change that happened in my life since I became the whisperer.

At the same time, I wonder what story to tell her. After Woland told me about the ancestral souls, I am convinced this isn’t the only tale that has an official and unofficial version. I wonder what else is a lie.

And so I choose the one that I know for a fact is based on truth, at least partly. I start the story about how Chors became the light in the night sky.

“After Perun and Weles created the world,” I begin, smiling at the girl as she plays with her braid, her eyes big and curious, “Perun decided to divide the days in two halves, one light, one dark. He wanted to put a big light up in the sky, and so he went into the celestial smithy where his son, Swarog, worked, and he brought forth a son from the smithy’s holy fire.”

“That’s Dadzbog!” Sara exclaims with excitement, proud she knows something.

I nod. “Indeed. Dadzbog was golden and bright, and he traveled across the sky for a half of every day, spilling life-giving light onto the land. But every night, when he went to sleep, the world plunged into thick darkness. Perun didn’t want to light up the night sky. He decided people were to live, work, and play during the day, and sleep during the night.”

Sara frowns. “That’s not very nice. Sometimes, people have to be up at night. For example, if a new calf is born. You can’t tell the cow to wait until morning, she’ll have the calf when she’s ready.”

I smile, nodding in approval. “That’s right. And if you’re serious about becoming a whisperer, there are some herbs that have to be gathered at night. It would be very difficult to find them if the nights were pitchblack like Perun wanted.”

Her eyes grow as big as saucers.

“Do you go herb-picking at night? In the meadows? Or in the woods?”

I laugh, seeing her barely concealed fear. “Yes. It’s only scary the first few times. After that, you get used to it. Now, back to the tale.”

She frowns, touching her stomach, but nods. Darobor shifts in his seat.

“Weles saw how people struggled during the dark nights, and he also grew jealous of his brother having a few sons already. He decided to have a son, too, and he called him forth from the darkest river of Nawie. Chors was born, the most beautiful of the gods.”

Sara fidgets, giving me an inquisitive look. “The most beautiful? I thought that was Dadzbog. He shines the brightest.”

I haven’t seen Dadzbog, and I’m still completely certain he can’t be more stunning than Chors.

“Yes, he shines the brightest. So bright, in fact, you can’t even see him, because he blinds everyone with that light. That’s not true beauty if looking at him hurts your eyes, is it? But Chors’ light is subtle. He shines just brightly enough to let you see in the dark and to admire him freely. That’s true beauty. Not the one that tries to blind you with its vicious light, but the one that lets itself be admired.”

Sara makes a sudden hiccupping sound, pressing her hand to her mouth. Her eyes are wide.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, standing up.

She shakes her head and bolts out of my cottage. Darobor and I follow on her heels, and we go out just in time to see her vomiting into my calendulas. When I look at Darobor, he seems pale and sweaty.

I think back to what could have caused this, but it can’t be my chicory brew or milk, because I drank the same thing, and I’m fine. Not even a rumble from my stomach.

Sara finally stops retching, and I fetch her a cup of water to rinse out her mouth. Darobor wipes his forehead, looking ill.

“Go home,” I say with a sympathetic sigh. “I’ll stop by with stomach drops.”

He nods without speaking, and I imagine he’s afraid he’ll retch the moment he opens his mouth. I wave them both away, and they hurry home, leaving me frowning on my doorstep. Something isn’t right. First Jarota coughing his lungs out, now this?

If it was all the same illness, that would be understandable. But two different ones is much rarer—unless Sara and Darobor both ate something unsavory for breakfast. I shrug, because that seems quite likely. I pick a small bottle of drops and bring it to their house.

The rain grows stronger as the day crawls toward evening. Everyone stays home, probably cursing about losing a day of work. Between the poludnica and the weather breaking, this is truly an unlucky time.

When darkness falls, Chors’ light obscured by the rain clouds, I walk to the river bank, barefoot and smiling, even though I’m worried. The wet grass squelches between my toes, and I lift my face up, catching the sweet raindrops on my tongue. It’s dark, and yet not completely black like Perun wanted it to be. I still see the outlines of things, my eyes quickly getting used to the lack of light.

By the river, I stand on the stone, looking at the water surface pelted with rain. It’s peaceful here, and I breathe deeply, even though my dress and hair are drenched. I suppose I shouldn’t stand in the rain if an infection is spreading around the village, but I feel strong and well, so I ignore the voice of caution in my head.

The sky flickers brighter in the north, and I grin, wondering if we’re in for a summer storm. Or maybe Perun’s angry about something? Lightning and thunder are supposed to be his domain, and yet, water belongs to Weles.

For a moment, I feel tempted to call on one of them, but bite my tongue. Chors is one thing, though he, too, is an old, powerful god. But Perun and Weles are at the very top, with Weles coming in second after his brother.

I bring my hands to my mouth to make my voice carry and call on another name.

“Woland!” I shout over the river, louder than the drumming of rain. “Diabel!”

I wait, smiling, because I’m sure he will come. For a moment, I even think I see a flash of his golden eyes in the thick reeds by the river bank, but when I call him again, there is no response. I wait and wait, soaked and getting cold, until anger takes over.

Of course, he ignores me. Unreliable and unfaithful, he’s not someone I should ever trust. I don’t know why my stupid heart insists on expecting him to treat me well. I should know better.

I huff, stepping off the stone, and look with disgust at the place where I know his throne stood. Where I knelt for him.

What’s that?

