The Rider in the Night

by Brendan Noble

  I shrugged. “Okay, suit yourself, but that just means more food for me.”

  With that, I took off, racing and sliding through the trees. In our settlement of Dwie Rzeki, there was nothing to do but farm, herd the cattle and horses, and wander the forest. There had to be something more.

  As much as I didn’t want to put my faith in a silly festival to fall in love, I would jump the fire tonight and be declared a man, eligible to wed. Our tribe considered the rituals of the summer festivals to be the peak time for couples, but the courting began now.

  My doubts slid away with every second that passed. Just the thought of it made me giddy. I listen to Mom’s stories too much.

  Brown and gray ruled the forests, but today, the spring gods came with the dawn. Jaryło would bring life to the crops and his golden shield to protect us from our enemies, and Dziewanna would make the wilds bloom and rivers flow.

  Each of my steps crunched more of the dried and dead leaves that had been preserved beneath the snow. I leaped with each landing, trying to crush as many of them as I could. Mom always said the forest, not the village, was our home. As I listened to the trees creak in the wind and the leaves crinkle under my boots, I had to agree.

  I reached the farmland at the edge of the village and jumped over a log, feeling the breeze skim the back of my neck. The cattle watched me run, but they paid me only a moment of attention before returning to their grass. Just like the girls.

  With the trees sparser here, the daylight illuminated the sloped thatch roofs of the wooden houses, sunken below ground to keep in as much warmth as possible during the long winter moons. Besides the sound of my heavy breaths, the winds, and my boots thudding against the dirt, it was silent. I treasured that as I turned down the trail to our home.

  There was something magical about the woods beyond Dwie Rzeki’s wooden walls. They brought a peace that the day’s work and busy village center lacked. With nobody around but the trees and birds, I was myself.

  That magic faded as I passed the place Otylia and I had entered the forest four years before. Our final late-night journey. My heart ached at the thought. So much had changed since then.

  A trail of smoke stretched to the sky ahead of me. Mom’s up.

  She was always an early riser, which made life difficult for me. While she found her energy from the second her eyes opened, I struggled to find that morning spark. My nightly wanderings in my soul-body stole that from me.

  I hopped down the four steps to our house and pushed open the wooden door. It creaked as I slid inside, setting my shield and training spear on the dirt floor in the corner as the warmth of the stone stove washed over me. The house was only eight strides long and half that wide, so the stove never failed to keep us warm, even in the midst of winter’s grip.

  Mom turned from her kettle and smiled, the blaze illuminating her pale skin and loose golden hair. “I was wondering how long Xobas would keep you. Here, I’m sure you’re freezing.”

  She handed me a steaming bowl of soup, which I accepted eagerly. As she went about making one for herself, I sat at the small table in the middle of the room and wrapped my hands around the clay bowl, letting its heat flow through my body. For just a few seconds, I didn’t care that it burned my palms. “It took some effort to convince him to let me go this early.”

  “Your father will be pleased he’s pushing you,” she replied, sitting across from me.

  All my life, she’d referred to him as your father. I assumed it was because Father had agreed to the request of High Chieftess Natasza that he throw us out of the longhouse, ending Mom’s time as a concubine—a secondary wife. I had only been a baby when it’d happened. In a village with little in the name of drama, though, it had apparently been talked about for moons.

  I didn’t mind living apart from Father, Natasza, and my five half-brothers and sisters. Mom and I had a cottage to ourselves. We’d been forced beyond the village walls’ protection, but Father’s longhouse wasn’t far. Just distant enough to typically avoid Father’s stern control and close enough to see my siblings—or at least the ones I liked.

  I stared at my spoon as it drifted through the steaming liquid. “I doubt my fighting will ever satisfy Father.”

  “Jacek is a difficult man to please.” Her gaze dropped to her bowl before she smiled up at me.

  Even with nothing but the stove’s aura and the flickering candle on the table to provide light, her eyes were a bright blue like mine. She’s faking joy for me. I let her do it. She wanted me to be happy, but she deserved it too.

  “Are you excited for the festival?” she asked.

