The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  With barely more than a creak, the thing slid past, silent as a shadow. She watched the blackened outline of its tail as the mist engulfed it, and then there was nothing.

  Chapter Two

  Sunlight broke through the shelter, cutting shadows across Iwa’s face. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered through the gnarled fingers of roots, but there was nothing, not even the splash of a fish or the call of a bird to disturb the peace. It was as if the river had washed all memory of the night away.

  Maybe the raiders have gone. Iwa moved and was greeted by a sharp pain along her ribs. Her hands were ragged; blood traced over a myriad of tiny scratches and the dull ache of a bruise burned across her forehead. Perhaps it would be better to rest here awhile. After sunset she could skulk round in the trees and find out what had happened.

  Behind her the remnants of her fire had dwindled. She shivered, but not from cold. At least she’d survived the night, sleep coming in fits and starts as she tended the fire and prayed that the flames wouldn’t die. It was a wonder that she was still alive and she had woken half expecting to see the ancestors gathered before her. How many of the clan had survived the night, if any?

  She clasped her knees to her. Sometimes whole clans would disappear into the forest never to be heard of again. The elders kept quiet about such things, but she’d heard the stories all the same.

  That had been long ago: such things hadn’t happened recently, not in the memory of even the oldest. Maybe that’s what became of the lost clans? Maybe they were wiped out in the night, eaten by demons and smoks. and we’ll join them, our memory whispered by the old ones of other clans as the campfires burn low. If only she could see out properly. Not even the thought of her father could make her move. Best to wait for dusk. If her hunger would let her. Then she realised how long it had been since she’d last eaten, and a dull ache began in the pit of her stomach.

  She should have woken to the morning song of the women as they gathered by the riverbank and gave thanks to Zorza Utrennyaya, mistress of the dawn star. Sometimes she’d watch from the open tent as the maidens danced the ritual dance of supplication, their feet moving lithely across the sand as they prepared to wash. Perhaps the clan had done something to anger her. Was it Zorza who’d called down the smok? Or maybe it was Jezi Baba. Was it even one of the fire worms? For all she knew it could have been Simargl, the great winged dog whom the gods kept chained up lest he free himself and eat the world? Was it Zorza who’d watched with her pig’s face as the camp burned? She could have slipped his chains and let him loose. But the clan had always been careful in their worship so that the goddess would open her father’s tent and let out the sun chariot to bring warm dawn to the earth.

  In the clan songs Zorza had always been a beautiful maiden with gleaming night-black hair, not a pig-faced crone. How could she open the gates of her father’s tent with cloven hooves? And then there was Simargl, more terrible than any fire lizard. Surely if he’d been let off his leash then he’d have gobbled up the sun?

  No, the creature in the mists was a smok, not a giant winged dog, she was pretty sure of that. If only she could stop her stomach from groaning. What she wouldn’t have given for a bowl of hot roots seasoned with some of Katchka’s herbs.

  There was a noise, thin like the scrape of leather against twigs. She tensed, pressed herself to the ground, breath held, as she tried to make out where the noise came from, but the cover was too thick, the roots of the bracken bearing down on her like the fingers of the dead.

  There it was again: someone, or something, was moving above. There was a step, heavy against the scrub. It couldn’t have been one of the clan: none of them would walk so carelessly. Even the children were taught to show proper respect to Matka Ziemia.

  Behind the first set of feet, there came another, lighter tread, but just as clumsy. They moved slowly as if tired, their steps careless and uneven. Iwa counted three sets: two almost together, while a third dragged behind. Then they stopped and the breath dried in her throat. They were close now, almost on top of her.

  Then she remembered Tomaz. Without daring to move, she turned her eyes and looked about her. He must have crawled away in the night. Perhaps he was dead; he surely wouldn’t have survived the cold, but his body could still give her away. Then she saw him: a tiny bundle lying under a break in the canopy. Above him there was a fracture where the bracken parted to reveal a chink of light barely noticeable from above.

