46. Nawka
I grab my basket and follow Milka, a horrible, premonition squeezing my chest. As she runs ahead, splashing mud and water from the puddles with every step, I try not to rush and think instead.
Because this can’t be a coincidence.
Jarota’s cough wasn’t normal, either, I think, slowing down as cold rain soaks into my hair. When he came in, it was for his joint pain. And when I asked if he had coughed before, he said no.
Could he have gotten sick in my cottage?
And if so… Is Sobiemir sick because of me? I had dinner at his home a few days ago. The brand was already on my chin.
“Jaga!” Milka waves me over frantically, and I grit my teeth.
I don’t know what to do. If Woland’s brand spreads sickness around me, I can’t go into Milka’s house. I will not only make her husband worse—her children will fall sick, as well, if they aren’t yet.
On the other hand, maybe I’m wrong. And if that’s the case, my failure to help could kill Sobiemir, too.
I curse under my breath and walk faster, joining Milka on the porch of their house. This is an impossible choice, so I decide on a compromise. I’ll come in, assess him, and give her some medicine. I’ll be out in a few minutes. If I am the source of the curse, spending as little time as possible among people should be the right solution.
In the privacy of my mind, I curse Woland’s name thrice.
“Through here.”
Milka leads me into their bedroom. We pass the children playing by the hearth in the kitchen, and they stare at me, their eyes big, faces drawn. My heart squeezes. Are they sick as well? Milka said nothing about the kids, only Sobiemir.
In the bedroom, I breathe with relief. There is no sickly scent, and Sobiemir burns up like a furnace, which is a good sign. He has a hacking cough, but there is no blood, and he’s lucid enough to answer my questions.
She exaggerated. He’s ill, yes, but definitely not dying.
I give Milka a few tinctures and explain how to care for him before I leave in haste, bidding her to come for more medicine when she runs out. The rain pelts my head as I run home, the path empty, everyone staying inside.
Now that I think of it, I don’t remember a rain like this ever happening at this time of year. Usually, brief summer storms hit, but never such a thick downpour lasting over a day. Is this also the devil’s work? Or am I losing my mind?
Back home, I dress in dry clothes and focus all my magic, all my intent, on erasing Woland’s mark from my skin. The magic rises and breaks, leaving me gasping for breath. The mark stays on, and I fall to my hands and knees, wheezing from effort. Black dots dance across my vision.
“Woland,” I growl under my breath, but of course, he doesn’t come.
When I am strong enough, I get to my feet and pace, thinking what to do. The worst thing is, I am not sure. This could all be an unlucky coincidence. The brand might only make plants wither, which is also a problem, but not as bad as spreading infection.
I stop and look out through the rain-splattered window, biting my cuticle until my finger bleeds, a nervous habit I thought I got rid of.
“Let’s assume the worst,” I mutter, forcing my scattered thoughts to focus. “And if it is the worst, what’s the solution?”
My chest squeezes with fear, and my stomach sinks low with foreboding. I try hard to convince myself the brand doesn’t affect people, because in my heart of hearts, I already know what I must do to avoid hurting anyone.
And it scares me to the bone. Being forced out of the village has always been my biggest fear.
I nibble at another cuticle, thinking harder. Even if the solution is obvious, I still don’t want to do it. I’ve devoted my whole life and suppressed important pieces of me to avoid precisely this: losing my community and being on my own in the wilderness.
It’s death. Or, it used to be. Right now, losing my home and security means something else—being driven to despair so horrible, I’ll have no choice but to take Woland’s deal.
I have to face the truth. This is the outcome he wants, and that’s why I have to assume I’m right. The brand on my chin kills not just plants, but also people.
I groan, trying to find another answer. Anything but this. After all, I might be wrong.
But if I’m right and I stay here, I’ll be responsible for much suffering and death. Already there is one body, waiting in a damp house for a burial that’s likely days away. It will take time to get a zerca from another village to bury Jarota, especially in this weather.
A chill runs down my spine when I consider my possible role in his death. He could still be alive if he hadn’t come to see me. That makes me clench my teeth and pace, tearing at my hair.
My mind tries to push away the possibility that my brand killed Jarota. I don’t want to accept it, and yet, my conscience doesn’t allow me to just assume I’m not to blame.