  My heart jumped. I forced myself to sip the soup to give me time to think. All that accomplished, though, was burning my tongue, and I let out a yelp.

  “Oh, that nervous?”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve as I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “No, just a mother’s intuition. Is there a girl in particular who has your heart fluttering like the birds? Genowefa? Otylia?”

  How does she always know? All the boys wanted Genowefa. One glance from her was enough to make my heart stop. “Does it matter who I’m fond of? Father will probably just marry me off to some chief’s daughter to keep his loyalty, and he’s made sure I haven’t had a real conversation with Otylia in years.”

  An understanding smile crossed her face. “I remember jumping the fire with hope in my heart.” Her eyes drifted to the stove. Memories swirled in them. “Jacek was the second-born, like you, and all the girls were fond of him.”

  “Not like me…” I mumbled.

  Chuckling, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. It was a small thing, but it calmed my heart. “Oh, my Wašek,” she began. “I would not wish upon you the trials your father faced. With prestige, it’s often difficult to know who truly loves you and whose heart is full of greed. The others may scoff at you because of me, but when you find someone who sees beyond that, you’ll know they’re the one.”

  I picked at the calluses on my palm, avoiding her gaze. Being the son of a concubine didn’t make me untouchable, but it was enough. Though I was Father’s second-born, my family name was Lubiewicz, son of Lubena, instead of Jackiewicz, son of Jacek. Only bastards took their mother’s name, and even now the other boys mocked me for it. To them I was the Half-Chief and nothing more.

  “But you loved him?” I asked.

  “It was hard not to. Your father could charm any girl, but at the summer solstice that year, he chose me.” Her spoon slipped into the bowl. She stared at it for a few moments before letting out a sigh. “Of course, you have heard the rest of the story.”

  With a reassuring smile, I shrugged. “He got stuck with wicked Natasza, and you got me to help feed the horses and plow the field.”

  “And I thank Mokosz for that blessing.” She tapped the wooden amulet of the Great Mother that hung from her neck, then stood without finishing her soup. As she pulled her dress from around the stool, she glanced at the stove and clicked her tongue.

  During our meal, the fire had dwindled, and sorrow filled her eyes when she turned back to me. “I’m sure you would like to prepare for the festival, but can you grab more firewood first? They needed so much for the bonfire, and I—”

  “Happy to,” I said as I followed her to the stove. “There’s still time before everything begins, and I’ll never turn down an excuse to wander the woods.”

  “Don’t travel too far, and don’t—”

  “Follow the leszy’s whispers,” I interrupted again, grabbing the iron ax leaning against my bed, where she’d probably placed it as a hint—one I had missed. Mom had constantly warned me of the forest spirit’s call for years. Not that either of us had ever heard it.

  She swept across the room, placing the bowls next to the bucket of water by her bed that she must have already pulled from the well. “I sometimes forget how old you’ve gotten.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and headed to the door with the ax swung over my sho
ulder. “Never too old to love your stories. Be back soon.”

  “When you return, I’ll likely be feeding the animals. I love you.”

  I flashed a smile in response and climbed back into the daylight. Overhead, the eight winds carried the gray clouds, and I prayed to Perun, god of sky and thunder, that he’d stay his storms.

  Please let me have this one day.

  As I wandered through the woods, though, the air battered my back. I tried to ignore it as I searched for suitable downed trees to chop, but after a few minutes of enduring the torrent, I stopped and let the head of my ax rest against an exposed tree root. A chill ran up my arms.

  “What are you telling me?” I asked Perun as I stared into the sky.

  The bushes rustled nearby.

  My breaths caught, and I whipped around, ready to fight as I studied the forest. Demons didn’t often attack during the day, but other spirits lurked, and rogue wolves or bears could strike a lone wanderer. I shuddered. Otylia can’t protect me this time.

  A buck watched me from less than ten paces away, its eyes full of the fear I had felt moments ago. I loosened my grip on the ax. “Hey there.”

  It huffed and swung its head like a restless horse.

