Chapter 7 Mother
Chapter seven
Mother
Jaga lies asleep, curled up on my throne. It’s been three days since the incident in the Well of Souls, and she hasn’t moved from her spot or spoken to me. She’s back to her former apathy, and I am at my wits’ end.
Like every time she falls asleep, I am on my knees at the foot of my own throne, my hands hovering above her as I gaze deep into her being. I examine each tiny particle of her body, searching for illness, degeneration, madness—anything out of the ordinary.
But she’s fine. Well. Healthy.
Only, her eyes are bottomless and absent. When she looks at me sometimes, unseeing and empty, I shiver, sensing that deep darkness within.
It’s not in her body. It’s somewhere else, only, I have no way of looking at her mind and soul without her permission. Jaga’s on guard even when she’s sleeping, her mind tightly locked up against intrusion. If I were to ram through her defenses, it would damage her, and I won’t risk it.
Dejected and troubled, I get up and call on Nyja. She appears in a flutter of wings.
“Any news?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “We’re patrolling constantly. So far, no one’s attacked us. There is no movement on the other side of Struzina, either. I’m… concerned, Weles.”
“I know. Me, too.”
What neither of us says is that we’re both certain Perun’s gods did something during the avalanche of souls three days ago, something we missed. We’re both troubled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“There’s a funeral starting in an hour in the town with the most victims,” I offer, already expecting this to be a dead end. “Maybe whoever did this will show up to revel in mortal suffering.”
Nyja nods, looking at Jaga. “Go. I’ll watch over her. You have my word.”
I call my shadows and shift into Woland, departing on the same breath. Nyja is one of the few people I trust to keep Jaga safe.
Worlds pass by in a blur of darkness as I travel, faster than a nightmare.
Dawn’s breaking in the mortal world, a golden summer day covering the land as the sun rises over the horizon.
I remember last summer, when I was still confident Jaga would be mine, my faith unshakeable until she chose dying in the werewolf’s maw over me.
How angry I was. How aroused. If only I’d fucked her then, after I made her take my name on the river bank, just as I wanted…
But Nawie was being invaded by Dadzbog, who came to fight Chors. My son fought viciously, but the sun god brought scores of dragons with him. They overwhelmed Chors, and when Nyja called on her nawka soldiers, Dadzbog burned them with his light.
She had no choice but to call on me.
So I came, swathing my golden nephew in darkness, and tossed him into Struzina. It was too late. Nyja was badly burned, Chors was wounded, and I had to stay and protect my home.
I still can’t explain why I lied to Jaga about that when we had our little heart to heart, right before I made the terrible mistake of trying to wipe her memory.
I told her I left to fight Perun when I was about to fuck her.
I guess I wanted to hurt her. Convince her—and myself—how unimportant she was.
Because the truth is, only the gravest danger to my closest family could drag me from between her legs, even then. And it hurt to leave.
Even at the beginning, she meant more than I could handle. I hated her for it. A mortal slip of a girl, one who defied me with so much fire… And I wanted her, even though I could have any other female—bies, mortal, or goddess.
That’s probably proof that even gods are fools in love.
I reach my destination, a town located right by the most common trade route.
Nineteen pregnant women were killed here three days ago, the largest number in one place.
The funeral is held outside the town gates, by a moor.
It’s raining in this part of the mortal lands, the dawn obscured by heavy clouds.
Hidden in the shadows under a tall birch, I watch the crowd. Over two hundred people came to say goodbye to the women. A group of men stand at the front, their faces hard, hats clasped tightly in their hands as rainwater drenches their hair. Some press weeping children to their sides.
The husbands.
Not one of them cries or curses the gods. They are quiet, drowning in the despair of losing their wives and unborn children.
I envy those men, I realize. I envy their strength. If my Jaga was dead, gone forever as they believe their wives to be, I wouldn’t be calm like them. My grief would pour out in every way possible, until I turned the world around me into a lake of sorrow.
If she took a child with her, my child, I’d drown myself in that lake to join them.
The zerca says his prayers, his voice high and sorrowful, and I sigh, not even knowing why I came here. Maybe to torture myself. It’s obvious no god is coming to revel in the mundane, quiet grief they caused.
I am about to go back to Nawie when I hear a part of the prayer, and it makes me pause as I realize who must have killed these mothers.
