Anya and the Nightingale

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Sasha nodded, then said, “Is he . . . hiding from me?”

  Anya hesitated, then said loudly, “What? No!”

  “Are you sure?” Sasha touched the field of pimples on his face, an unspoken anxiety screaming directly at her.

  “I bet he didn’t even notice,” she said, possibly telling the truth. Ivan noticed the weirdest things, and other things flew right by him. “He’s definitely not hiding from you.”

  “Okay.” Sasha didn’t sound convinced.

  “I’ll bring that astringent as soon as it’s ready,” Anya said, patting Sasha on the shoulder.

  “Thanks, Anya,” Sasha said. He cocked a thumb at the mill. “I better get back to work.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Sasha returned to the mill. Anya lugged her sack of flour to the end of the butcher shop. When she rounded the corner, she saw Ivan sitting against the outer wall with his knees drawn up to his chest, the staff on the ground next to him.

  “Do you like Sasha, too?” Anya asked him.

  Ivan didn’t look up. “So what if I do?”

  “I thought you liked Verusha.”

  “I can like two people, Anya!”

  She scowled. “Well, like them on your own time. I have to deliver potions, and then . . .” She realized she hadn’t told Ivan about playing with Håkon. She said in a low voice, “Then Håkon wants us to play with him. I said we would.”

  Ivan looked up at her now and raised an eyebrow. “Play what?”

  With a long, weary sigh, Anya said, “Princess.”

  Ivan grinned, grabbed his staff, and leaped up. “Let’s go, then!” He took the sack from her and tossed it over a shoulder, then set off toward the middle of the square. He took half a dozen steps, then spun around and marched back to her.

  “Who do you have to deliver potions to?” he asked.

  Anya crossed her arms. “Bogdana and Father Drozdov.”

  Ivan snapped the fingers of his free hand. “No problem. Bogdana lives down by us, and Father Drozdov—you can call him Father Fyodor, Anya—he’s at our house.”

  Calling adults by their first names seemed strange to Anya. Maybe Ivan could get away with that. He was a fool, and he also saw Father Drozdov every week at church. Anya didn’t. She wouldn’t be calling him by his first name, no matter what Ivan said. They set off for the south. Anya asked, “Why is he at your house?”

  “Dvoyka and Troyka have finally decided that they aren’t satisfied with terrorizing just this village,” Ivan said. “They want to terrorize the world. They’re leaving, and Father Fyodor is blessing them before they go.”

  Anya didn’t know what to say. Ivan’s eldest brothers were over twenty years old. It was about time they leave, but somehow their departure made Anya sad. They had only just moved into the village last year, but they were dynamic presences already. She couldn’t remember a time before them. And after they left, there would be only five Ivans. That wasn’t nearly enough.

  Chapter Five

  Dropping off Bogdana Lagounova’s digestive was complicated by the many beehives around the house. Anya and Ivan shuffled stiffly by, trying not to make too much noise and potentially anger the bees. The bees themselves buzzed everywhere and didn’t seem to pay Anya or Ivan any mind.

  Bogdana took the digestive from Anya as she rubbed her chest. “I’ve got some beeswax candles for your mama to trade.” She went into an adjoining room for a minute; the sounds of rummaging reached where Anya and Ivan stood on the front step. Finally Bogdana came back with a sack heavy with candles. “Twelve.”

  “Thank you,” Anya said, taking the candles. “Are the digestives working for you?”

  Bogdana let out an enormous, weary sigh. “Yes, and it’s about time something did. I’ll expect you in three days with another one.” She narrowed her eyes at Ivan. “Don’t you touch my bees, fool.”

  Ivan saluted her as she shut the door on them. They shuffled silently and slowly back to the road, past the indifferent bees. Only when they were on the road did Ivan say, “I wasn’t the one who knocked over the hive, anyway. It was Pyatsha.”

  “I don’t think Gospozha Lagounova can tell the difference,” Anya said.

  “Besides!” Ivan said. “She had a leshy wandering among them! That’s why we were even here in the first place. What if the leshy knocked over the hive?”

  “I thought you just said it was Pyatsha.”

