31. Free
In the light of the morning, I feel silly and embarrassed by my nightly terror. Of course, it was a zmora. I should have recognized it.
A zmora is a kind of bies born from strong hatred toward another person. Unlike many other demons, it’s not a mortal turned into a creature after a violent death nor somebody cursed by the gods. No, the zmora is an emanation of hate. It’s created unconsciously in most cases, and very difficult to shake off without killing the person who made it.
I have a pretty good idea who might hate me enough to send the bies after me. The problem is, it could be more than one person, the main two suspects being Czeslawa and Swietko. But even if I knew who did it, that wouldn’t help me much. I’m not about to kill them for this. They might not even know they sent a bies into my cottage.
Also, I don’t want to trust the tales blindly.
Neither Wiosna, nor her mentor before her have ever dealt with a real zmora, or any other bies, for the matter. Everything I know comes from Wiosna’s lessons, and those tales are old and have been passed down from generation to generation for who knows how long.
Some details might be off. And if Woland is behind all this, dealing with the zmora might be trickier than the lore suggests. All of that makes me very cautious, though for now, all I have to go on are Wiosna’s stories.
I know from the folk tales a zmora comes in the night, usually when its host is asleep, their hatred untethered. It wanders into the victim’s bed and sits on their chest, immobilizing them with terror. The bad news is, zmoras aren’t as harmless as Wiosna says, because I remember just a few visits can make a victim’s heart give out from fear. If that doesn’t happen, the victim wastes away to nothing within weeks, unable to sleep and weakened by fear.
Wiosna says there is an easy solution, but alas, it’s not as simple as it seems.
“How am I supposed to invite it to breakfast when I cannot breathe?” I ask her while coiling up my hair into a tight twist of braids.
“Easy. Ask it before it squeezes all air out of you.”
I nod slowly, sliding the final pin into place. I’m ravenous and tired, my ribs still aching from last night’s strain. All I want is some sympathy and a realistic solution, and then a huge breakfast.
“So when I wake up with my heart hammering from terror in my pitch black cottage, with a monster snarling on top of me, somehow I must do the polite thing and ask it to come over? While it suffocates me?”
“You make it sound worse than it is,”Wiosna says with a scoff. “Aren’t you a whisperer? Come on, Jaga. You cut off a man’s arm and laughed. I know you have it in you.”
I purse my lips. I’d rather not think about that moment—and all the other moments when I was terrified or horribly upset and yet, I cackled. I don’t know what that says about me apart from one thing.
Something is horribly wrong.
“What if I slept with my head on the foot of the bed? Isn’t that supposed to confuse the zmora?”
It’s like I can see the dismissive wave of Wiosna’s hand as she clicks her tongue. “You know as well as I do that’s just a temporary solution. A stupid one will get confused for a few nights. A smart one will sniff out where your breath comes from.”
“True. But it might give me some time to speak.”
And so that night, I lie down in the opposite direction to the one I normally choose, and it’s weird. Not only am I waiting anxiously for the zmora, but everything in the cottage seems unfamiliar and sort of upside down, even when it gets too dark to see.
I am truly scared, which surprises me. I went after the werewolf with just a knife, and I let the devil bleed and hump me, but this little domestic bies I’m afraid of? And yet, the werewolf was never in my home where I let my hair loose and hide from judgmental eyes. Woland never tried to get into my bed.
Probably because he wouldn’t fit in here. My straw mattress is narrow and just how I like it. A bed for one.
The night falls deeper, darker, quieter, and still, I can’t stop moving, the straw crunching every time I turn over.
“You know you have to fall asleep for it to come, don’t you?” Wiosna asks drily.
I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of her voice.
“I know! Gods, you startled me. You can’t just… Just say things out of the blue like that!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, should I wave my hand to let you know I’m about to speak?” And now she’s pissed. I hear the acidic irritation in her voice.
“Just… I don’t know. I’m trying to sleep.”
“You haven’t done your spell.”