Because who has the knowledge about all expecting women in these lands? Who revels in twisted cruelty toward children, and hates Weles?
“Our lady Mokosz, our Mother, our Comfort and Serenity, please, remember your daughters and lead them to eternal peace in Nawie. You, who promise to watch over each mother and unborn child, please, give us your blessings so we never know pain like this again.”
The air shimmers, a lone ray of the sun shining through the storm clouds. The villagers gasp, awed by what they deem to be a sign of the goddess’ favor. A hand strokes my nape playfully, and I twist in place, smacking her with my tail.
“What are you doing here?” Mokosz asks, her eyes laughing.
They are as blue as cornflowers, set in the round, fresh face of a young woman. Her hair is bound into a waterfall of tiny golden braids. She’s pretty, as always.
I grit my teeth, my claws aching with the need to rip her heart out and eat it for what she did to Jaga.
But Mokosz is powerful. Immortal. Eating her heart won’t kill her. I don’t know what will, but I vow to find out and do it. Whatever it takes.
“You know me,” I say, keeping my hate contained with great effort. “I love the sound of weeping in the morning. So refreshing.”
Her laughter is tinkling and pretty, eyes hooded seductively as she looks at me.
“I’ve missed you, big man,” she purrs. “Where have you been, hmm?”
She raises her hand to my bare chest, and I knock it aside.
“Don’t touch me.”
I should probably try to be amiable, but I can barely hold myself together. If she so much as breathes on me, I’ll lose it.
Mokosz takes a step back, her eyebrows arched in disapproval. “Now, that was uncalled for,” she says, pretending to be amused, but I see the tension in her jaw. She’s angry.
“Was it? I don’t know where, or rather in whom, your hands have been. Better keep them to yourself.”
She loses the pretense of amusement and levels me with a cold, disdainful stare. “Maybe you should reconsider. You are quite testy today. Are you sure your needs are being met? Because I could empty those aching balls for a smile and a nice word. I like fucking at funerals.”
“Any reason to visit this funeral in particular?” I sneer. “You feel ashamed you didn’t protect these women, even though each probably prayed to you thrice a day?”
“Ashamed?” Mokosz bursts out in a throaty, sensuous laughter that carries over the grieving crowd. “Please. You know me in all senses of the word. You should remember by now that I have no shame.”
Her smile grows private, sly. “Are you ashamed you couldn’t protect your little redhead, then? I heard she’s gone. How dreadful.”
Her lips twist into a moue of fake sympathy, and I freeze my heart, blasting it with the full force of my magic, so it doesn’t pound more rage into my veins.
Would it really be so bad to slice off her head and bury it somewhere she won’t find? Imagine Mokosz running around like a headless chicken.
But of course, that won’t work. She’ll just grow a new head for herself, more splendid than the last.
At least I’m reassured she doesn’t know Jaga’s missing from her grave. I thought that might be the case, since Mokosz rarely checks on her victims. I covered my tracks after digging out my girl.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask, letting some of my fury come through. “Tell me!”
She snickers, preening until her tits almost spill out of her low-cut dress. “How should I know? It’s your little fucktoy. Or was she something more? Interesting. I know for a fact she was fucking Chors, too. Maybe she wasn’t as devoted to you as she should have been. Shame.”
Before I realize what I’m doing, my hands wrap around her throat, and I slam her back into the birch trunk. Mokosz grins. Her airway is squeezed too tight to speak, so she projects her voice at me with magic.
“Ah, I knew you wanted to fuck! See, isn’t it nice? You can’t do this with a bies, can you? They are so fragile, poor things. But I can take it, big boy. I can take your large, furious cock, and everything else you have in store. So come on. Do it.”
I let my hands drop, revolted by her words. I forgot she was like this, playing right into my violence, asking for more. We were a couple for a while, in the loosest sense of the word, and not once did Mokosz suspect my dual nature, even though she had known me as Weles intimately, too.
She can be so very cunning and so unobservant at the same time. But that’s what happens when someone spends most of their time gazing at their reflection.
The goddess laughs, bringing a hand wet with honey to her throat. She rubs it in, wiping away the burn caused by my grip until her skin is flawless.
“Oh, what is with you today?” she asks, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “I wanted to celebrate, and all you do is pout. It’s unattractive, Woland.”
“What are you celebrating?” I ask through clenched teeth.