I stop and stare at my cold hearth, tasting blood when I bite off another cuticle. I can’t run from this, no matter how much I want to.
And so I consider, truly and honestly. If I were Woland, what would I do to claim me?
I remember how he deprived me of Wiosna. He wanted me to be on my own when dealing with the poludnica, but that didn’t work. And then, I died, and he said he’d do things differently.
So now… I am safe.
It’s everyone else who’s dying.
“Oh gods,” I whisper, the truth sinking in.
With my next breath, I am in motion, spreading a large sheet on the floor of my bedroom. I rush through the house, picking up clothes, my knife, the most basic wound treating supplies. Food. A small cauldron. My flintstone and the iron knife, a spoon, a cup. Beeswax candles to trade. My warmest cloak. My toughest shoes.
I pack in a frenzy, and soon, the pile of things sitting in the middle of the sheet is too big to tie the ends together. So I grit my teeth and go through the things I amassed, setting aside anything that’s not absolutely necessary. Finally, I bundle it all up and lift.
It’s heavy. I won’t go far with a pack like this.
So I growl and undo the knots, putting more things aside. I’m about to try again when there’s a loud knock on my front door.
“Fuck.”
I can pretend I’m not home, but where else would I be? Besides, the front door isn’t locked. If my visitor is determined enough to just open it, they will see me. The knocking gets more insistent, and I get up, resolving to send whoever it is home.
But when I open the door, Maja is on my doorstep, her pregnant belly huge, her face twisted with pain.
“No,” I whisper.
She leans on her mother’s arm, and Roza looks at me impatiently when I just stand there, slack-jawed and horrified.
“She’s about to give birth,” Roza snaps. “Will you let us in?”
Oh gods. I don’t know what to do. This is like a nightmare, and just like in a horrible dream, I move away from the door, my body following Roza’s order when I don’t issue any of my own. Roza leads Maja in, and behind them, Alutka, Maja’s mother-in-law, follows, bearing a basket.
They help Maja settle down on a stool and turn to me.
I look at my half-bundled belongings just visible inside the bedroom. There’s no way I can grab them and go out without raising suspicions. The only way to go is to just leave. Go out into the rain and as far away as my legs will take me.
“Jaga? What are you doing? She needs your help!”
I glance at Maja, taking in her face red from effort and the tension in her limbs. It looks like she’s close to pushing. But she’s a strong, healthy woman, and her pregnancy was an easy one. I know that her mother and mother-in-law could deliver the baby in a pinch. She doesn’t really need me, and I will likely do more harm than good.
The choice weighs heavy, and I’m torn.
Either I run now and leave everything behind or I’ll have to deliver the baby, and licho only knows what will happen then. It might be fine. And yet, it might not.
I can’t take this risk, so I open the door to leave. Darobor stands just outside, his hand poised to knock.
“Jaga,” he says, wiping rain off his forehead. “Sara is vomiting blood. Will you see her?”
“She has to deliver the baby first!” Roza snaps behind me.
Darobor flinches. “I didn’t know. Of course, I’ll wait here then. Can you come out as soon as you’re done?”
I nod numbly, clenching my teeth as my insides twist with dread. It’s all too awful and too convenient. As if a horrid, cruel force arranged all those people to move to those exact places. Or maybe I see patterns where there are none.
Regardless, my escape route is cut off. If I try to go past Darobor, he’ll catch me and drag me to Sara, because that’s what parents do when their children are dying.
He’ll never let me leave.
I close the door with a soft click and slowly turn to take in Maja, who has a contraction. Her teeth grit together, face scrunched up with pain. Her stomach is tense, pushing against her pale dress, and she groans in pain just as the contraction eases. She takes in quick, shallow breaths, her brow glistening with rain and sweat.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping inside the room. “A lot is going on. Can you help her onto the table? Now when she’s between contractions is best.”
My hearth is laid, ready for a fire. I just need to light it, so I go into my bedroom, fetch the flintstone and iron knife from my pack, and move my belongings aside so they aren’t visible from the patient room.
Maja has two more contractions before I get the fire lit. I wash my hands in my basin, soaping them up well, and then check how far dilated she is.
“You’re almost there,” I say, forcing my voice to be calm. “Everything is in order, and the baby should be here soon.”
Thankfully, it looks like an easy birth. The baby is turned the right way, and Maja seems strong enough to push soon.