  Ivan drummed his fingers on the staff. “Maybe the leshy framed Pyatsha.”

  The local leshy didn’t come out of the woods, so Anya doubted very much that the forest spirit had been doing anything with Bogdana’s bees. But Anya didn’t doubt that either Ivan or Pyatsha or both believed they had seen the leshy. They thought they saw a lot of things.

  “Sure,” Anya said. “Did you catch the leshy?”

  “Not yet,” Ivan said.

  “Have you caught anything yet?”

  He nodded; then the nod turned into a slow shake. “No. But we will. Papa says we aren’t leaving until we’ve cleaned this village up.”

  Anya thought the village was plenty clean to begin with. None of the magical creatures had ever caused too much of a problem. Except maybe the vodyaniye, the nasty froglike river-grass spirits that liked to drown people, but even they weren’t too bad as long as you were smart around the water. As far as she was concerned, the Ivanovs were trying to solve a problem that didn’t exist.

  But she liked Ivan’s company. She was getting used to his brothers’ boisterous affections. His mama was uncommonly kind. And Ivan’s papa, Yedsha, was surprisingly inefficient as a monster hunter, so nothing really changed.

  They crossed the road toward the Ivanov home, which had previously been Widow Medvedeva’s home and boarding house. Yedsha had offered her a lot of money for the house, so she’d gone to live with one of her sons in Mologa, the next largest city. Immediately the Ivanovs had built onto it, adding rooms so each Ivan could have his own bed to sleep in—though, as far as Anya could tell, they all just slept in whatever room they felt like sleeping in. Now the original home stood in the middle with various additions, rooms, and wings stacked and piled around it, like a merchant trying to carry too many bags at once.

  Ivan sauntered up to his home without a care. Anya approached cautiously. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the brothers Ivanov. She just usually ended up covered in dirt, or upside down, or trapped under or inside something. She wasn’t in the mood for that today. She had the priest’s potion in her pocket, and she didn’t want it to break when Ivan’s brothers inevitably tackled her to the ground.

  Ivan flung the door open and went inside. Anya followed, pausing at the threshold. The house was a mess, as usual, but it was orderly in its foolish way. Two huge backpacks leaned against each other in the front room, half-stuffed with clothes and food and waterskins. The family, with all the brothers, plus Father Drozdov, were gathered in the kitchen. It made for a very crowded space. There were seven brothers in all, three sets of twins and then Ivan by himself as the youngest, all named Ivan. The oldest set of twins were Dvoyka and Troyka, Number Two and Number Three. Their father, Yedsha, was Number One. Their odd way of naming had spun Anya’s head around for the first few days she’d known them, but now she couldn’t imagine calling them all Ivan and being able to keep them straight.

  Dvoyka—or maybe Troyka—stood beside the priest, but she couldn’t see the other one anywhere. Anya had a hard time telling the eldest twins apart now that they had grown identical beards.

  The crowd in the kitchen were all sitting on various surfaces, and no one was speaking. Whenever Papa had gone to the big market in Mologa, Anya’s whole family had always sat around their table for a minute, silent. Even their domovoi would join them—not that he ever said anything anyway. It was good luck to start a journey with some silence.

  Anya felt a presence behind her, and a shadow fell over the doorway. Before she could turn, arms wrapped around her, pinning her own to her sides, and she was squeezed and lifte
d into the air.

  Troyka—or maybe Dvoyka—yelled from behind her: “Aha! Annushka! So you came after all!”

  He walked into the house with her, swinging her this way and that. Everyone in the kitchen turned to look at Anya being carried inside.

  Marina, Ivan’s mother, yelled, “You’re supposed to be silent! It’s bad luck!”

  Anya wheezed, “Troyka, put me down.”

  The twin standing next to Father Drozdov said, “I’m not holding you.”

  “Dvoyka, then!” Anya said, using up what breath she had left.

  Marina waved a hand at Dvoyka. “Put her down! Be nice. She’s practically your sister.”

  “That’s why we can pick her up like this!” With a laugh, Dvoyka did put her down, patting her on the head after he did. “I’m glad to see you, Anya! What do you want us to bring back for you from the other kingdoms?”