I throw my forearm over my face and bite into my flesh, frustration mounting. “I thought the zmora was the priority tonight.”
“It is. Do your spell so you pass out and stop fidgeting.”
“Be gone, cranky spirit,” I whisper but don’t put any power behind it. Wiosna chuckles. I smile and roll my eyes.
“Fine. I’ll try to make the bed more comfortable.”
Soft, I think. Soft and smooth. Even surface. No hard, sticking out straws. Soft and smooth, and the best sleep ever.
Power trickles into my hands and wells in my chest, but when it’s about to pulse out of me, something yanks it back. A sharp pain pierces my heart and darkens my thoughts. I fall unconscious, just like Wiosna wanted.
I wake up in the morning to sunlight flooding in through my single window. Wiosna grumbles under her breath, and I can’t discern the words, but her tone of voice is rife with annoyance.
“Let me guess,” I say, rubbing my groggy eyes. “I slept through it.”
“You did. That thing is as dumb as bricks. Kept sniffing around the cottage for an hour before it gave up. You’re sleeping back around tonight. Let’s get it over with.”
I’m still sleepy as I go around my errands that day, seeing a few clients and making more tinctures for autumn and winter. If I’m going to replace Czeslawa, I need to be serious about stocking up.
My sense of duty is the only thing that keeps me going, even when the heat of the day makes me want to curl up in the shade of a tree and nap until evening. It doesn’t help that my bleeding is about to start. I already suffer from the first waves of cramps, though these are still manageable.
I swelter in my cottage, sipping cold yarrow brew with honey, and chop, clean, and organize my herb supplies.
As a young unmarried woman, I’m not supposed to wear a kerchief, but I still have one wrapped around my forehead to keep the sweat from falling into my eyes.
By the time dusk settles in, I sway on my feet from exhaustion, and even though I know I’ll get sweaty right away, I still go out for a quick dip in the river. A few girls are bathing, future Kupala maidens, and they give me curious yet wary looks when I undress and splash into the water.
As I let the current brush the kinks out of my muscles and soothe my overheated skin, I think about Woland. I should be glad he’s gone, but instead, I find myself missing his presence, which is ridiculous.
“You hate him,” I whisper to myself, and it’s true. I feel that hatred buzzing in the pit of my stomach, buried for now, but ready to leap out.
But I also can’t deny the attraction. He flatters me. There is something addictive in being a god’s—or demon’s, since I still don’t know what he is—coveted prize. Even now, him being away and apparently busy with bigger priorities wounds my pride. I’ve come to expect his attention and desire.
It’s obvious he doesn’t desire me very greatly, though. I try not to think about it, but my cramps, general grumpiness, and exhaustion get to me. And so I remember how it was when I lay under him, my legs spread open in welcome. How I trembled when he was about to take my virginity.
But he didn’t. He turned away. I was scorned and discarded, and the more I think about it, the uglier, less desirable, and more furious I feel. These feelings are idiotic, though, because I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t expect and crave his desire.
And so I push it all down and lock it away, and yet, my body betrays everything I feel. I’m glad for the gloom of the early evening, because it covers my blush of shame.
Back in my cottage, I do the light spell and fall into dreamless sleep. I wake up with the zmora snarling down my face.
I lie completely still, keeping my eyes closed because it’s too dark to see, anyway. The zmora’s weight on my chest is painful but bearable, and I can still breathe. Even though each slow breath seems like it will choke me, and all I want is to take huge gulps of air, I do my best to breathe evenly.
The moment it senses I’m awake, the torture will start. I need to speak fast and clearly, but my throat is thick with fear, so I wait.
Something moist and cold touches my cheek, and it takes all I have not to flinch. The weight on top of me shifts, cold hands clawing at my sheets and nightshirt. The zmora’s chuffing grows impatient, a ululating growl pushing out of its throat. It sits down more firmly, constricting my ribcage.
Now.
“Will you please come to breakfast tomorrow?” I ask calmly.
