Don't Call the Wolf

by Aleksandra Ross

  “You would give up your forest?” she asked. “For a man?”

  “My forest can live a little longer,” said Ren. “He can’t.”

  The old woman cackled again.

  She turned away without answering. As she did, the candles on the fence posts came to life. Flames leapt high in the air. A rivulet of wax slipped, with agonizing slowness, from the empty eye socket of the closest skull.

  “Come inside,” said the Baba Jaga.

  The chicken leg slowly bent, lowering the cabin back to earth. The wind picked up, formed itself into the shape of hounds. Their jowls flapped and long strings of saliva hung from their fangs, and they barked happily at the Baba Jaga. When Ren reached out to touch a hound, her hand passed through gray-black smoke. Only their jaws appeared solid—yellow fangs in pink gums, snapping and slavering in midair.

  Ren took one of Lukasz’s arms over her shoulders. He was burning hot with fever.

  “I can’t believe you offered to let her keep the sword,” he muttered.

  “I can’t believe you offered to let her eat you,” retorted Ren.

  The Baba Jaga produced a yellow key from her cloak, and the lock stretched into a toothy mouth. Ren took a step back. The mouth closed on the key and chewed until the door swung open. Ren knew it was too late to run.

  An iron stove took up the entirety of one corner, with an open door and a blazing fire within. Next to it stood a huge wooden table, where a pair of bodiless hands feverishly chopped a mountain of vegetables. A second pair scooped them up and tossed them in a pot. A laundry basket floated by, held up by more disembodied hands. They set the basket down on the kitchen table and began adding to the dozens of clotheslines swaying in the breeze from outside.

  Ren wasn’t really sure what she had expected. Not this.

  “Bring him here,” commanded the Baba Jaga, shooing a set of snapping jaws off a giant bed, which took up a whole wall.

  Lukasz collapsed. He looked half dead already.

  Please let him live.

  “What can we do?” Ren hung anxiously over the Baba Jaga’s shoulder. “We have to do something—”

  A cough cut her off, and blackish blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His teeth were smeared with it.

  Ren twisted a strand of hair between her fingertips, while the Baba Jaga bustled around the other side of the table to the stove.

  “Please, Lukasz,” she whispered, settling next to him. “Please don’t die—”

  She took his hand in hers. It was the burned one, with its missing fingertips and scar, and Ren realized that it was one of her favorite things about him. It all felt so surreal. She half believed she might wake up and it would all be all right. They’d still be back at Hala Smoków.

  Please let him live.

  She leaned down and kissed his cheek. His stubble was rough on her lips. His lashes flickered with the effort of keeping his eyes open.

  The Baba Jaga returned with a tea tray, which she set on the nightstand. On it sat a single teacup filled with amber liquid. Ren stared. The Baba Jaga spoke.

  “He must drink.”

  Lukasz managed to get up on one elbow, and Ren helped him lift the teacup. He choked and swore. Then he lay back and coughed and twitched some more.

  “Cider,” explained the Baba Jaga over her shoulder as she stumped back to the kitchen. “Now we wait.”

  The bodiless hands fastened an apron around the old woman’s waist. Brandishing a meat cleaver the size of a badger, she called out to Ren:

  “Come, little one, and eat.”

  The cleaver lowered to the kitchen table, hacking at some doomed onions.

  Ren had to duck under the clotheslines to reach the kitchen. The laundry was in all shapes and sizes.

  The Baba Jaga set a bowl of steaming stew on the table before her. Then she cut Ren a generous piece of bread and slathered it with butter. Ren glanced back at the clotheslines, wondering why the Baba Jaga could possibly need so many outfits.

  Realization dawned at almost the exact same time that the Baba Jaga spoke: “I made stew.”

  She had killed—had she eaten—?

  “It’s only vegetables,” she cackled, looking at Ren’s expression and the untouched bowl. “I know you have sensitive tastes.”

