Chapter 41 Love
Chapter forty-one
Love
Jaga
It’s winter solstice today. Weles claims the holy day will not make my dance into the past any easier, but I don’t think he’s right.
The world’s axis is tilted as far as it can go, making the night long and potent, and I believe it fuels my magic.
I will not miss a step tonight. I will not err or stumble.
“You could wait,” he says, pulling on his beard before he clenches his fist in frustration. “You have stepped into the past only a handful of times, and never that far. You should practice and…”
“I’m going.”
He is reluctant to let me, I know. If I do this tonight, our days of dancing together will end, and Weles will have to face his fear for good. Will he risk it all and attack his brother with the knife I bring him? Or will he hide forever?
I pity him, though I shouldn’t. He’s made his bed, and yet, I can’t help but want to avenge him. Everything Perun and his gods did to him was horrible. If I could, I would crush them all myself, gouge out their eyes and stomp them into the ground.
But I mustn’t. Weles must fight his own fights, or he’ll never believe in himself again. And for a god, belief is all-important.
This is how I know I am not a goddess, despite everything he tells me. No one believes in me. I have no faithful priests, no worshippers, no shrines. No prayers float my way, whispered pleas and murmured thanks. And yet, I am one of the most powerful beings in Slawa.
I can snuff out a soul with a breath.
“Jaga, what if we try a few more…”
I shush him with a kiss, a soft, friendly one—which is as much as I will allow myself. He buries his fingers in my hair, pulling me instantly closer, a ravenous, insatiable god, but I push him away.
“Stay or leave. It’s your choice.”
Weles sighs with frustration and steps away, conjuring himself a black throne made of bones, in which he gracefully sits. I close my eyes and spread my arms, listening to the world around me. Time ticks and flows within me, my heart its drumbeat, my thoughts its melody.
I dance.
The first sequence is laughably easy, even though it had seemed so insurmountable a few months ago. But I’ve danced this dance hundreds of times, suffering the bittersweet pleasure of Weles’ touch, and I feel him now, the memory of his hands, the weight of his gaze.
He is with me every step of this dance, his phantom fingers brushing mine when I arch my arm to the heavens, his lecherous gaze on my hips as I shimmy them, flowing from one step to another, and another, and another.
It takes me only half of the sequence to hear the music.
When we practiced at first, I begged Weles for a drum, a bell, maybe even the tapping of his foot against the floor to aid me. I kept losing my rhythm in the silence. Dancing without music seemed so utterly pointless.
But he kept reminding me that if I followed the beat of drums, I wouldn’t hear that other, subtler melody. Now I do, and the dance becomes easy, graceful and simple, and I think Weles sighs somewhere behind me, watching it with awe.
I follow the rhythm of time, every step meticulous, my fingers bent, then straight, toes pointed as I leap, and the music swells, louder and more poignant, until I drown in it.
Until it’s time.
I stop moving and only listen to the music, pushing my thoughts toward that day. Images flash through my mind, my legs running through the gloom, Daga’s face twisted in hate, Miroslaw afraid, oak leaves murmuring above me as I lie in the moss.
The knife in my gut. I wince as that pain echoes through me, my scar growing hot all the way through, burning right under Woland’s mark that I still wear and would hate to part with, though I’ll never tell him.
My first move is jagged and hard. I stab my abdomen with my empty hand, then pull it away with a flourish.
My feet step back, eight steps and a half, quick, on tiptoes.
I stop, turning left. My eyes are closed, but I hear the music, and it forges a path, a glimmer of sound so sweet and tinkling, my heart aches with the need to follow it.
My arms lift, then lower, as I dance and leap, becoming a leaf carried by the wind, a petal blown into frost, a bird trilling in its nest at night, afraid of lynxes and lichos.
The rhythm grows faster, and the melody swells.
I am ever closer, pulled by pure instinct, magic frothing at my fingertips as I jab them into the air.
Oh, there is violence, notes of discord spoiling the melody.
Fate cheated, fate brought around, it was never supposed to happen, this girl bleeding out, she was meant for other things, better things, greater things.
The spirits of time carry me through, and I lift myself into the air, my dance becoming aerial, twisting in tight circles, throwing my arms wide, shooting up and diving fast, never opening my eyes.
I’m not afraid of crashing into the floor, because there is no floor anymore, only the melody and the air, and me, righting the wrongs.
I was always meant to do this.
The melody stops on a jagged note, cut off with a knife. I float to the ground, my feet landing softly, and don’t move. With a shaking hand, I point ahead, making a doorway.
Its fire flickers through my closed eyelids, and I remember looking into this door from the other side. It was filled with flames. Young Jaga couldn’t see this room, but I see her when I open my eyes.
My voice gets stuck in my throat. There’s a soft sound behind me, and I know Weles watches, but this doorway is mine alone, and he cannot go through.