The zmora jerks and shrieks, and now my eyes are wide open, and in the moonlight falling inside through my window, I see the monster, its big head hovering above me. It huffs and bears down, its weight doubling. I grunt, my lungs crushed and hurting for air, my heart galloping with terror.
I’m suffocating.
“W-Wiosna,” I grit out. “Why… is it… still here?”
Wasn’t inviting it to breakfast supposed to solve the problem? That’s what the tales say. And yet, the zmora still sits on top of me, bending my sternum inward until I’m terrified it will snap. I can’t breathe. I’m being crushed into pieces.
At that moment of despair, I have a ridiculous urge to call for Woland. I bite my tongue until I taste blood. No.
“Because it hates you,” Wiosna says. “What, did you think it would get scared of you mentioning breakfast? Make your little light spell and chase it away!”
I try to focus, but it’s futile. Bursts of white dance across my vision, my mind drifting in the haze of terror. My body seizes, but the bies presses me down into the mattress. I’m dying, echoes in my mind. Bested by a stupid zmora.
It takes so much effort to wrench my thoughts away from the panic of imminent death. I desperately try to think of light to scare it away, but my mind slips from my grasp, more terror pouring in. My ribs groan, bending to the point of breaking.
I need light, I desperately think. I need light.
There’s the barest flicker of power in my collapsing chest. Weak sparks burst across my eyes, brightening the zmora’s gaping maw for just a moment. It winces and shies away but doesn’t come off. The light is too weak and gone in the next second.
The monster’s panting breaths grow excited, its chuffing louder and louder, until it overshadows even the roaring in my ears.
I am helpless. I’m about to die.
And I don’t accept it.
Something breaks free in my mind, a shackle I’ve kept in place since forever, holding the worst parts of me in a cage. I’ve always had such a tight hold on it all, barely letting it show in my words or even thoughts. But there is so much, buried under all the locks and debris I covered it with. So many parts of me I don’t dare show the world.
And it is all out now. My evil is free, and I don’t have enough strength or air to stop it.
So a zmora is created from hate? I can hate better than anyone.
With barely an effort, I unleash the feelings I’ve kept bottled up since I was a little girl. Hate for those who bullied and belittled me, those who humiliated my mother, hate for my absent father, Woland, and all the men who rule their wives with their fists.
I hate Czeslawa for trying to kill me, taking my place, living in the cottage that was promised to me, spreading gossip about me when it finally feels like I have a chance. I hate her for every dismissive look and scoff she sent in my direction from the moment she set foot in the village. She becomes the focal point for my fury, her smug, superior face swimming before my eyes as I drift between consciousness and death.
Suddenly, the zmora yelps and lets go. I take in a shuddering breath, my ribs springing away to their natural shape with a crushing pain. This is her fault, too. Everything is her fault.
The pain just makes me burn hotter. My hatred pours out, a dark current of sizzling, flickering shadow that I see. It moves in the moonlit gloom of my cottage, coalescing, reshaping itself, flickering in and out of vision until it’s still.
The zmora screeches and hurls itself at the door, but the door is blocked.
Something stands in the way.
“Oh, Jagusia,” Wiosna whispers, true fear in her voice.
I buzz with energy and magic, my hate a glittering, beautiful thread of darkness connecting me to the creature blocking the door. I don’t see her yet, because moonlight doesn’t reach there, but I feel her. She’s fueled by this dark, infinite energy I’ve just unlocked.
I have years’ worth stored up, ready for the taking.
She takes a step forward, revealing herself.
“So that’s how you make a zmora,” I whisper, taking in the strange, tenebrous thing my hatred created.
She’s bigger than the other zmora, which now cowers back by my hearth, as far away from my monster as it can go. My zmora is large and proportional, her arms long and muscular, her breasts full and dark. Her skin seems dark blue, so unlike the pale zmora’s.
Despite the breasts, she is not fully human-shaped. There is something odd about her long, powerful legs, like they can bend the other way, and her neck is too long, corded with muscle. Her eyes flash red, their irises catlike.
