The Bear and the Nightingale

by Katherine Arden

  Konstantin clasped his hands together. “My shame,” he said feverishly. “I cannot save her alone. She is possessed; she is a she-devil. I pray that in your wisdom you will show her light.”

  “She will learn many lessons,” replied the voice. “Many—many. Have no fear. I stand with you, and you will never again be alone. The world will fall to your feet, and know my wonders through your lips, because you have been loyal.”

  It seemed that trumpets must play when that voice spoke. Konstantin shuddered with pleasure, the tears still falling. “Only never leave me, Lord,” he said. “I have always been faithful.” He clenched his fists so tightly his nails made furrows in the skin of his hands.

  “Be faithful,” said the voice, “and I will never leave you.”

  Kyril Artamonovich loved above all to hunt the long-tusked northern boars, swifter than horses. The day before his wedding, he called for a boar-hunt. “It will while away the time,” he said to Pyotr, with a wink at Vasya, who said nothing. But Pyotr made no objection. Kyril Artamonovich was a famous hunter, and pig-meat in the autumn was a fine thing, fattened on chestnut-mast. A good haunch would grace the wedding-feast and bring color to his daughter’s pale face.

  The whole household rose before dawn. The boar-spears lay already in a shining heap. The dogs had heard the sound of sharpening, and paced their kennels all night, whining.

  Vasya was up before anyone else. She did not take food, but went to the stable, where the horses pawed anxiously at the noise from the dogs outside. Kyril’s young roan stallion trembled with each new sound. Vasya went to him and found the vazila there, perched on the colt’s back. Vasya smiled at the little creature. The stallion snorted at her and pinned his ears.

  “You have bad manners,” Vasya told him. “But I suppose Kyril Artamonovich drags you around by the mouth.”

  The colt put his ears forward. You do not look like a horse.

  Vasya grinned. “Thank God. Do you not wish to go hunting?”

  The horse considered. I like running. But the pig smells foul, and the man will strike me if I am afraid. I’d rather graze in a field. Vasya laid a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Kyril was going to ruin the beautiful colt—little more than a foal—if he kept on. The colt bumped her chest with his nose. Water and greenish slime dribbled onto her dress.

  “Now I’m more of a scarecrow than usual,” Vasya remarked, to no one in particular. “Anna Ivanovna will be delighted.”

  “The pig won’t hurt you if you’re quick,” she added to Ogon. “And you are the quickest thing in the world, my beauty. You need not fear.”

  The colt said nothing, but put his head in her arms. Vasya rubbed his silky ears and sighed. She would have liked nothing better than a wild ride through autumn forest, preferably on the long-legged Ogon, who looked as though he could outrun a hare in an open field. Instead, she was to go to the kitchen, knead bread, and listen to the gossip of a bevy of visiting women. All this while Irina showed off her many perfections and Vasya tried not to burn anything.

  “Ordinarily I would curse a maid for a fool that got so near my horse,” said a voice from behind her. Ogon threw his head up, nearly breaking Vasya’s nose. “But you have a hand with beasts, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Kyril Artamonovich came toward them, smiling. He caught the colt by his rope halter.

  “Hush, mad thing,” he said. The colt rolled his eyes but stood, shivering.

  “You are abroad early, my lord,” said Vasya, recovering.

  “As are you, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Their breath made clouds; the stable was chilly.

  “There is much to do,” said Vasya. “The women will ride to meet you after the kill, if the day is fine. And tonight we are feasting.”

  He grinned. “No need to excuse yourself, devushka. I think it a fine thing in a girl to rise early, and to interest herself in a man’s stock.” He had a dimple on one side of his mouth. “I’ll not tell your father that I found you here.”

  Vasya regained her composure. “Tell him if you will,” she said.

  He smiled. “I like your spirit.”

  She shrugged.

  “Your sister is prettier than you,” he added musingly. “She will be an easy wife in a few years’ time: a little flower. Not a girl to trouble a man’s nights. But you—” Kyril reached out, pulled her to him, and ran a hand down her back, in an assessing sort of way. “Too many bones,” he said, “but I like a strong girl. And you will not die in childbed.” He handled her confidently, with the expectation of being obeyed. “Will you like making me sons?” He kissed her before she knew, while she was still bewildered by the strength in his hands. His kiss was like his touch: firm, with a sort of proficient enjoyment. Vasya shoved at him, to little effect. He tilted her face up, digging his fingers into the soft place behind her jaw. Her head swam. He smelled of musk and mead and horses. His hand was very large, splayed against her back. His other hand slid over her shoulder and breast and hip.