On the other side, Jaromir gapes, terrified beyond terror. Miroslaw turns to run. I shoot out whips of fire, wrapping them around my would-be killers, and brace my shoulders.
It’s time.
“Avenge her well,” Weles whispers behind me, but I ignore him, stepping through the flames, first my leg, careful on the moss, then the rest of me.
Young Jaga watches me with wide, uncomprehending eyes, terrified and awed.
When our eyes meet, hers widen, and I remember with a start what she thought at that moment.
That maybe she is the devil’s spawn after all.
I cackle with glee, because it’s so outrageous she would think that. We are too alike to be mother and daughter. We are better.
I come closer, watching her eagerly. “I am not your mother, little one.”
She is so tiny, so exhausted. Her lips are bloodless in the firelight, her skin pale, limbs gangly. She will grow up to be a tall woman, slender to the point of thinness because of never eating enough. Now, she is a stranger in her changing body, and no wonder. She has just become a woman.
“Then who are you?”
Oh, sweet, young Jaga, so bold and impulsive even then.
I remember when Woland came to our Kupala Night, and I was so terrified, yet the fear failed to leash my tongue.
I reach deep into her, vanish the knife, putting it in my pocket, and heal her, leaving behind all the scars she will need to teach him a lesson.
She will hurt, but she’ll be safe. I look up, finally taking in those three who made her so afraid tonight. Anger burns in my veins.
It’s time.
“I waited a long time for this,” I whisper, forgetting my younger self as I let all my hate for them flow to the fore, ready and still fresh even after so many years.
I raise my arms high, and wind whips the branches into a frenzy, called forth by my righteous wrath.
Three lives for a life, because I am worth so much more than them.
I grin, thirst for blood twisting my insides with lust. Death brims at my fingertips, and I look at their souls, unimpressive little stones nestling in their hearts. I slash the air with both arms, crushing those stones without mercy.
But that is not enough. I transform their bodies into something lighter than chalk, something unnecessary and unimportant, because I will erase every last sign of those three.
Their bodies become white and crumbling, and I beam with pride, because I forgot to practice this spell, yet it came so easily to me.
“They won’t even get to rot and nourish the earth,” I tell my younger self so she knows how well avenged she is. “And they won’t go to Nawie. Their souls will crumble to dust.”
I blow, scattering the ashes, and there is no more Jaromir, no more Daga, no more Miroslaw. Jaga is safe—at least until Woland comes nine years later.
She feels far from safe, though. Her eyes are huge with terror as she watches me, and I can’t help but smile. Such a tiny, scrawny thing. So beloved. I wish to hug her, but I know I didn’t, and it would probably scare her, so I don’t.
“My, my. Was I really that small and terrified? Well, rise, little one. Let me see you. You’re certainly different from how I remember myself. Perspective changes so much.”
Because when I was her, I didn’t love her one bit, no. Yet now, I do. I see she is inherently lovable, my precious little child, and she deserves so much more. I make her a silent promise. You will have a happy life yet, you’ll see. I’ll take care of you.
I crouch in front of her and tuck her hair behind her ear with all the love I feel.
“I can’t rise,” she says, still clinging to the memory of the knife. “I’m wounded.”
“Are you?” I ask, feeling the weight of that bloodied blade in my pocket.
She looks down, gasping from astonishment. “You healed me. I won’t die.”
I scoff. “Of course you won’t. Or how else would you grow up to be me?”
I see the moment when she understands what I’m saying. I nod. Yes, tiny Jaga. You will be me one day, and yes, perspective changes so much.
When I was her, I thought the woman who saved me was a goddess, powerful and commanding.
But now that it’s me, I see how fragile my confidence is, how fickle my power.
I came and saved her, yet I am tangled in so many things, wrapped up in the fates of gods and devils, a love that’s a cage while I’m starving for freedom, and I have no idea what to do.
But at least, I saved her.
“Rise then, little one.” I cup her cheek, swallowing my uncertainty and fear so that my eyes brim with all the love I have for her. “Rise and live so you can come back to this moment and save yourself one day.”
She breathes hard and fast, staring at me, and I sigh, nod my goodbye, and stand.
I steal one last look at the forest of my youth, feeling a strange nostalgia that is not a longing but relief.
Truth be told, my life was a bad one, and everything that happened after this was one long stream of disappointments and bitterness.
Until Woland came.
I turn away and walk into flames. The doorway closes behind me, and I face Weles, who watches me with wide, sincere eyes filled with pride and love.
Tearing my gaze away hurts, but I must. I’ve just promised my younger self I’ll take care of her—of me—and I’ll never be well and happy if I stay with this man who can destroy me as easily as he picks me up.
My heart swells for him, and my body longs for his scent and heat, but that doesn’t matter.
Stupid choices lead to suffering. I know this best.