  Ren was starving. She started with the bread, just as soft and perfect as the bread from the Leszy’s table. The Baba Jaga cut a second piece, and Ren devoured that, too. The stew was delicious. It reminded her of the forest. When Lukasz and Jakub had made hunter’s stew of nocnica, and Felka had chased Koszmar around the fire, and when Ren hadn’t trusted them and the woods hadn’t seemed so dark.

  She put down the spoon, feeling tears in her eyes.

  Poor Koszmar, she thought. Poor Koszmar, who had been so mean and so unhappy and still, somehow, had shot himself so that they could live.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked.

  The Baba Jaga raised her eyebrows. Actually, as she did not have any eyebrows left, she raised the mottled skin above her eyes. The effect was rather gross.

  “We are two queens alone in the world and meeting for the first time,” said the Baba Jaga. “Let us speak of something other than men.”

  “It’s not like that—” Ren started hotly.

  “These humans,” said the Baba Jaga, ignoring her. “These humans are all the same. So desperate to live. So desperate to make deals. Help me survive, they ask. Help me get to the Mountain, they say. Save my beloved, they beg. So desperate for mercy, these humans.”

  The Baba Jaga paused.

  “Do you know what I do?” she asked.

  Ren glanced toward the clothes.

  “You . . . eat them?” Ren hazarded.

  The Baba Jaga chuckled and cut her another piece of bread.

  “I eat them,” she confirmed.

  “But you didn’t eat us,” said Ren.

  “Because you, my dearest, are not human at all.”

  “I know.”

  She didn’t act like one. She didn’t feel like one.

  Maybe it was the humans’ fault, for forcing her into the creature she had become. For keeping their doorsteps dark, for throwing rocks. They’d called her a monster, they’d blamed every human death in that forest on her. They’d feared her so much they’d made her a legend—and they’d almost made her believe it. Maybe it was the humans’ fault, and they’d made her what she was: all broken nails and sharp tongue.

  Or maybe, thought Ren, it was the monsters’ fault, for cutting her off, fencing her in. Forcing her to fight for that forest, day in and day out. Or maybe, she thought suddenly, it was the king and queen’s fault, for leaving her alone in the world.

  Or maybe it was just her fault.

  She’d attacked Jakub. She’d failed Ryś. Koszmar was dead. In her absence, the strzygi had closed in on the village, and she’d almost ignored it, in this obsession with the Dragon. The whole damn forest was going up in flames, and all she’d done was make it burn faster. It was her fault. It fell on her shoulders. And hers alone.

  Her voice came out clipped, broken up with emotion.

  “I have been a bad queen,” she said.

  When she raised her gaze, she thought she saw pity in the Baba Jaga’s eyes.

  “You have fought monsters for seventeen years,” said the old woman.

  Ren shook her head. She was aware of the bodiless hands tending to the washing, of Lukasz’s shape on the bed. She was aware of guilt. Pouring through every vein, burning hot and bright.

  “I have failed,” said Ren.

  “We have all failed,” said the Baba Jaga. “They are too numerous. Do you really think they’ve confined themselves to your queendom? They are running amok, and you are the only one to have stood in their way. What have the humans done? They have hidden themselves. They have given up. In the cities, they have thrown up their hands. Oh, they write articles and they write books and they even occasionally discuss it in their parliaments. But they’ve sealed off this place.
Called it forgotten, but only because they have chosen to forget it. While the humans of this world have hidden, and you have fought.”

  Perhaps she was right, thought Ren. It was certainly easier to accept. To think of the humans as complacent, enamored of denial. To say they drew lines in the sand, these humans, and never stepped beyond them. She remembered what Lukasz had said: I don’t think you’re an animal. Then: I don’t think you’re a monster.

  And I never did.

  He hadn’t called her animal. Monster. Even human. He hadn’t drawn lines for her, and he’d never asked her to stay within them.

  “You and I must help each other,” said the Baba Jaga into the silence. She pushed some stringy hair back under her cap. “We are the same. Neither quite human nor quite monster. Powerful beyond all reason.”

  Ren felt a flash of familiarity. Another in the wilderness; another alone with dark things.

  Someone who, unlike her, had never known a Lukasz.

  “They call us monsters,” said Ren.