“If she wants to change position or get off the table, help her,” I instruct the two women who hover over Maja like mother hens. I know it will be Roza’s first grandchild. “I need to fetch water.”
But when I go out with the bucket, Darobor takes it without a word and heads for the well. I clench my fists. This is my chance. I lift my skirts, getting ready to run, but my gate swings open.
Milka rushes in, her kerchief askew, dress splattered with mud.
“Jaga, he’s worse! And my children have it, too!”
She braces against the gate, coughing horribly. Again, my way is cut off, and at the next moment, Darobor comes back, bearing a full bucket.
“Go home and stay where it’s warm,” I tell Milka, my voice strong despite the panic rushing in like a flood. “I’ll see to you later today. Don’t go out! And take the medicine I gave you. The children, too.”
I take the water and go back inside. Maja screams in pain, her mother fussing over her. I clench my teeth and feed the fire dry wood before I hang a cauldron of water over it. Maja is on her knees on the floor, forearms leaning on a stool. She’s shaking, but she looks comfortable in this new position, so I leave her to it. Women always know instinctively how best to position themselves for this part.
I wash my hands again and check her while she has the next contraction.
“You’re ready to push,” I say, relieved.
I don’t know how the curse in my brand works, but I hope it won’t affect Maja and her baby if we don’t spend too much time together. If she gives birth soon, I’ll be able to leave with Darobor, and when Maja’s family take her and the baby home, I’ll get my bundle and leave.
It’s a solid plan.
Maja screams, her stomach growing hard. I kneel behind her and feel between her legs, her muscles tensing as she pushes instinctively. The baby’s wet head is right there, soft to the touch and so fragile.
I take my hand away, helping Maja calm her breath when the contraction ends.
“Just do as your body wants now,” I say soothingly, repeating the words I heard Wiosna say so many times while I stroke her lower back. “It knows the way, even when it’s your first child. Your body will guide you. So push when it wants to push. Breathe how it wants to breathe.”
She doesn’t seem to hear me, wrapped up in her own pain and instincts, but that’s fine. It looks like she’s ready, and this position is a good one for a quick labor. The floor is hard, though. I look up and tell Roza quietly to take my towel that hangs on a hook by the basin and roll it up. We both help Maja lift her knees enough to put it under them.
She’ll hurt all over after this. No need to give her bruised knees, too.
Another contraction hits, and she howls like a tortured animal. I keep my hand between her legs, because the baby will come any moment now, and I’ll have to catch it.
I chant prayers to Mokosz in my head, the touch of the baby’s head against my fingers visceral and powerful. It’s my favorite moment of every labor—welcoming the tiny new being into the world. Yet now, despair rides my thoughts.
Goddess of fertility, please, let this baby be well. Let it live. Let all be well. Please, let Maja be healthy and have milk. Please, Mokosz. Please, save us.
Maja’s next scream is broken and half-choked. Her entire body trembles, and the baby finally moves.
“You’re doing it,” I say calmly. “Very good. The head is out. You’ll push out the rest in a moment. Breathe now. All is good.”
She heaves in ragged breaths. It doesn’t take long, and another contraction tears through her. The baby slides out, a little shoulder turning, the rest of the tiny, slippery body following until it’s in my palms.
Slowly, reverently, I bring it higher. When I cradle it in my arms, the little hands move, the tiny lips open, and a wailing cry resounds in my cottage.
“Oh gods,” Roza says, her voice thick with tears. “She’s here! Oh, Maja, she’s so beautiful!”
Yes, she is. A girl. I smile at her, the little face scrunched up as she cries, and in that moment, my curse and all my problems fade away. She’s beautiful, a tiny treasure, and I feel so blessed I can hold her first.
Roza reaches for the baby, so I tug on the umbilical cord that still pulses, blue and thick with blood. Once enough of it is out, I carefully transfer the tiny girl into Roza’s waiting arms.
I fetch my straw bed for patients, arranging it by Maja’s side. She still has to birth the placenta, and it might take a few hours. Though once the baby latches on, it should go fast. Nursing makes everything move along.
I help Maja lie down on her back. The water over the fire is warm already, and I take some to wash her. Roza coos at the baby, bringing it to Maja, who clumsily takes off the upper part of her dress to bare her breasts, big from pregnancy. Once the baby lies on her stomach, it stops crying, and she laughs tearily.
