Chapter 2Stasya
2
Stasya
Stasya woke to a rumbling noise, men shouting, horses neighing. Flip was off the bed in a flash, by the closed door, quivering with tension.
Wait.
Flip calmed at the familiar command; in some ways, she was quite like an ordinary dog. But Stasya knew something was wrong. Badly wrong.
She got out of bed and opened the shutters a crack. She was wary of uninvited guests, especially at this hour – the light told her it was not yet dawn. Nobody was outside her house, as far as she could tell. But the sound was everywhere. Something was happening down at the settlement. Trouble of some kind. The shouting went on and on. A family argument that had blown up into something worse, perhaps. But there were many voices in it, more all the time. When a dispute happened, the village elders would generally step in and make sure everyone calmed down and sorted out their problems without the need for blows. The high-up folk, the ones who made up the laws and rules of the Northlands and ensured ordinary people abided by them, were too far away to trouble themselves with a small, remote settlement like Heartwood. There was trade between Heartwood and the two nearest villages, goat meat for grain, cheeses for wool, oil for beeswax candles and so on. That went on smoothly, for the most part. Once or twice there had been a visit by a priest from the Church of the Godly. Grandmother had warned Stasya about such folk, and she’d made sure she stayed at home behind a closed door while he was in the settlement. But mostly Heartwood was left to look after itself.
The noise was getting louder. Someone was making a speech or shouting what might be a speech. She needed to know what was happening; she was supposed to go down to the bakery for work later. But the thought of being in a crowd, with people yelling, made her feel sick. ‘We’ll walk along to the lookout,’ she said, picturing it in her thoughts. She had never been quite sure if Flip understood human speech as well as the silent language of the mind. ‘Just far enough to see what’s going on.’ She performed a quick change – nightrobe off, tunic and trousers on, shawl over the top. She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face. Stay with me , she told Flip, showing the dog what she meant. Keep close and keep quiet. She bent to give Flip a quick scratch behind the ears, both reassurance and sign of trust.
From the lookout there would be a partial view of the village square, the community’s main gathering place. At this hour there were usually few folk about, though some would be starting the working day. Irina would have a fire lit in her big stove, readying it for the first batch of bread, and on the nearby farms people would be rising to tend to their animals. Poor Lukas. How he would hate his morning’s work.
By the time Stasya reached the lookout, the rumbling sound had died down, but the voices were louder. Angry shouting, not just one man but many. Women’s voices too. Then a roaring command, ‘Silence! ’ There were lights down there, uneven, flickering. Torches. As she came up to the vantage point, her heart thumped in shock. Flip moved closer, pressing against her leg. The sense Stasya got from her was, Bad. Very bad. Go back. Hide.
The square was full of people. Outsiders. Men on horseback, so many of them, wearing leather jerkins, knee boots, belts with weapons strung on them. Cloaks for travelling. Some wore leather helms. One carried a flag with a dragon on it. Further back along the road stood carts with teams of heavy horses still in harness. That explained the rumbling. Where had they come from, so early? Those horses were weary from a long journey. Stasya felt their exhaustion in every bone of her body.
The shouting man was standing on the steps outside the village hall. His call for silence hadn’t calmed things much. Within the circle of armed riders – trapped there, almost – were local folk, gesturing, arguing, calling out. Stasya thought she saw Farmer Jurgis; he, too, was shouting. What was all this about? Bad, conveyed Flip again. Not safe. Home now. Hide.
Lukas was down there; he was with his father. And there was Irina at the door of the bakery with her son Tomas behind her. She had her arms out as if to shield him. Chill fingers gripped Stasya’s heart. I can’t run away, she told Flip. I need to know what this is.
No. No closer. Flip edged back, as if she might bolt for home on her own.
I’m working for Irina this morning. I’ll have to go down there some time. Stasya showed Flip an image of herself in the bakery, kneading dough on the worktable.