  Whatever he found seemed to please him. When he let her go, his chest heaved, and his nostrils flared like a stallion’s. Vasya stood still, swallowing her nausea. She looked up into his face. I am a mare to him, she thought suddenly and clearly. And if a mare will not yield to harness, well, he will break her.

  Kyril’s smile slipped a fraction. She could not know how much he had seen of her pride and scorn. His eyes strayed again to her mouth, the shape of her body, and she knew he saw her fear as well. The brief unease left his face. He reached for her again, but Vasya was quicker. She struck his hand aside, ran from the stable, and did not look back. When she reached the kitchen, she was so pale that Dunya made her sit by the fire and drink hot wine until a little color came back into her face.

  ALL THAT DAY, A COLD mist rose from the earth, winding itself about the trees. The hunt made a kill near midday. Vasya, wielding a bread paddle with grim competence, heard, faintly, the shriek of the dying animal. It matched her mood.

  The women left the house at gray noontide, with men to lead the laden packhorses. Konstantin rode out with them, his face pale and exalted in the autumn light. Men and women watched him with reverence and furtive admiration. Vasya, avoiding the priest, stayed with Irina near the back of the cavalcade, shortening her mare’s long stride to match Irina’s pony.

  The mist crept over the earth. The women complained of chill and drew their cloaks about them.

  Suddenly Mysh reared. Even Irina’s placid beast shied, so that the child gave a stifled scream and clutched her reins. Vasya hastily brought the mare down and caught the pony’s bridle. She followed Mysh’s ears with her eyes. A white-skinned creature stood between two tall birch trunks. He was man-shaped and light-eyed. His hair was the tangled undergrowth of the forest. He cast no shadow. “It’s all right,” Vasya said to Mysh. “That does not eat horses. Only foolish travelers.”

  The mare swiveled her ears but, hesitantly, began to walk again.

  “Leshy, lesovik,” murmured Vasya as they rode past. She bowed from the waist. He was the wood-guard—the leshy—and he seldom came so close to men.

  “I would speak with you, Vasilisa Petrovna.” The wood-guard’s voice was the whisper of branches at dawn.

  “Presently,” she said, mastering her surprise.

  Beside her, Irina squeaked, “Who are you talking to, Vasya?”

  “No one,” said Vasya. “Myself.”

  Irina was quiet. Vasya sighed inwardly—Irina would tell her mother.

  They found the hunters a little way into the forest, taking their ease under a great tree. They had already hung the pig, a sow, by her hocks from a massive limb. Her slit throat drained blood into a bucket. The wood rang with laughter and boasting.

  Seryozha, who considered himself quite grown, had only with difficulty been persuaded to ride with the women. Now he leaped from his pony and darted over to stare, round-eyed, at the hanging pig. Vasya slid from Mysh’s back and gave the reins into a servant’s hand.

  “A fine beast we have taken, is it not, Vasi
lisa Petrovna?” The voice came from her elbow. She whirled round. The blood had caked in the lines of Kyril’s palms, but his boyish smile was undimmed.

  “The meat will be welcome,” said Vasya.

  “I will save the liver for you.” His glance was speculative. “You could use fattening.”

  “You are generous,” said Vasya. She bowed her head and slipped away, like a maiden too modest for speech. The women were extracting a cold meal from laden bundles. Carefully, Vasya worked herself closer and closer to a little grove of birch, then slipped among the trees and disappeared.

  She did not see Kyril smile to himself and follow.

  LESHIYE WERE DANGEROUS. WHEN they wished, they could lead travelers in circles until they collapsed. Sometimes the travelers were wise enough to put their clothes on backward for protection—but not often; they mostly died.

  Vasya found him at the center of a little copse of birch. The leshy looked down at her with glittering eyes.

  “What news?” said Vasya.

  The leshy made a grinding sound of displeasure. “Your people come with clamor to fright my woods and kill my creatures. They would have asked my leave once.”

  “We ask your leave again,” said Vasya quickly. They had trouble enough without angering the wood-guard. She untied her embroidered kerchief and laid it in his hand. He turned it over in his long, twiggy fingers.