Then she coughs. Just once.
My body locks with terror, but when I look at mother and baby, all seems well. Maja speaks warm, affectionate words to the little one, and the baby moves its head with purpose, already smelling her mother’s milk.
I wash my hands and kneel to help the little girl latch on. Once that’s done, I get up shakily. Time to go.
“Darobor’s waiting outside. I need to go see Sara,” I tell Roza. “Stay until she births the placenta. I’ll come once I’m done to cut the cord. Congratulations, it’s a beautiful, healthy girl, a real blessing.”
Roza nods, and I pack everything I have that might help for bloody vomit. There isn’t much, but I have herbs that will help soothe the stomach, heal wounds faster, replenish the lost blood. Again, I promise myself not to stay long.
As soon as I go out, Darobor grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward his house. His grip is tight, but I understand the urgency. He had to wait outside my door, and even though it didn’t take long, every minute must have dragged for him.
We splash through the puddles to his house. I hear the retching from the doorway, mixed with terrified whimpers of Darobor’s other children. When I get to Sara’s bedside, she’s pale and sweaty, the skin on her lips cracked, eyes feverish.
Unless she stops vomiting, I can’t do anything for her. The medicine won’t work if it doesn’t stay down.
She’s dying.
“A spoon, please,” I say, shocked by how calm I sound even though inside, I’m screaming. “This should help her stomach calm down,” I say, pouring a spoonful of angelica root and rue macerate into Sara’s open mouth.
I watch her for a few moments, and when she doesn’t immediately retch, I sigh with relief. This is only the first step, but it should help. I stand up and turn to Sara’s mother, who looks pale and scared, her green eyes huge in her drawn face.
“Give her a spoonful of warm boiled water every minute. She needs to drink, but only small sips so she keeps it down. In about half an hour, give her another spoon of this medicine, and keep giving her water. I’ll be back once I’m done with Maja’s labor.”
“Thank you.” She squeezes my arm. “And how is Maja?”
“Well,” I say, forcing a smile. “She gave birth to a beautiful, healthy girl.”
“Praise Mokosz.”
I run back to my cottage, the rain seeming to grow stronger. Suddenly, lightning splits the sky, almost on top of me. A thunder follows at once, making me gasp from fright. I speed up. Through the sheets of rain obscuring everything, I see Roza waiting in the open door of my cottage.
“Jaga, come!” she screams, though I barely hear her over the thudding of rain. “Something’s wrong!”
Oh no.I swallow my scream of helpless rage and run faster, begging all gods who’ll listen to keep Maja and the baby safe. Inside, I hear Maja’s quiet sobbing. I don’t even wipe my feet, just run to her side.
The baby is much paler than she should be. Her mouth is on Maja’s nipple, but she moves it feebly, like she’s trying to suckle but has no strength.
Everything in me screams, voices building upon voices in my head, a true cacophony of terror. I take the baby gently to look at her face. Her eyes are partly open, her mouth still moving when I lift her. And then, it stops. She grows still in my arms, and I stare at her, waiting for her to move, to scream like she did when she came into this world, to do something.
But her tiny chest won’t rise.
“Jaga?” Roza’s voice isn’t terrified yet, only mildly surprised. “What’s… What’s happening?”
I can’t tear my eyes away from the little girl. She is so perfectly formed, with a tiny nose, beautifully shaped lips, and even, proportional limbs and fingers. So perfect.
If only she would breathe.
Outside the window, a small, black bird swoops by, giving a sweet cry. I drag in a ragged breath.
Nawka.
My front door bangs open, and Darobor barges in.
“She’s dead!” he screams. “She died just after you left! Jaga, what did you do?”
I can’t speak. I hold the baby I just delivered, so sweet, so tiny, and so very still. My heart is frozen in my chest, and I can’t say a word, not even when the baby is taken from my arms and wails of grief surround me from each side.
I am numb, lost in the chaos, until one more person comes in. Ida.
She looks at me as I kneel by her sister’s side. She looks at the baby in her mother’s arms. She looks at the window, where the tiny bird swoops again, despite the heavy rainfall.
When her eyes come back to me, they are filled with vicious hate.
“You killed them. You killed them all!”
She points a shaking finger at me, her face terrible with wrath.
“She’s a witch!”