  “What’s wrong?” Deer weren’t a rare sight, but they normally ran if you got too close. This one just stared at me and repeated the motion. Is it trying to point? I looked to the clouds. “You want me to follow it?”

  The buck took off before skidding to a stop and looking back at me. It let out another sharp breath.

  I glanced toward our cottage. This isn’t a voice, right? A thrill rose within me as the winds returned, forcing me to stumble after the deer. Soon, I gave in and ran myself. What harm could a deer be?

  Dashing through the trees, my arms and legs ached. I cursed Xobas for my soreness as the ax weighed me down. I struggled to keep up with the buck, but whenever it reached the edge of my vision, it stopped and waited, its eyes judging my slowness. “I’m coming!” I called after it.

  Am I actually talking to a deer? Is that worse than talking to the sky?

  Without answers, I kept running. The air seemed to chill the longer I went, and the ground grew hard against my boots as frost replaced the muck of spring. I knew the forest well, but by now, I had no clue where we were. Wherever the mysterious deer was leading me, I was trapped in its wake.

  My patience soon wore thin and my legs tired. I stopped as we reached a rock outcropping, dropping the ax and placing my hands on my knees as I caught my breath. When I looked up, I lost it again.

  The deer transformed, morphing into a spiraling tower of bark and leaves, roots and dirt. The creaking deafened me, and I froze to my spot as it grew to over twice my height. It twisted out, forming legs, arms, antlers, a mask of bone, and… No…

  From the top of the tower, two green eyes stared down at me. A mouth formed among the vines, and the leszy’s voice rumbled the whole woods when he spoke, “Hello, Wacław. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Chapter 2 - Otylia

  I hate festivals.

  THE BLACK HELLEBORE FLOWER on my bedroom nightstand seemed to suck away the candlelight as my toes met the chilled dirt floor. Most hellebore would never bloom so early in the spring, but I’d channeled the power of Dziewanna, goddess of the wilds and spring, to keep this one alive year-round. Unlike most girls and their pretty red and blue flowers, it wasn’t a decoration.

  It was a reminder of Mother’s death.

  Mother had loved the festival around the Drowning of Marzanna. Every year, after the arrival of the spring gods, she’d led me deep through the woods at dawn to welcome spring’s warmth against our bare feet.

  Her dark brown hair like that of a sprawling willow would cascade down her back as she’d freed it from her headscarf. Married women in our tribe were supposed to cover their hair at all times, but Mother had claimed it was best to experience spring’s birth free, if only for a moment.

  As we’d wandered, she told stories of beautiful girls finding their love in the moons following the equinox. I’d lamented I would ever be a wife.

  “Oh, my little Otylka,” she’d said with her hand at my cheek. “Even the wild goddess was forced by her father to be wed. But when your time comes, the man you marry will be of your choosing. Dziewanna’s spirit is yours, and no man will tame you.”

  When Mother had died just weeks after the spring equinox four years ago, the festival lost its meaning of new life. She’d suffered from the illness we called Marzanna’s Curse since the end of winter, and her potions hadn’t been enough to keep the curse at bay.

  The day after she passed, I’d found that black hellebore next to me in the woods as I wept. I still didn’t know whether it was a fluke or a gift from her wandering spirit as she traveled to the underworld of Nawia. It didn’t matter which. I’d never stopped missing her.

  This morning, I’d heard the commotion outside before the sun had even risen.

  Every spring the tribe’s chiefs came to Dwie Rzeki with their eligible daughters and strongest sons. Every spring they thanked Jaryło for protecting the crops and ending the thaw. And every spring they forgot Dziewanna—the one who actually killed Marzanna and ensured there was anything left to restore.

  With a deep breath, I gripped Dziewanna’s amulet of an hunter’s bow on my necklace and said a prayer, asking the goddess to give me the strength to make it through the day. I’d need it.

  The hellebore held my gaze as I tied my long black hair into our tribe’s traditional braid. The weave signaled that I was unmarried—and as of tonight, eligible to be wed—but the bone talismans I wore within it usually kept boys away.

