Chapter 20
Where she landed was clearly not the same forest she’d come from.
Its trees were too tall, too narrow, too widely spaced with clear earth below, free of undergrowth.
The snow was piled even higher here, gathering along the spines of branches and bowing them nearly to the ground.
The path was clear, but multi-foot drifts rose on either side, boxing her in.
An enormous, sleek black bird landed on a spruce overhead, shaking loose a waterfall of snow and forcing her to jump back to stay free of it. It was too large to be a crow, and she decided it must be a raven.
“You’re the one who was stalking me in the parking garage,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
It let out a long cackle of amusement before picking up off the branch and swooping its way down the path.
Funny how it felt like it had been weeks since then when it had really only been a few days.
Her world had tilted far off its axis, and time had become slippery when life lost all its predictable rhythms.
The raven stayed close as she pressed on down the trail.
It would perch atop a low branch until she was a few feet along, and then swoop, its wings nearly brushing her face in a rustle, before traveling on to wait a little farther down on the path.
It was clear that the raven was keeping an eye on her, but was it watching over her? Or merely watching her?
As the shadows deepened, she realized this was the first time she’d walked alone in days.
Stephan had always been there, taking every step at her side, but she’d had a strong feeling that the archway had been only for her.
That she was meant to do this alone, but that didn’t keep her from wishing he were there.
She was keenly aware of the lingering ghost of his touch on her skin, and her fingers went to her lips, which were still swollen.
Finally, the trees parted, and the raven settled on a rustic cabin covered in snow.
The house had a thatched roof and prominent windowpanes etched with intricate whorl patterns.
Flickering orange light glowed from a circular attic window split by crossed bands, and an eighteen-point set of antlers stretched off the peak of the roof.
From the way the building rested on slanted supports, it looked as though it were seated on crossed legs, but that couldn’t be right.
Could it?
The scene had a familiar smell—dried pine and a hint of beeswax. A heavy wooden door flung open, and the crone walked through, holding a skinny pipe that released curls of wispy smoke.
“Well, I see you finally came to your senses,” said the old woman, gesturing toward the hut. “Inside then, girl.”
With a final look back the way she had come, Hayleigh did as she was told.
The interior was toasty, with a fire blazing in a flagstone fireplace. Her host hobbled to a chair made of curved sticks near a massive old stone oven, big enough to fit a human.
Had there ever been a person in there? She kept a wary eye on it.
The crone took a seat, gesturing to another nearby. Hayleigh settled across from her, shifting uncomfortably in a rough-hewn chair.
“So,” said the old woman, exhaling smoke. The scent of pipe tobacco clung to the air, earthy and rich. “Do you still have something to say about my…” She gestured to herself. “ ‘Party City’ wig, was it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“And my ‘discount apocalypse wear,’ hmm?”
“You are clearly not a fake. I’m sorry I said all that.”
“Apology accepted.” The crone gestured toward the oven. “Bake us a loaf of kolach, will you?”
Kolach. She recognized the name, had even eaten it the one Christmas they’d spent with her mother’s parents.
It was a sweet, yeasty bread baked in a braid that served as the centerpiece of the sviata vechera, the Christmas Eve feast, though it was not actually eaten until Christmas Day when Advent was over and her Eastern Orthodox extended family could consume the eggs in its batter.
A table near the oven had been prepped with open clay bowls of flour, salt, sugar, yeast, and eggs, alongside jars of water and oil. Ready for someone to mix them together.
“You want me to make bread?” she asked.
“Who else would I be talking to, girl?”
Hayleigh crossed her arms over her chest. “I came here to talk about the curse.”
“And we will, but you must do your share of the work first. No one leaves Baba’s house without doing their share.”
Baba’s house. A pale fear flickered in her mind.
But it was too late to turn back. To say no. She had a feeling she’d never find her way, even if she tried.
Hayleigh turned to the preparation area.
At least the crone had done her the favor of assembling the ingredients, like an otherworldly technical challenge in a bake-off.
Glancing around in hopes of finding a recipe, she spotted a heavy leather book on a shelf near the door, but before she could open it, the old woman hissed, “Don’t touch that if you want to keep your fingers. ”
In reply, the book snarled and snapped, sending her skittering back to the table.