When she takes a measured, slow step toward the other zmora, it squeals in terror and scrambles into my hearth, as if trying to go up the chimney. My zmora titters, the sound high-pitched and eerie, before she swipes out with a long arm.
The smaller zmora goes sprawling to the floor, its feet swept out from under it.
My zmora’s toes and fingers are tipped with blood-red claws, and her hair is red as well—so red, it looks like sunset blazing in the sky. It’s long and looks soft enough to pet—none of the wet measly strands of the other zmora. I instantly know why the hair is like this. It’s another part of me I hide, another thing I’m forced to push down.
When my zmora opens her maw to growl, the sound makes my skin break out in goosebumps, and yet, I am not afraid.
She is a part of me.
“Banish it!”Wiosna urges, desperation ringing in her voice. “Before it goes on a rampage!”
A rampage? I tilt my head to the side and look at my powerful, strangely beautiful, terrifying zmora. It’s like looking into a magical mirror that doesn’t show you a mere reflection but the truth of who you are at your core.
It feels like she’s me. Right now, I can tell at once what she’s doing when she crouches in front of the small zmora and bares her vicious, long fangs in a snarl.
She’s playing with her food.
The smaller zmora whimpers and tries to shuffle away, but my monster grins and grabs it by the throat. Slowly, she rises from her crouch, bringing the smaller zmora up with her until its feet barely scratch the floor.
“That’s right,” I murmur. “Choke the bitch.”
My zmora laughs, a low, satisfied sound, and her fist tightens. Her strength is impressive—she holds the smaller monster clean above the floor now, her arm muscles hard with effort. I drink her in, mesmerized by that strength.
“Jaga! What are you doing? You have to stop it!”
Wiosna is frantic, but she can’t do anything. She’s just a voice hovering in the air, and for once, I won’t let her keep me from getting what I want. And I want justice. This sniveling, ugly monster came into my bed and terrified me in my own home. It wanted to kill me, and now, it will pay.
“It hurt my ribs,” I whisper to my zmora, wincing from the pain when I try to take a deeper breath. “What do you think we should do?”
My zmora doesn’t even look at me. She pulls back her free hand and delivers a powerful blow to the small zmora’s side. It squeals from pain, its bones crunching.
“I think you hurt it more than it did me,” I say, prowling closer. “But I approve.”
Gods, I am fascinated. This creature born of dark and hate brims with magic and potency. She seems invincible, and exactly the kind of thing I have to become. In her posture, in her unhesitating cruelty, I see the echoes of the Jaga who saved me.
“You’re magnificent,” I whisper, stroking her hair with reverence.
She snarls at the smaller zmora, but that beast is barely conscious. All its air is gone, its eyes bulging as my zmora’s fist squeezes tighter and tighter around its throat.
There is a wet crunch and a splatter. The zmora’s body and its head fall to the ground, the head rolling under my table. My zmora squeezed its neck right through.
“Gods.”
That’s all Wiosna has to say. I don’t think I ever witnessed her so terrified, and it gives me a sick pleasure to know that I shocked her for once. I’m not just a girl to push around and nitpick at. I have power, too.
A stench of rotten eggs fills the cottage, and the remains of the dead zmora dissolve into a thick, yellowish smoke that soon dissipates. My zmora turns to me. We look at each other, and even though her features are monstrous, her eyes snakelike, fangs long and sharp, I smile. Love and tenderness well within my hurting chest as I look at this monster, so sorry I kept her hidden away for so long.
“You deserve to run free,” I whisper. “So powerful. You deserve to rule the world.”
She grins back, clearly sentient and able to understand me. Suddenly, she lunges for me, her arms wrapping around my body, tightly and yet gently so as not to hurt my ribs. I swallow, getting lost in that feeling of strength and comfort. It’s like I’m seen and understood for the first time.
Like I finally found my place.
When I hug her back, she melts into me, and we become one again.