  “Forgive us,” said Vasya. “And—do not forget me.”

  “I would ask the same,” said the wood-guard, mollified. “We are fading, Vasilisa Petrovna. Even I, who watched these trees grow from saplings. Your people waver, and so the chyerti wither. If the Bear comes now you are unprotected. There will be a reckoning. Beware the dead.”

  “What does it mean, ‘beware the dead’?”

  The leshy bowed his hoary head. “Three signs, and the dead are fourth,” he said. Then he disappeared, and all she heard were the birds singing in the rustling wood.

  “Enough of this,” Vasya muttered, not really expecting a reply. “Why can none of you speak plainly? What are you afraid of?”

  Kyril Artamonovich emerged from between the trees.

  Vasya stiffened her spine. “Are you lost, my lord?”

  He snorted. “No more than you, Vasilisa Petrovna. I have never seen a girl walk so light in the woods. But you should not go unprotected.”

  She said nothing.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  There was no way to refuse. They walked side by side through the thick wet loam, while the leaves drifted down around them. “You will like my lands, Vasilisa Petrovna,” Kyril said. “The horses run across fields larger than the eye can tell, and merchants bring us jewels from Vladimir, the city of the Mother of God.”

  A vision seized Vasya then, not of a lord’s fine house, but of herself on a galloping horse, in a land unbounded by forest. She stood a moment, frozen and far away. Kyril lifted and smoothed her long braid where it lay over her breast. Startled back to herself, she flicked it out of his grip. He caught her hair, smiling, in a fist, and drew her nearer. “Come, none of that.” She backed up, but he followed her, wrapping her braid round his hand. “I will teach you to want me.” His mouth sought hers.

  A piercing shriek split the midafternoon silence.

  Kyril let her go. There was a brown flash between the trees, and Vasya took off running, cursing her skirts. But even hampered, she was lighter than the big man behind her. She darted round a holly bush and skidded to a horrified halt. Seryozha was clinging to Mysh’s neck, and the brown mare bucked and spun like a yearling colt. A ring of white showed all around her frantic eye.

  Vasya could not understand it; the boy had ridden the mare before, and Mysh was very sensible. But now she jumped as though three devils sat her back. Irina was pressed up against a tree at the edge of the clearing, both hands over her mouth. “I told him!” she wailed. “I told him he was being bad, but he said he was grown—that he could do as he liked. He wanted to race the horses. He wouldn’t listen.”

  The alder clearing was full of shadows, too big for the noon light. One of them seemed to lurch forward. For a second, Vasya could have sworn she saw a madman’s grin, and a single, winking eye.

  “Mysh, be still,” she said to the horse. The mare came plunging to a stop, ears pricked. There was a split second of stillness.

  “Seryozha,” said Vasya. “Now—”

  Kyril came crashing through the undergrowth. In the same instant, the shadows seemed to spring from three places at once. The mare’s nerve broke again; she wheeled and bolted. Her long legs dug into the forest track and she almost scraped her rider off in her wild career between tree-trunks. Seryozha screamed, but he was still in the saddle, clinging to the horse’s neck.

  Somewhere, someone was laughing.

  Vasya ran for the other horses, seizing her belt-knife. Kyril was behind her, but she was faster. She flashed past her astonished father and reached Ogon first. “What are you doing?” shouted Kyril. Vasya did not answer. The colt was tied, but a stroke split the rope, and a vault saw her settled onto his bare back, fingers wound into the red mane.

  The horse bolted in pursuit. Kyril was left with his mouth hanging open. Vasya leaned forward, catching the stallion’s rhythm, feet locked around his barrel. She wished she’d had time to untangle her layers of skirt. They swept through the trees like a thunderstorm. Vasya bent low over the horse’s neck. A fallen log loomed in their way. Vasya took a deep breath. Ogon cleared the barrier, surefooted as a stag.