I will go. The mind-picture showed a small bird flying down to the square, settling unobtrusively in the young linden tree beside the village hall. Flip did not wait for approval. The change was almost instant, dog to house sparrow. A quick ruffle of the wings, and she was away.
‘Don’t—’ Stasya breathed, far too late. Not that it would have stopped Flip. She’d been her own mistress almost from the first, as soon as she’d recovered from whatever disaster had left her alone in the forest. Stasya bit her lip as she watched the tiny bird wing her way toward the square. This did make sense. In that form, Flip could stay unnoticed down there, watch and listen, bring back news. She understood the danger that lay in her ability to change her shape. Though every instinct pulled her to follow, Stasya knew she must watch and wait.
There was constant motion in and around the square. Now the armed men were splitting the villagers up, herding them one way or another. Barked orders; furious protests. Blows. Who were these people and why would they do this? Where had they come from, to reach Heartwood so early?
Some of them were starting to unload the carts. Were those tools of some kind? The harnessed horses were restless, stamping, tossing their heads, unnerved by the press of folk. Their distress weighed on Stasya. She closed her eyes, but the feeling was still there: weariness, confusion, alarm, a deep need to return to a known place, a safe place. Just as well Flip had stopped her from rushing down there. At closer quarters she would have struggled to keep any shield over her mind. She might have felt compelled to act, to relieve that distress in some way, and that could have led to disaster. Best go home now before someone spotted her.
In the cottage, her mind whirring with unanswerable questions, she went through the motions of an ordinary start to the day. She kindled a very small fire. She heated water; washed and dried herself; brushed her hair and did her best to tie it back neatly. The amber owl watched her from the shelf where she’d placed it for safekeeping. Now she put the amulet back where it belonged, around her neck on its cord, under her tunic. Foolish, perhaps, to wear such a treasure every day, when she might be working with cattle or climbing ladders. But the owl was special; it belonged with her. They’d found the amber in the lake they’d named Clearwater, which was the furthest she and Lukas had ever ventured into Heartwood together. It had taken them a full day to get there and back, and Lukas’s parents had asked some awkward questions afterwards. But it had been such an adventure. Lukas was clever with a knife, and he’d carved an owl from the amber and given it to her on the first day of spring. It was precious, perfect and full of magic. Stasya had known that from the first moment. In the privacy of her cottage, she could wear the little talisman openly. When she was among other folk, she made sure her clothing concealed it, if only to avoid the narrowed gaze of Lukas’s mother, Rasma, in whose plans for her son’s future Stasya most certainly played no part.
Stasya shivered. Rasma. Jurgis. Irina and Tomas. Lukas and his sisters. The old folk of the settlement. All of them down there in that great press of people and horses and carts. The anger, the violence, the arrival so early in the day. She could make no sense of it. And Flip still hadn’t come back. Had she, too, been caught up in it all?
She made herself draw a deep, steadying breath. This was meant to be a bakery day. Irina would be expecting her. She should brew tea, have something to eat, get ready for work as she’d usually do on such a morning. But she had no appetite for food. And what if one of them spotted smoke rising from her chimney and came up the hill to investigate? Forget the tea. Let the fire die, cold as the morning was. She felt sick. Sick and scared. If Lukas had been with her, this would have been the moment to ask him for a story. There were plenty of tales for comfort. There was one for every occasion. More than one. But her mind was filled with a rising dread. She felt like a bird at the mercy of a capricious wind. Go. Stay. Be brave. Be cautious. Pack a bag for the day’s work. Climb back into bed, shut your eyes, wish it all away.