  But what if somebody were to look down? Slowly, she inched her hand towards the baby, her fingers crawling across the ground like a snake. Above her the wind moved through the roots, brushing against the old timber, cracked and dry like ancient bones.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it, then?’ a voice rattled from above. She flinched, her hand brushing against a loose twig. She could almost see them, vague, distorted figures glimpsed through the thin layer of scrub.

  ‘Wait up,’ a second voice said. This one was even closer. Iwa lay still and clung to the bank as if trying to burrow in. ‘The last thing we want is for Grunmir to get his filthy paws on this – this is the good stuff.’

  Inwardly she cursed her clumsiness, her hand brushing against the scrub as she inched her way closer to the baby. Surely someone must have heard her. They were close, just on the other side of that thin barrier of winter bracken. Even old Katchka couldn’t have been so deaf.

  ‘We should have drunk it before now,’ the first voice said. ‘It’s not as if there haven’t been chances enough.’ There was a muttered curse as someone laughed. Iwa couldn’t make out the words but at least the language was familiar, if not the dialect. Each clan had its own voice: there was the harsh guttural sound of the southern clans like the Bear Claw and Fox Cub, or the softer tones of the Beaver and Wolf’s Jaw. But this was something altogether different. There was a lightness about the voice, a soft lilt that accompanied the words to give them a strange, almost musical quality. Perhaps this was one of the lost clans, come to enslave the living.

  ‘How could we?’ Another voice broke the stillness. This one was further away and sounded younger. ‘What with Grunmir ready to crack the whip at every turn.’

  There was the sound of a water skin being opened as, above her, the tree creaked and pitched forward as if somebody had leant on it. ‘One fine day somebody is going to show that Grunmir a thing or two.’ She was getting used to the voices now. This one sounded rougher than the others, older perhaps.

  ‘And that would be you?’ the younger voice mocked.

  ‘Name me any who’s better with spear work?’ the older voice said, taking a gulp from the water skin. There was a strange smell in the air; a sticky, sweet scent like the traders’ vodka. Often, once their trades were done, they’d sit round the clan fires, their lips reeking with the stale scent of drink. Then they’d stagger half blind and talking nonsense, as if a demon had plucked out their brains. After that they’d fall down and go to sleep. Maybe the vodka will make them as foolish and sleepy as the traders, Iwa hoped as, above her, the bracken shifted.

  ‘Spear work on the practice field is fine enough,’ one of the younger voices said, ‘but Grunmir’s used to slaying.’

  ‘I’d challenge him all the same, and I’d gut him like a spit-roast boar.’

  Slowly Iwa inched her hand towards Tomaz. Carefully she grabbed a foot and felt the baby stir. If only he were dead. She closed her eyes, half-expecting him to cry as, above, the voices continued. Breath held, she dragged Tomaz to her and held him, half starved, in her arms. She’d been so caught up with the baby that she hadn’t noticed that the voices had stopped. Finding warmth once again, Tomaz kicked out, his limbs recovering as he felt Iwa’s hands upon him. No. She stifled a cry as she held him tightly to her, as if to squeeze the life from him.

  ‘You were supposed to watch the river.’ A new voice had joined the others, older this time, the words rasped and raw as if the owner had bitten into something sour. This one moved quietly, with only the scuff of grass to give him
away.

  ‘As if there’s anything to see,’ the first older voice replied.

  ‘Well, maybe you should climb up on that ridge and find out? Duke Stanislaw’s whole fleet could sail right past and where would you be, skulking with your tails in the forest?’

  ‘As if Duke Stanislaw would bother with a dump like this,’ the younger voice said. ‘He’s got more sense.’

  ‘Dukes lose their sense quick enough, when there’s vengeance to be had.’

  ‘The duke keeps well enough to his hearth,’ the older voice laughed. ‘Home will give him plenty of troubles without having to scour for so meagre prey as us.’

  ‘I would not count on that. He’s always been very prickly about his honour, this duke of ours. So why don’t you make for that ridge double quick? The krol will not take kindly to having his word challenged, or would you rather argue it out with him?’