  Once I finished, I changed into my simple gray dress, blew out the candle, and grabbed my herb bag.

  Our house’s main room was quiet besides the meowing of our sleek black cat, Maryn, and the crackling of the fire in the stone stove as I pushed aside the cloth separating it from my small bedroom. I crouched for a second to scratch the cat’s head. He was a stupid little thing that knew only how to knock the ingredients for my potions off the table. Father said cats protected their homes from evil spirits, but as I looked down at Maryn, his purring filling the space, I doubted he would be any use against a mouse, let alone a spirit.

  Over a dozen wood-carved statues of many of the gods lined the room, their eyes watching me as I moved to the door. Father’s staff was missing from the corner. He must’ve been away, helping prepare for the festival’s rituals already. He would come home soon, and I didn’t want to be there when he did.

  Our cottage was bigger than most in the village. As high priest of our tribe, Father received land, the house, and all the food we needed. I had continued potion-making after Mother’s death, but the bartering barely earned enough to trade hunters for their spare animal bones. They always raised a brow at me but accepted.

  I stepped into the early morning daylight and scowled at the villagers hobbling by. While they drank and danced, I had work to do.

  I served as one of the szeptuchy, whispering sorceresses able to channel the power of the god who had chosen us. It was our responsibility protect the gods’ altars and do what they asked. Every channeler trained from a young age to prepare for initiation when we turned twelve, but the gods never chose many of those who went through with the rituals. No szeptucha had ever channeled more than a single god.

  I channeled two.

  A group of stumbling boys, likely no older than me, eyed me as I ducked through the village’s eastern gate and into the woods. Their taunting whistles followed, and my fingers twitched. I could strangle them.

  Dziewanna was my primary deity. Mokosz, her mother and the goddess of women and divination, had also chosen me, but my connection to Dziewanna was the strongest. With the wild goddess’s power, I could whisper to the trees, waters, and animals, calling them to my aid. There would’ve been a thrill in shutting up the boys. But I had better things to do.

  I headed toward the deeper parts of the
forest, away from the drunkards in search of herbs. The festival guests would need relief from their sickness when they drank themselves into a stupor.

  Even before I could channel Dziewanna, I’d had a keen sense of where to find the right flowers, herbs, and fungi to use in potions. Mother had always sent me to collect them for her before…

  Tears threatened my eyes as I knelt to pick an edible mushroom. Gods, I miss her.

  When Father had scolded me as a child for running into the forest with my hand clasping Dziewanna’s amulet at my collar, Mother had smiled and encouraged me to get so lost that only the goddess could guide me home. Father was a follower of the eldest god, Swaróg, and didn’t approve of me serving Dziewanna. To him, she was nothing but the headstrong, rogue goddess. I didn’t care what he thought.

  I ripped the mushroom from the earth and threw it into my bag. Then, with my dress’s skirt sweeping behind me, I stomped through the woods, crushing the leaves underfoot as I went.

  The festival had me agitated. It happened every annually when the tribe ignored Dziewanna, but this year was worse.

  On top of the drunk boys eager to put their hands on anything with breasts, I had plenty of motivation to avoid the crowds. I was sixteen now. Despite Mother’s claims I would choose my husband, Father wished to marry me off to another influential priest or chief to increase his own standing in the tribe. That just encouraged me to stay away even more.

  Even now, when I knew them well, the woods were a rare haven. They were Dziewanna’s realm, untouched by the corrupting hand of man. As far as I knew, she had never chosen a szeptucha before me. That made serving her lonely. But I liked it that way.

  With each stride I took deeper into the wilds, my array of bone-carved amulets rattled against my hips. Besides helping me connect to the gods, they did a fine job keeping people away. Still, I’d heard the villagers’ whispers through the years.

  “There goes the witch of the woods.”

  “Maybe those bones are human.”

  “I bet she poisons us all with her potions.”

  I would only smirk and shoot them a glare in response. They blindly believed me to be a witch. While witches used spells like szeptuchy, they channeled dark spirits for their selfish magic. A szeptucha’s power, instead, was useless if she acted against her god’s wishes.