She found herself pacing, four strides across the room, four back again, hugging her shawl around her. Every part of her was strung tight. Her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth so hard. Her eyes fell on the image hanging on the wall above the storage chest, its once jewel-bright colours now darkened with age and smoke, and she made herself be still; made herself gaze on the woman in the picture and breathe. The woman looked back. A thing of paint and canvas she might be, an artist’s creation from long ago when Grandmother was young, but there was a life in her that had never died. Those eyes saw you; they saw deep within, and what they offered was reassurance. Trust yourself. You will get through this. Whether the painted woman was a saint or a deity of some ancient faith, Stasya had never been sure. The only name Grandmother had given her was the Mother. In the painting there was a stream running by her feet and a waterfall behind her, and there were creatures too, painted small: an eel, an otter, a long-legged wading bird, a dragonfly. The sky in the image had once been of the deepest blue, and the sun almost like gold. Whenever Grandmother had performed a ritual, she’d included words of respect to the Mother. If not a goddess, Stasya thought, the woman in the painting was certainly more than mortal; a kindly spirit of rivers and streams, perhaps. When she and Lukas had found Clearwater, Stasya had imagined her there, sitting on the bank in the quiet, with her bare feet in the water and her creatures around her.
Maybe she should try to conjure a vision, something that might make sense of what was happening beyond her safe walls. But no; for that she needed the fire, and she could not risk it. She would wait until the end of the day, when folk were abed. Then she would seek wisdom in the flames.
Stasya felt Flip coming before the little bird flew in. The two seldom shielded their minds from each other; they shared each other’s pain and joy, good news and ill, provided the distance between them was not too far. She knew this news was bad, so bad that Flip could hardly hold it in her tiny, quivering body. She changed, bird to dog, and Stasya gathered her up, making soothing sounds. Flip leaned against her chest, her whole body trembling.
Stasya made herself wait as Flip calmed and her breathing slowed. She stroked the little dog’s back. From down in the settlement came crashing sounds. They must be still unloading those carts. Where could so many horses be taken to rest?
There were times when Stasya wished Flip could talk in human words; times when images were not enough. But they had learned to understand each other well. Flip lifted her head; looked Stasya in the eye. A flow of pictures came: a big angry man with a dark beard, his riding clothes part-covered by a tunic with the image of a dragon on it. He shouted orders. When the villagers protested, the armed men moved in. Some bore long staves. People were struck down. Others struggled to help friends or family in the crush and were themselves felled. The chaos increased as some of the villagers tried to leave the square and were blocked by the men on horseback. It looked as if the newcomers were making the local men unload the carts. And on the first cart, when the covering of oiled cloth was stripped back, were great saws and axes and other tools. Farmer Jurgis was arguing with the big man. Two guards grabbed him and held him in place while the big man struck him across the face, hard. And Lukas – Lukas was about to leap to his father’s defence, only Jurgis gave him a look that meant, Don’t do it, son , and Lukas retreated, melting back into the crowd.
‘But what does it mean? Why are they here?’ Stasya could not show this as a picture; she set Flip down on the floor and gestured instead, arms out with palms up, brows lifted.
Bad. All bad. Go. Hide. Flip scurried across the room, leaped onto the bed and burrowed under the covers, vanishing from sight. There was a part of Stasya that longed to do just the same. But she couldn’t. What use would hiding away be? At the very least, she should show up at the bakery as she’d promised. The work of the settlement still had to be done. Irina was expecting her.
She made mind-pictures for Flip: the little dog sleeping the day away under the blanket. Herself at the bakery mixing, kneading, shaping loaves, tending the fire in the big stove. Wiping down the worktable, sweeping the floor. Herself again, coming home as the light faded, and the two of them peaceful before their hearth fire in the quiet of evening.
Flip made a sound of disapproval. She did not so much as poke her nose out of the bedding.
Stasya checked her bag. She put on her boots. It had been chilly outside earlier; she took off the shawl and donned the padded jacket of felted wool that had been Grandmother’s, a garment whose many shades of brown and green were in some way comforting. Wearing it reminded her of the wisdom Grandmother had shared with her: the lore of forests, the care of trees and plants and creatures, the deep understanding of ancient things. Since the very first day she’d come to live in this cottage, Stasya had been learning. It amazed her, still, to think that Heartwood was only one of several great forests within the Northlands. She had never travelled further than Vita’s Hope, where the market was held. It could be that each forest had its own kind of trees, its own lakes and valleys and ancient stones, its own old tales. Maybe each had someone like Grandmother, who knew ways to help things grow and thrive. Now Grandmother was gone, and Heartwood only had Stasya. She had to find her own learning.