  There was a pause, and then the steps began to recede into the forest. Iwa relaxed and, feeling her grip loosen, Tomaz gave a stifled cry. In an instant she was upon him, her hand tight on his throat. Around her the forest was quiet; not a sound from above, not even a hint of birdsong.

  Iwa’s body sagged with relief. That was when she was caught. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound never came. With an almighty snap of dead wood and twigs, a hand grabbed her leg. The figure had been so quick to jump down and reach into the hollow that there was hardly time to kick out as she was hauled through the bracken by her ankle.

  ‘Please!’ she yelled, kicking out once more, the grip so tight that she thought her bone might crack.

  ‘So, what do we have here?’ the man who held her bellowed, mailed fingers cutting through her skin. ‘A spy, no doubt. So it has come to this – the noble Stanislaw has taken to hiring children.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ she stuttered. ‘Leave me alone. I didn’t hear a thing.’

  ‘So not a spy, then.’

  ‘No.’

  He raised her foot, dragging her forward in one savage motion. Desperately she tried to struggle, but there was no escaping that grip as she was pulled round the bush and into the clearing. She lay there, panting, all thought of fight drained away.

  ‘Well then, what is it that I’ve caught here?’ The voice seemed puzzled, but his grip was tight as ever. Behind him there was a chuckle. ‘Let’s take a closer look at you. At least then we can find out what kind of a creature is bred in these forests.’

  With an almost contemptuous gesture, the man flung her ankle from his grip. Around her the others moved in. Only now did she recover her senses enough to look at her captor. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall, clad in a mail tunic that reached past his knees. Here and there she could make out the ragged marks in his armour where some weapon had hit. It was a wonder he’d managed to walk so silently. Underneath the mail he wore a thick padded jacket that stunk of blood and sweat. He carried no shield but wore an iron battle helm ridged with silver. Dark eyes watched from behind hooded slits. A strip of silver in the shape of a horse’s head reached down to make a nose guard, whilst his mouth and lower jaw were covered by a veil of mail, which shimmered like the scales of a gutted fish.

  There was no mistaking the conical outline or the black plume that danced from the silvered top. This was the demon in the night.

  ‘Then perhaps I’ve caught one of the water folk.’ His voice came hollow from behind the mail. ‘A Rusalka come to tempt us to our doom.’

  Iwa struggled to get up but he grabbed her shoulder and forced her down. Only then did he take off his helmet and gave her a withering look as if he were examining some strange insect. He was old, his beard streaked with grey. His skin was worn and tanned like old leather and the sliver of a scar curled around the rim of his left eye, cutting across to the side of his mouth to give his smile a cruel, lopsided look.

  ‘No,’ he chuckled, as the others pressed closer still, each one clearly enjoying the spectacle. ‘Well then, perhaps I’ve caught myself a bog spirit; a Bignica.’ The men laughed as Iwa squirmed under his grip. ‘I don’t know of any marshes near here.’ The greybeard looked around as if searching for something. ‘Plenty of marshes up north – you must be far from home, tiny bog spirit.’

  ‘I am no Bignica.’ Her words drifted into the stillness. ‘Or a Rusalka either. And if I was I would cast your souls into the pit for worms and snakes to peck at.’

  ‘Not a Bignica?’ he echoed, his voice filled with surprise.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or a Rusalka?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So is this one of the Leszy?’ He paused, a look of deep concentration on his weatherbeaten features. ‘Or are you one of the deathless ones taken human form? So what would you say, boys?’ He looked round at the others, a grin playing across his cruelly lopsided face. ‘Perhaps I have a hold of one of the gods, but which one? Are you the goddess of love?’ He shook his head slowly as he examined her hair, matted with mud and broken twigs. ‘Surely Živa would not have taken such an ill form. Maybe you are Veles, who watches over the fertile earth,’ he pondered, the mirth barely hidden behind his words. ‘You have the look of the soil about you. Or maybe you’re Kostroma, come to change dull winter into glorious spring. Have we disturbed you, is that why you have not breathed warm spring yet into these roots and briars? Is that what you were up to before we caught you?’