  Anya gasped for air. “I don’t know.”

  “A magical doll,” Ivan’s father, Yedsha, said. “They have those in places, you know.”

  “I don’t really like dolls,” Anya said. The only thing she could think of to ask for was her father, and she doubted Dvoyka and Troyka were going to Rûm. “But thank you.”

  Father Drozdov smiled; it looked strained. “Maybe, ah, a book. Eh, Anya? You’d like a book, wouldn’t you?”

  “I like books.” She’d take a book before a doll, for sure. The priest’s creaking smile made her remember the potion, and she pulled it from her pocket.

  Before she could give it to him, though, he turned away from her and said, “Now that Dvoyka is here, let us pray.”

  Anya tensed up and slid the potion back into her pocket. She glanced around the room, face hot. Should she stay there and listen to the prayer? Should she step outside until they were done? She wasn’t sure which option was less awkward, but before she could decide, Father Drozdov took a deep breath and began speaking a language Anya couldn’t understand.

  She fidgeted for a moment, then stood quietly with her hands clasped at her waist, eyes drilled to the floor. She didn’t want to walk out as Father Drozdov prayed.

  His singsong voice was the only sound in the room. Anya remembered how hoarse he’d been last year, days after Sigurd had almost choked him to death. He had helped Mama arrange Shavuot for the entire village, rasping out orders. She remembered him eating the cheesy bliny with a smile, and then—flash—she could see him dangling from Sigurd’s fist, eyes bulging, choking, feet swinging beneath him, and then—flash—Sigurd by the river, the hand he had choked Father Drozdov with bleeding, his eyes bleeding, his teeth stained—

  “Anya?” Ivan’s voice snapped her out of her flashback, and she startled as he set his hand on her shoulder.

  “What?” she snapped, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” She looked around and realized the house was emptying. “Where are they all going?”

  “We’re going to walk Dvoyka and Troyka to the village boundary,” Ivan said. “Do you want to come?”

  Anya nodded, and they followed the small procession south down the road. Dvoyka and Troyka walked ahead, big packs on their backs and a spring in their step. Ivan’s four other brothers followed in a gaggle, and their parents trailed after them. Father Drozdov walked alone behind Yedsha and Marina, and Anya hurried to catch up with him.

  “Father,” she said as she came abreast of him.

  He looked up at her with an uncomfortable expression. “Oh, hello, Anya.”

  She dug the vial out of her pocket and extended it to him. “My mama wanted me to deliver this to you. She said to take one spoonful in the morning, but no more.”

  He nodded and took the vial in trembling fingers. “This will be such a help. Bless—er, thank you. Thank you so much. You and your mama. Thank you both.”

  The priest’s face flushed, and Anya mumbled a “You’re welcome” before falling behind him. Mama said he was nervous because of the winter coming, but was that really it? Or did he still think of Sigurd the way Anya did?

  She walked beside Ivan, silent, until they reached the bridge that was the unofficial village boundary. Dvoyka and Troyka hugged all their brothers and both parents, shook hands with the priest, and took turns squeezing Anya in crushing bear hugs. She caught the glimmer of a tear in Troyka’s eye before the pair marched up to the bridge, then turned and took slow steps backwards over it.

  “Goodbye!” Dvoyka called, lifting an arm.

  “Farewell!” Troyka said, waving at them.

  “We shall miss you all!”

  “Some more than others!”

  “Others not as much as some!”

  “You shall have a place in our hearts!”

  “Mostly in our hearts.”

  “Some in our pockets, if our hearts grow too full.”

  “Actually, I think we’ll leave you all here.”

  “Anyway, we love you all!”

  Pyatsha sighed loudly and yelled, “Just go already!”

  “Except Pyatsha,” Dvoyka continued.

  “He’s the worst,” Troyka said, still waving.

  Pyatsha took one of his boots off and threw it at his retreating oldest brothers. They both ducked, but they didn’t need to. The boot went wide and hit the bridge’s edge, then dropped into the river.

  “Ack!” Pyatsha yelled, hobbling half-bootless over the road. The rest of his brothers followed him.