  Ren remembered what Jakub had said about predilections to evil. She remembered the mobs of strzygi, all once human, all thronging together on the hunt. How they died was not so very different, she realized, from how they had lived. So fragile, so changeable. So easily influenced. Monster. How quick the villagers were to attack. You killed them. How quick they were to judge. They saw Ren, they saw the Baba Jaga, and then they threw back their heads and howled monster to the moon.

  Ren had once said that of her monsters, she feared the ones who had been human most of all. She’d always assumed it was because she secretly feared a fate like theirs. Now a new thought occurred. Perhaps they had not transformed after all. Just realized what had always been in their souls.

  “Of all the monsters to have set foot in your forest,” said the Baba Jaga, “by far the most evil has been man.”

  And then the words came back to Ren, from another lifetime.

  “My brother said that,” she said sharply. “Where did you hear that?”

  The Baba Jaga smiled a bone-chilling smile.

  “My home is more than Mountains, Little Queen,” she said.

  Ren was quiet for a moment. Ryś had said that days ago, fighting strzygi on the outskirts of the village. Before any of this. Before they’d really known their humans. Jakub, who—despite everything—had turned out to be one of the kindest, gentlest souls Ren had ever known. Felka, so sharp and smart and quick to love. Koszmar, at once desperately unlikable and so desperate to be liked; Koszmar whom they had all disliked, whom none of them had wanted; Koszmar, who in the end had given up everything for them.

  Poor, dear Koszmar, she thought.

  Perhaps he’d been the best of them.

  “You’re wrong,” said Ren suddenly.

  The Baba Jaga gave her a piercing gaze.

  “You’re wrong,” she repeated. “I mean, you’re right. It’s true. They are selfish. When they want something, they don’t care who they hurt.”

  She thought of Jakub, so obsessed with his research that he didn’t care who he hurt. She thought of Lukasz, kidnapping her for his brother.

  “But the humans,” continued Ren, and the Baba Jaga’s expression turned piercing. “I like them. Perhaps they can be cruel, but they can also be kind. I think of Jak—of one of my friends. He respected my forest; he loved it. He never wanted to hurt it—only understand it.”

  Jakub had ventured out into the forest to save her. Patiently, kindly, he had shared his knowledge with her. He had grieved for Ryś with the same sorrow as his daughter. He had given up the only things he cared for: his daughter, to save them from the mavka; his dream of the Mountains, to go back to the village that feared him.

  Ren thought of Felka, who had welcomed her from the moment she had set foot in the village. Felka had never called her a monster, she had brought back her clothes, she had been sharp and funny and loyal and good.

  Of Koszmar, who had died to save them.

  Of Lukasz, who had given up everything—his family, his legacy, his life . . . everything, for her.

  “The monsters of our world,” began Ren slowly, “like rusalki and strzygi—they choose the side of hell, and they never change. But these humans—” Ren thought of her friends. Her perfect, terrible friends. “These humans commit terrible evils and they beg forgiveness. They have such a capacity to change, Baba Jaga . . . and I think that is their real magic. They hold such darkness, these humans, but they still choose the light. Of all the things I love about them, I love this best.”

  The Baba Jaga’s expression had changed. She watched Ren with softening eyes. The hands had paused in the background.

  “Sometimes,” said Ren quietly, “I think they are the last lights burning in this world.”

  41

  THE STRZYGI CIRCLED. STRINGS OF saliva hung from their mouths.

  Koszmar had fought monsters before. He had walked away from family, from honor, from fortune. He had battled dark things in dark places. And he could win.

  He almost did.

  But his arm trembled. He hurt. He hesitated. The first strzygoń leapt, and without his eye, Koszmar misjudged the distance. It sank its teeth into his arm, and he howled. Too quickly, he went down. Beneath him, the earth seemed to buckle. He hacked at the strzygoń until it fell away. He was on his back. The trees leaned down to watch.

  Doggedly, Koszmar got back on his feet. The strzygi snarled.