She trills a light, girly laugh and turns in place until the wide skirts of her green dress flare and bounce.
“I’ll see Weles soon,” she says with a giggle that’s eerily childlike.
“My dear Perun will chain him right back where he belongs, and I’ll have a lot of fun playing with him this time.
A girl needs entertainment, and you refuse to give me any.
But that’s all right. I’ll play with his balls instead. ”
My back crawls as I briefly consider her touching me when I’m helpless to stop her. Oh, but I hate to be right. They did something during the soul threshing, and I still don’t know what.
“That’s cocky,” I say with scorn. “No one’s seen Weles in ages, and Nawie is impenetrable.”
“I am good at penetrating, though,” she says with a flash of white teeth. “I learned. Did you know there are men who like it when a woman grows a dick and does it to them? Weles liked it.”
I force myself not to lash out. The memory of her being the one to do it makes me want to retch.
“I don’t think you can defeat him,” I say with disdain I don’t truly feel. Her confidence worries me. “But it will be fun to watch you fail. When will it happen?”
“When the time is right, when the sun is bright, when your ass isn’t as tight,” she answers in a sing-song voice, performing a few steps of a folk dance. “Well, I’m bored now. You won’t fuck me, you won’t smile, you won’t even believe in me. Naughty boy. I’m off to see someone nicer.”
She disappears in a flutter of butterfly wings, and the ray of sun shining on the mourners is extinguished, only dark clouds and tears left for them. I watch the pitiful crowd a little longer, scorn and grief stirring in my chest.
Once upon a time, I’d sympathize with their suffering. I’d come out, promise them I was taking good care of their dead in Nawie, and vow revenge on Mokosz. The mortals of yore, not yet spoiled by Perun, would have been comforted and strengthened.
This bunch would run screaming if they saw me, either as Woland or Weles, so I don’t even try.
As I travel through the shadows back to my domain, I think about Mokosz. She hates mortals for different reasons than I do. When they solidified their beliefs, they decided collectively she would be the Mother, patron goddess to midwives and expecting women.
But Mokosz was never motherly before that.
The only child who received any of her affection was Strzybog.
Her other children, like the rodzanicas, she ignored or downright scorned.
Mokosz likes fucking, seducing, playing with men and sometimes women.
Bearing children is her way of fucking with her lovers, making them fight over her, the way Perun and I did.
Playing the benevolent mother makes her itch.
So she rebels. Making the poroniec was a way to corrupt her image. She twisted it into something sinister, a mother who turns the young into beasts. And I’ll bet she enjoyed making this scheme that required killing pregnant women who pester her with their constant prayers.
She’ll probably get some peace now, with fewer women left to pray.
I hate Mokosz, but I also understand her. Entangled in knots she cannot cut through, expectations and beliefs that hold power over her, she’s lost and furious.
But like I told Jaga, all gods are free to act as they please, and while it’s harder to go against the natures mortals imposed on us, it’s not impossible.
Mokosz is a bitch through and through. She never tried to change.
I spend the next week searching for any clues that might tell me what Mokosz did during the threshing. I comb through every level of Nawie with my magic and in person, speaking with souls and bieses who stay here. No one knows anything.
When I go back to my rooms at the end of each frustrating day, Jaga’s unseeing, dark eyes welcome me with disinterest. She stopped eating again, her face gaunt, skin dull. Her hair is knotted and filthy.
I try to understand what happened that day, why she felt almost like herself for a time before she collapsed back into apathy, but there are too many variables.
Was it the novelty of seeing the Well of Souls?
My blood? Our kisses? Was it the food she finally ate that day?
Or something else, something elusive I haven’t noticed?
Jaga is the first creature of this type, a mortal given godlike immortality, and I have no one to compare her to.
I am so desperate, I even invite Chors to speak with her, because he’s the one who coaxed her out back then.
He comes in, slim and tired. The new moon is coming, and my son is weak, Dadzbog’s curse taking away his vitality.
His lips are chapped and bleed when he stretches them in an uncomfortable smile.
“I’ll take you somewhere nice when I’m strong again,” he promises when she looks at him, apathetic and defeated.
The sight of them breaks my heart. My two loves, both sick. The helplessness I feel every day grows insurmountable, and I have to look away, crushed under its weight.
It feels like nothing will ever be well again.