She pulled a woollen hat over her hair, and with a whispered goodbye, perhaps to Flip, perhaps to the painted woman, she slipped out the door.
—
In the square, everything was wrong. She could make no sense of it. The leather-clad men were directing things, or so it seemed. Stasya did her best to be unobtrusive – she was good at that; it helped her steer clear of awkward conversations – but it was hard with folk scurrying about everywhere. Local men were still unloading carts. Some were carrying tools and other bundles toward the covered storage area at the back of the village hall. Two of the outsiders were unharnessing the first team of draught horses; Stasya could feel the animals’ relief, tinged with unease, for this was not their familiar place of rest. Across the square, two village women were supporting an injured man; she could not see who it was, but he could barely walk. One of the outsiders barked an order at them: ‘Move on, you’re in the way!’ and one of the women – it was Marina, who kept chickens – turned her head and swore at him. The speaker strode forward as if he might strike her, but halted when the bell outside the village hall rang out. All heads turned toward it. Stasya seized the moment and sprinted for the bakery.
The door was shut. She pushed but it did not budge. It must be barred from inside. Rising panic – so many people, so much noise – threatened to drown her. She hammered on the door with a fist, and a voice came from inside. ‘We’re closed. Go away.’ Tomas, sounding shaky and terrified.
‘Tomas, it’s me. Stasya. Let me in. Quick.’
Silence.
‘Tomas! Open up! Please!’
The door creaked open. A white-faced Tomas peered through, his eyes shadowed. He pulled the door just wide enough for Stasya to squeeze through, then slammed it shut. She dropped her bag and helped him push the bolt home.
‘Where’s Irina? Is she all right? Do you know what’s happening, Tomas?’ The bakery was warm. The fire was on in the big stove. From the scattering of flour and the mixing bowls on the table it was clear Irina had started the day’s work before the outsiders put a violent stop to the pattern of life in Heartwood settlement. ‘What do those people want?’
‘They made Mother go to the hall. For a meeting, they said. They told all the elders to go there. Mother said I should stay in here. She said not to open the door for anyone.’ Tomas was big for his age; he looked older than his eleven years. But right now he was a frightened child. ‘He said … that man said … they came from the Ruler. They want to cut a path through the forest, all the way to the Hermit. Broad enough for carts. They’re going to stay here until it’s done. That’s what he said. But they couldn’t do that, could they? How could anyone do that?’
Stasya had no words. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. It had been hard enough for her and Lukas to make a steep, winding progress on foot as far as Clearwater. There were no paths through Heartwood Forest save those of bear, deer and wolf. The trees grew close, and they were many. Higher up, the terrain was steep. The Hermit was far away. There was no telling how long such a journey would take, save that it would be many days. And that was before you considered the stories, in which not a single person had ever reached the Hermit and come safely home again. Could this man be intending … could he really mean …?
‘Stasya? He couldn’t do it, could he?’
She struggled for a calm tone. ‘I don’t think anyone could, Tomas. Why? Why would he want to do such a thing?’
‘I heard him say something about treasure. Hidden treasure. You know, like in the old stories.’
Stasya made herself breathe. She swallowed the howl of rage that was building inside her. Counted to ten silently. There was a verse Grandmother had taught her, something that helped when her thoughts went crazy, but right now the words wouldn’t come. Her mind was saying, I should go there right now. To the meeting. Explain to them why they can’t do this. She opened her mouth to tell Tomas this, but left the words unsaid. His face showed her she couldn’t leave him on his own, and she wouldn’t take him out there. She cast her eye over the preparations on the table.
‘The bread. They’ll still need the bread. Will you help me?’