She scanned the shelves for anything recipe-book-like but found nothing. “Is there a recipe or something anywhere?”
“Hmph. By your age, surely you can prepare kolach by heart.”
“Well, I can’t—I’ve only made it once.” She wrapped an arm around her chest uncomfortably. “We never saw my mom’s family, and my dad didn’t want us doing ‘that Russian stuff’ at home.”
The old woman grumbled to herself. “As I suspected. Well…” She waved her hand and then nodded toward the table. The contents of every bowl had been reduced to what must have been the proper measurements—even the water was the correct temperature to foam the yeast without killing it.
She could work with this. The basic principles of bread were simple enough—mix until tacky, knead so the dough could stretch without tearing, let it rest and rise until doubled, shape with care, let rise one more time, and then bake until golden and hollow-sounding.
Braiding it would be the toughest part, but she’d do her best to recall what her grandmother had shown her—the way she guided Hayleigh’s small hands through the knotwork with her own.
As she combined the ingredients, her mind traveled back to that one unusual Christmas.
Her father had gone too far, berating first Hayleigh and then Luda in front of a party full of people, so cruelly that for once, their guests hadn’t been able to pretend it wasn’t happening.
The room had gone totally silent. And after the party was over, they’d endured more of it because he’d been humiliated. It was their fault, of course, that he’d gone off. They’d pushed him to it.
It was always their fault, and usually her mother had borne the blame in quiet submission. But not this time. She had loaded the girls into the car, and they’d spent two weeks sleeping on the floor of her grandparents’ cramped, cluttered trailer, which always smelled of cabbage.
Her sisters had complained endlessly about it, but Hayleigh had been fascinated by all the strange decor, the new foods, the unfamiliar smells, and most of all by the stories her grandfather told.
Stories from their life in the Soviet Union, most of which explained why they’d fled, but older stories as well.
Stories older than the republic or even the tsars who came before it.
Stories that usually began an awful lot like this—a person, usually a girl, forced to bend to the whims of an old woman in the woods to get what she needed.
Her father had shown up on Epiphany morning, just as they were preparing to leave for the church that looked straight out of a fairy tale, with its golden onion-shaped domes and arched porticos.
After a tense conversation that she had watched through the front windows of the trailer, Luda came inside and declared they were going home.
Her grandmother had slipped a gift into her hand before wrapping her up in a hug.
It was a doll wearing a headdress of many-colored flowers and intricately knotted skirts, holding a dove in one hand and a sheaf of wheat in the other.
Instead of a face, it had blue and yellow stripes running both vertically and horizontally—a solar cross.
“This motanka was your mother’s, and mine before. My baba made it. It is a talisman of the family. Keep it close.”
“Why doesn’t it have a face?” Hayleigh had asked.
“Our ancestors believed evil energy could enter through the eyes. So instead, my baba put here a sign of prosperity and luck.” And then she’d placed a kiss on Hayleigh’s head. “May it bring you both.”
Hayleigh had slept with the doll every night until her father found it. He had only given it a hard stare, but later that day her mother found her. “This is a Pagan idol,” she’d snapped. “We won’t have anything like it in this house.”
“But Baba gave it to me,” she’d said, clutching the doll tight.
“Your grandmother should have known better. Give it here.”
And then her mother had taken it, and she’d never seen it again. She’d cried for the rest of the day. Kelsey had tried to cheer her up by offering to let Hayleigh take one of her dolls, whichever she liked, but it wasn’t the same.
A motanka just like her grandmother’s sat on a rickety wooden shelf over the crone’s head, staring down at Hayleigh through the cross where its face should be.
The crone watched her every movement, rocking and smoking more of that tobacco that smelled like the turning of the seasons. Hayleigh worked the dough for the kolach, enjoying the feeling of it sticking and rolling across her skin.
After she’d placed it under a wet towel to rise, she turned her gaze toward the crone, hoping that now they would talk.
It would be two rises and then a bake before it was done, and what else did they have to do in the meantime?
Plus, if she was gone for too long, Stephan would almost certainly come looking for her.
And what would he find? Footsteps disappearing into nothing?
What would he do, what would he feel, when he saw that?