  Ivan reached forward, pulling a magic thread, and the water shifted up. The boot was spat up out of the river, flew into the air, and landed on the shore in front of Pyatsha. He grabbed the boot off the ground and stood, bringing it up over his head, ready to lob it at his brothers again.

  But he couldn’t. The bridge was empty. Dvoyka and Troyka were gone, disappearing up the road. Pyatsha let his arm drop, and the boot slipped from his fingers. His shoulders slumped. He and the four other Ivanov brothers watched as Number Two and Number Three turned a corner and vanished.

  Chapter Six

  Ivan’s family stood by the bridge for a while, watching the empty place where Dvoyka and Troyka had been. Yedsha held Marina close to him, and she rested her head against his chest. The remaining brothers drew together at the end of the bridge. None of them stepped onto it, as if doing so would have some sort of dire consequence. Anya noticed Father Drozdov turn his back to the rest of them and, when he thought no one was watching, take a spoonful of Mama’s potion.

  Anya patted Ivan on the shoulder. “They’ll do great.”

  Ivan nodded. “They’re both really good at fool magic.”

  “How does someone get good at fool magic?” Anya asked. “It happens when you’re not trying.”

  “I know.” Ivan’s voice cracked, and he wiped a tear off his cheek. “They’re so good at not trying.”

  Anya shook her head but kept patting Ivan’s shoulder. The village would be quiet without the eldest twins, but she was confident that Ivan and his brothers would fill that void in no time.

  Marina took a deep breath and said, “Well, we can’t stand here all day, can we? Let’s go, boys. Father, thank you so much for coming.”

  “Of course,” the priest said. He already seemed calmer. “I’ll pray for them every day.”

  Marina nodded, then motioned for Anya to come over. She did, and Marina hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. “And you, Anya. You being here means so much to me. And to them. To all of us.”

  Anya slung her arms around Marina’s waist. They embraced for a few breaths and then released each other. The group moved north on the road, returning to the Ivanov house. Ivan and Anya trailed the main group once again.

  The Ivanov house came into sight just as the dull thud of horse hooves and the sharp crunch of wooden wheels over the dirt of the road rose behind them. Anya and Ivan turned at the same time. A wagon was rare in the summer, when the roads were easily passable, but it was autumn now, and snow would be coming anytime; travel so close to snowfal
l was nonexistent.

  Usually nonexistent.

  The big horse pulling the wagon was half-shaggy with a winter coat that hadn’t entirely grown in yet. He tossed his head as he passed Anya and Ivan and then the rest of the family. The man driving spared them only enough of a glance so he didn’t run them over. The bed of the wagon was piled with chests and bundles of what looked like furs.

  “I wonder where he’s going,” Anya said softly to Ivan. “Usually they trap fur north and take it south, not the other way around.”

  Ivan shrugged. “Maybe he’s delivering it to someone in Ingria, or Karelia.”

  “There have got to be better routes than through Zmeyreka,” Anya said.

  “Oh, definitely,” Ivan said.

  “Maybe he’s lost,” Anya said.

  The wagon slowed, then came to a stop in front of Ivan’s house.

  Ivan said, “Or maybe he’s delivering something here.”

  As they watched, the wagon driver turned and said something that was too quiet for them to hear. Out from between furs and chests, tucked where they hadn’t seen him before, a man unfolded and stood, moving stiffly.

  He had on a long, dirty coat, its fur-lined sleeves ratty and stained, that looked as though he hadn’t taken it off for months. His votola cloak was in a similar state, with dark rusty splotches on it. The fur shapka on his head was grimy and clumped, pulled down around his ears. A scraggly, unkempt beard obscured the bottom half of his face.

  A soldier’s sword hung at his waist.

  Anya was moving faster then, unaware until she was running over the road. A soldier in the village. All the men had gone, and there could be no one else coming back already. Dobrynya had promised.

  Papa.

  He climbed out of the wagon, collecting a backpack on the way, then shook the driver’s hand. The driver slapped his reins against the horse’s flanks, and the wagon moved away again.

  Tears stung Anya’s eyes as she ran. He was back. He was right there. He was safe. He was alive.

  She drew nearer, bursting with happiness to see her father, and then the man turned toward her.