  He bent his head in mock salute. ‘Apologies, mistress of the spring, we should not have troubled you. See how the land longs for your touch to drive the winter cold away, we could hardly delay your work.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she mumbled, her head reeling at the ridiculousness of his words. ‘Let me go and I’ll be on my way to give the gift of spring to the forest.’

  ‘But on the other hand, our souls would really be in the pit if you were one of the deathless ones. What, lads, do you not feel the viper’s kiss?’ The others laughed as the youngest dropped his shield and mimicked being bitten. ‘No, I do not fear for our souls. Why then, you must be a little girl.’ The three men continued to smirk but Greybeard fell silent, a look of anger playing across his face. ‘One who could hide from the three men I sent out to scout.’ In his right hand he still had the war helm and, before the laughter had time to die, he swung it in a vicious arc that caught the nearest man squarely on the shoulder. ‘And if she’d so much as a knife upon her she could have crept up and cut your throats before you’d finished your vodka.’

  He had his back to her now, but there was no disguising the fury of his voice, his great battle helm quivering in his hand. All at once the laughter died as the men looked at her, as if it had somehow all been her fault. The one nearest to her raised his spear, more of a reaction to the blow than a serious attempt to strike, but with a savage swipe of his battle helm, Greybeard brushed it aside.

  When she looked up again, Greybeard had an axe at the man’s throat. ‘When I tell you to scout,’ he said, ‘you scout. Because this,’ he pressed the axe in tighter so that a thin sliver of blood oozed along the blade, ‘is Fang and, if I catch you shirking again, I’ll set this blade to work and Fang will whittle your bones to shreds.’

  With that he let the man fall, oblivious to the looks of fear and hate emanating from the others. They paused, spears trembling as they weighed up the odds, the older man running his finger across his wound, but none of them were in the mood to fight.

  ‘You two,’ Greybeard said, without bothering to turn, ‘up on that ridge and keep a sharp watch. Any ships come round that bend, I want to know about it double quick, understand? And you,’ he turned to the man nearest Iwa, ‘take this girl back to the camp and try to make sure that she doesn’t outwit you again.’

  There was a pause before the two men slunk off into the trees. Without a word the other one came forward, his face grim as he hauled Iwa to her feet and prodded her forward with the butt of his spear. Only now did she see him clearly. His skin was pockmarked and weatherbeaten, bitter lines drawn around sallow eyes. Strands of g
rey dangled from beneath his open-faced helm and, along his neck, a thin line of blood ran.

  ‘You’ve given me more than enough trouble for one day, little girl,’ the man said through rotted gums. ‘One single move is all I need and I’ll gut you quick as a pike.’ He prodded her forward again with his spear. Like the others he wore a padded tunic under his armour, leather strips boiled in wax. He didn’t carry a shield, his left arm ending in a withered hand, the fingers mangled as if from birth. Yet as she looked closely she realised that he must have been caught in some fire, the flesh burned around the bone.

  ‘Don’t think that you can run, you wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of me.’ From the bracken there was a sob.

  ‘Tomaz!’ Iwa cried, but a jab from the spear forced her on. ‘He’s only a baby,’ she pleaded, but her captor took no notice. ‘You can’t leave him here, he’s no danger to anybody.’ Behind her there was the sound of tearing wood and roots and the crying of a baby. Only then was she allowed to stop. ‘More dead than alive,’ Greybeard muttered, as he handed the wailing child to her, ‘and hardly worth the keeping,’ he added, as she scooped the tiny bundle into her arms. ‘Be sure to get back to the others sharpish,’ he nodded in the direction of the ridge. ‘I don’t want to find you taking your ease back at camp, or else Fang will have something to say about it, and you’d not like the sharpness of his tongue.’

  With that, the man gave her a savage prod and she was marched forward, her feet stumbling across the ground, too numb to notice her pain. They took the long way round, that old fur trappers’ path that wound through the woods and took them in a wide arc round the reed beds.

  So they haven’t discovered all the paths. She took little comfort from that. She was too numb to even think of escape, hardly noticing when her captor stopped.