  They snapped around his ankles, and the saber was too heavy. He dropped it, clawed at them with his bare hands. They leapt on his back, tore at his hair, at his shoulders. Koszmar screamed. He searched for his saber. His mind was a mess. He could not think clearly. His arm, he realized slowly, had disappeared under the seething gray bodies. He was disappearing.

  Koszmar wanted to live. They dragged him down. He wanted to live. They bit down. He’d give anything to live. They tore in. He’d give anything.

  Please.

  Blood poured out.

  Please let me live.

  Franciszek

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  FRANCISZEK AND LUKASZ SAT ON the stone sarcophagus, watching the sun rise and sharing a bottle of vodka.

  “An Apofys,” said Franciszek. He put down the newspaper and poured himself another glass. “I’ve never heard of one of those before.”

  Dawn broke gently across the spires of King Nikodem’s castle, where just five years before, the Brygada Smoka had been born. They sat in the cemetery, still under the shadow of the Miasto Basilica, while overhead, the city’s clay and copper roofs blazed red-gold.

  “Apparently it got into the taxidermy collection,” Lukasz said.

  Having watched Raf tumble down that particular slippery slope, Lukasz didn’t drink in the morning. But Franciszek had been at the library all night, and he had spent the evening betting on the boxing rings, so technically speaking, Lukasz considered this the day’s end.

  “So?”

  Franciszek was looking at him, waiting for an answer.

  “Now it has a belly full of sawdust,” said Lukasz casually. He poured himself a drink. “Should make a unique challenge.”

  He waited for his brother to take the bait. Mysterious dragon breed and extra danger? Franciszek should have loved planning that one out.

  Franciszek only nodded. Sunlight glinted off his gold glasses. But all he said was “How astute.”

  Lukasz didn’t respond. A few morning drunks passed the cemetery gates, caught sight of the antlered horses. They crowded to the iron, pointing and shouting. Lukasz saluted. Franciszek watched him thoughtfully.

  “So,” said Lukasz, turning back to his brother, “about this Apofys.”

  Franciszek’s lip twitched. Everyone had always compared Lukasz with Rafał, but he and Franciszek had the exact same, slightly crooked mouth. In fact, if Franciszek had taken off his glasses and grown half a foot, they might have passed for twins.

  “You know,” said Franciszek, as if he didn’t hear, “you’re too smart fo
r this job.”

  Lukasz laughed.

  “Yeah right.”

  The fireflies were still out. They rose gently from the blue-green dew, flickering among the dull headstones. They came slowly at first, one or two whispers of light in the long wet grass. Then they came faster, nearly rising out of the earth, winking and blinking like little candle flames, a thousand glittering ghost lights in the dark green.

  “Dad loved them,” said Franciszek suddenly. “Do you remember?”

  “No.”

  But Lukasz was lying.

  He did remember. Maybe even better than Franciszek did. His mother, leaning against the washbasins in the vast kitchens of Hala Smoków, because she had been born a commoner and she’d never really gotten the knack of aristocracy. Her black hair, shining red in the lights of the fires. Chatting with the servants, affectionately cursing the kikimora behind the stove.

  His father, stamping through the kitchen doors, tossing aside his sword and shaking the dragon soot out of his black hair. The door swinging on its hinges, the wolves howling beyond, the long winding roads of Hala Smoków peppered with the lights from its houses.

  “Close the door,” his mother had said, shooing Tadeusz away with a rag. “You’ll let the bugs in, and then we’ll never sleep—”

  “Let them come!” his father had yelled, seizing his mother by the waist and spinning her around the kitchen.

  “They’ll keep us up, Tad!”

  She would fall into his arms.

  “You can never have too much light!”

  And then the two of them would waltz across the stone floors, fireflies drifting like a thousand candle flames. Lukasz had been, in those moments, perfectly happy.

  Now he lit a cigarette in the cool damp.

  “You know what our problem is?” asked Lukasz.

  Franciszek smiled wryly.

  “Surely not the vodka.”

  “No,” agreed Lukasz. “Definitely not the vodka.”

  For a moment, he lost his train of thought. Then it came back, fragile as the mist lifting off the headstones.