  They burst out of the forest and into a muddy field scarce ten horse-lengths behind the runaway. Miraculously, Seryozha was still clinging to Mysh’s neck. He did not have much choice; a fall at speed would be fatal, the going made treacherous by hundreds of half-hidden stumps. Ogon gained steadily; he was much the faster horse, and the mare was racing in panicked zigzags, twisting in an effort to throw the child from her back. Vasya shouted at Mysh to stop, but the mare did not hear, or she did not heed. Vasya cried encouragement to Seryozha, but the wind snatched the words away. She and Ogon slowly closed the gap. Foam flew back from the horses’ lips. There was a ditch coming up at the far side of the field, dug to drain rainwater off the barley. Even if Mysh could jump it, Seryozha would never stay on her back. Vasya screamed at Ogon. A series of powerful leaps brought him level with the runaway. The ditch was coming up fast. Vasya reached out, one-armed, for her nephew.

  “Let go, let go!” she shouted, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Seryozha had time for one panic-stricken glance, then Vasya yanked him clear and slung him facedown over Ogon’s red withers. The boy had a handful of black mane clutched in each fist. Simultaneously, Vasya shifted her weight, urging the colt to turn before the looming edge. Somehow the stallion managed, gathering his hindquarters and lunging sideways on a course that took him parallel to the ditch. He came to a sliding, slithering halt a few paces later, trembling all over. Mysh was not so lucky; in her panic she blundered into the ditch and now lay thrashing at the bottom.

  Vasya slid from Ogon’s back, staggering as her legs tried to buckle beneath her. She pulled her sobbing nephew down and looked him over quickly. His nose and lip were bloody from the stallion’s iron-hard shoulder. “Seryozha,” she said. “Sergei Nikolaevich. You’re all right. Hush.” Her nephew was sobbing and trembling and giggling all at once. Vasya slapped him across his bloody face. He shuddered and fell silent, and she hugged him tight. Behind them came the sound of a horse struggling.

  “Ogon,” said Vasya. The stallion was behind her, flecked with foam. “Stay here.”

  The horse twitched an assenting ear. Vasya let her nephew go and half-ran, half-slid to the bottom of the ditch. Mysh lay in a foot of water, but Vasya ignored it. She knelt beside the mare’s foam-streaked head. Miraculously, the horse’s legs weren’t broken. “You’re all right,” Vasya whispered. “You’re all right.” She matched the mare’s breathing once, and again. Suddenly Mysh lay quiet under her burning hand. Vasya stood up and drew away.<
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  The mare collected herself, clumsy as a foal, and came spraddle-legged to her feet. Vasya, shaking now with reaction, wrapped her arms around the horse’s neck. “Fool,” she whispered. “What possessed you?”

  I saw a shadow, said the mare. And it had teeth. There was no time for more. A confusion of voices came from the top of the ditch. A small avalanche of rocks heralded the appearance of Kyril Artamonovich. Mysh shied. Kyril was staring.

  Vasya’s face burned. “The mare’s had a fright,” the girl said hurriedly, catching hold of Mysh’s bridle. “You smell of blood, Kyril Artamonovich; best you stay up there.”

  Kyril had no intention of sliding down into the mud and water, but even so Vasya’s words did not sweeten him. “You stole my horse.”

  Vasya had the grace to look abashed.

  “Who taught you to ride like that?”

  Vasya swallowed, measuring his horrified expression. “My father taught me,” she said.

  Her betrothed looked gratifyingly shocked.

  She scrambled out of the ditch. The mare followed her like a kitten. The girl paused at the top. Kyril gave her a stony stare. “Perhaps I can ride all your horses, when we are married,” Vasya said innocently.

  Kyril did not answer.

  Vasya shrugged—and only then realized how tired she was. Her legs were weak as reed-stems, and her left shoulder—the arm she had used to yank Seryozha over Ogon’s back—ached.

  A cluster of riders was racing across the ragged field. Pyotr led them on sure-footed Buran. Vasya’s brothers rode at his heel. Kolya was first off his horse; he leaped down and ran to his son, who was weeping still. “Seryozha, are you all right?” he demanded. “Synok, what happened? Seryozha!” The child did not answer. Kolya turned on Vasya. “What happened?”

  Vasya did not know what to say. She stammered something. Her father and Alyosha dismounted in Kolya’s wake. Pyotr’s urgent glance darted from her, to Seryozha, to Ogon and Mysh. “Are you all right, Vasya?” he said.

  “Yes,” Vasya managed. She flushed. Their neighbors—all men—were galloping up now. They stared. Vasya was suddenly, flinchingly aware of her bare head and torn skirts, her dirty face. Her father stepped across to murmur a quiet word to Kolya, who was holding his weeping son.