I step closer, frowning as rain pours down my face. Even in the dark, I see that spot looks different. When I crouch to see better, the earth seems charred, the grass blackened to dust. A knot twists in my gut as I run my fingers over the bare earth. I’m not sure, but it seems lifeless. Maybe even cursed.

Just like my herb garden was.

My fingers are stained with wet soil, but I still bring them to my chin, running my chilled fingertips over the brand Woland gave me. I don’t know what’s happening and how it’s all connected, but I can’t shake the feeling the brand might be responsible for the grass dying where I knelt.

Could this be why my garden has wilted? I remember I weeded it the day before the blight hit. Could this be why? Does the brand kill plants near me?

If so, this is a disaster. I am a whisperer. I can’t do my work if I can’t use herbs.

“Woland!” I scream angrily, getting to my feet.

But there is no response, only the rain drumming on the river and the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance. I know he won’t come, yet I wait anyway, anger mingling with fear in my chest. Finally, when chills run down my back, I give up and go home.

The next day, it rains, too. I check my garden in the morning, and all the herbs I replanted are dead and black. Furious and helpless, because I don’t know how to fight this new licho, I spend the day trying to use magic. I still have some of Woland’s blood in me, so the first spell I do to fix a leak in my roof works at once.

I try another one, intending to erase the mark on my chin, but one look into a basin of clear water tells me it’s a failure. I remember how Woland said using his own magic against him doesn’t work, so I spend the rest of his power, and once I run out, feeling weak and dizzy, I attack the mark with my own magic.

But it’s useless. I try it three times, gathering the power and directing it with intent, and every time, it shatters against the invisible wall inside me. After the third time, I sprawl on my back on the floor, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. It gently revolves, and it feels like I’m falling, my head light, my body weak and leaden. I stay that way for what feels like hours, too weak to get up, too anxious to fall asleep.

In the afternoon, an urgent knock on my door forces me to rise. I groan and stumble for the door, holding on to walls and furniture on the way. Lotta’s boy stands on the threshold, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“Miss whisperer!” he says. “The zerca is feeling unwell! He’s coughing up blood!”

I pale. If his illness progressed so quickly, there is likely nothing I can do. I nod to the boy and tell him to run along, and then I pack everything I might need in my basket, gritting my teeth so I don’t sway on my feet.

Jarota’s house isn’t far from my new cottage, and when I enter, I find Lubka, who is his neighbor, pacing the kitchen. She wrings her hands anxiously in her dark apron. Jarota is in his bed in the bedroom. It’s loud inside, the rain beating on the thatched roof just like it does on mine.

“Perun be praised,” Lubka says when she sees me. “He’s coughing up a storm.”

I nod and wipe rainwater from my face and hands. I put my basket on the table and go into the bedroom to see how Jarota feels.

And it’s not good. As soon as I enter, I smell that particular stench that Wiosna taught me to recognize. It appears with some illnesses, forecasting death. It’s sweet and slightly rotten, the source being Jarota’s sweat filled with deathly fumes. His body fights a losing battle.

He looks so pale as he lies in his bed, twenty years older than yesterday. His face seems sunken, wrinkles deep. When he opens his eyes, they are feverish and unseeing.

He coughs as I lean over to check his temperature. Blood and mucus splatter my face.

I don’t make a sound, don’t even breathe, just take the cloth I usually carry by my apron and wipe myself clean. Jarota whimpers like a small child, helpless and in pain, yet too weak to scream.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, putting my hand on his forehead.

He’s not burning up, which is a very bad sign in his current state. That, combined with the sweet smell of death lying in wait, is a sure sign he’ll pass soon.

“He’s not lucid,” I tell Lubka when I come out, going straight for my basket. “And he likely won’t be. I can stay with him through the night. I don’t expect he’ll make it to morning.”

Her eyes are big, and she regards me as if I grew another head.

“What… What do you mean, he won’t make it? He was fine yesterday morning!”

There is fear and accusation in her voice, and I sigh with sadness. I know how this goes. People usually blame the bearers of bad news.

“These things move very fast sometimes,” I say gently but firmly. “I’ll give him medicine and something to ease his pain, but I don’t expect he’ll recover. Bloody cough is a sign of a serious malady. I’m sorry.”

Lubka’s lip trembles. She moves a step toward the door. “Is it… Can one get infected?”

I think about the blood that landed on my face and hope with all my might it’s not the case. Time will tell. Better not to think about it.

“It might spread, but I’m not sure,” I say calmly. “All I know is that some diseases that are easy to overcome for young people can be lethal to those more advanced in age. You are still a young woman. There shouldn’t be any reason to worry.”

She nods a few times, saying her hasty goodbyes. I go to Jarota and administer the medicine, which he swallows obediently without regaining awareness. Soon, he has another coughing fit, spraying his blanket with more blood. I wipe his mouth and feed the fire in the kitchen hearth. It’s chilly due to the rain, and I know he’ll be more comfortable when it’s warm.

Jarota dies in the middle of the night. Since he’s our zerca, he has some holy oils and a few smudging bundles, so I don’t even have to get my supplies. I wash him and burn his bloody clothes and blanket in the hearth, opening the front door wide to let the smoke out into the rainy night.

My tasks done, I wait for Rod, hoping to ask him about Woland’s mark, but I’m so exhausted, I nod off and miss his arrival.

When I wake, it’s dawn, and Milka beats down the door of Jarota’s cottage.

“Jaga, come quick!” she shouts, her face red from crying, her tears mixing with the rain wetting her cheeks.

“My husband is dying!”