by Mark Lucek
The shield wall broke as two woyaks dragged in a sack and dropped it at the feet of Krol Gawel. Still smiling, Krol Gawel dipped his hands inside and brought out a handful of grains, letting them slip slowly through his fingers. ‘Barley and rye,’ he said. ‘We have hops and buckwheat too. We’ll plant these seeds deep in the womb of Matka Ziemia and she will reward us with food. My woyaks will cut down the trees and you will carry the wood away. Once the earth has been cleared I will plough the field and you will plant the grain; then we shall have bread to eat and beer to drink,’ he continued, but none of the women listened. Now they knew that the krol was mad: how could anybody do such things to moist Mother Earth, who gave so much, so freely? All you had to do was pick her bounty. Did she not provide herbs which grew easily from her tender soil? Why not just pluck the berries which spouted readily from her body, or follow the herds for meat? Despite their fear some of the women sniggered, their giggles hidden behind cupped hands as they turned to their neighbours. But more were scared, trying to wipe the tears from their eyes as they struggled to take in the words. Karnobog must have truly forsaken the clan to have allowed Krol Gawel to rule over them, but surely no god would forgive such sacrilege.
Even as the krol spoke they imagined Matka Ziemia’s tears. Surely she would cry out, her womb cut open and bled white. Then the god Swarog would rain fire down upon them and Jezi Baba would fly down on her birch branch to grind their souls to dust in her black stone pestle. Or else Žaltys, the serpent who lay coiled about the roots of the great world tree, would slither up and gobble them whole. Surely no one would survive such a sacrilege, all would be dragged down, even those who stood and watched.
Iwa heard the prayer of the old ones, their lips moving silently as if to ward away evil. In front of them Krol Gawel had finished talking, still smiling and oblivious to the smirks and terror from the women, or maybe he simply ignored them. ‘We’ll take you back to your ship now,’ he said. ‘We have left you some food there. Tonight my men will feast and then, at break of day, the work will begin. Until then you must rest, for there is much to be done.’
With that the line of woyaks opened and he walked away, the clubfooted boy stumbling behind him. ‘You have heard the words of your krol,’ Grunmir shouted, as if giving battle orders. ‘I am Grunmir and I am Krol Gawel’s kneiez. His words and mine are one and you will obey me as you would your krol. If you need anything you will come to me, or one of the woyaks, and we will deal fairly with you. But,’ he paused, ‘if there is any hint of trouble, the merest breath of revolt and you’ll answer to this.’ Fang glinted in his raised hand, the light playing cruelly over the curved blade. He gave the women a narrowed look before he put the blade away. ‘Play fair with me and I’ll play fair with you. We have bread and we have work. Soon we will be together as one and you will forget that you ever travelled the forest.’
There was a murmur from the women, and many made the sign in supplication to their god, the bones silent on the litter that lay before them but, already, Grunmir had waved his hand and the woyaks had begun to herd them back to the boat. Already the raiders’ companions were bringing barrels into the camp and the air danced with the scents of vodka and spit-roasted meat.
This time the woyaks didn’t lash out with their spears and some of them even chatted with the younger women. Iwa felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Finally there would be food, and she wouldn’t have to creep out of the camp to pick mushrooms in the dark. Not that she trusted the Poles, but at least they weren’t about to kill her, yet. Even the children were happy, relieved now that their mothers were not so fearful. One or two were allowed to run ahead of the group, the woyaks laughing as the children scampered along the shore.
Yet, even before she got to the boat, Iwa had began to doubt her good fortune. Already Katchka and some of the others had begun to talk, dark words muttered under stifled breath. As they neared the shore, Iwa could see a gang of woyaks hauling a huge cauldron into the bowels of the ship.
A set of rough wooden steps had been placed against the side and the tarpaulin had been raised. As Alia lifted up her skirts to clamber inside, one of the woyaks slipped his hands around her waist. ‘I can manage by myself,’ Alia snapped. ‘I’m a daughter of the mountains, not some milksop from the steppes.’ But he wouldn’t let go so Alia slapped his hands and, as she stepped into the boat, she lashed out with her heel. Behind her the woyak sniggered.
‘Sacred Mother Earth, look over us and preserve your children,’ Katchka said as she got inside.
Scrabbling after, Iwa half expected that the boat would be different somehow, but she wasn’t too surprised to find that it wasn’t, except for the loosened tarpaulin, which let in some air. At least it’s driven the smell away, she thought ruefully. It was only now that she could make out the interior of the craft properly: the wooden ribs of the boat arched along the sleekly curved hull, banded by the sun where the light dripped down across the wood, the colour of honey.
Where do people eat, how do they sleep? She’d heard of voyages that lasted months, ships that sailed right up to the snowy mountains of the Laps or to holy Byzantium itself. She had little idea where these places were, but they must have been very far away to be outside the forest. Maybe they don’t sleep at all, not when they’re at sea. Perhaps Jurata forces their eyes open. She shivered. The sea goddess must have been really cruel to do something like that. Maybe that was why they were all mad. Jurata must have sown this idea into their heads because she doesn’t like Matka Ziemia.
She sank back against the side of the ship. The only real difference was the cauldron that the woyaks had dragged into the centre of the space. Katchka and some of the elders crowded round and there was a murmur of disappointment as the lid was lifted to reveal nothing more than a mess of dried berries and a little smoked meat. But everyone crammed round all the same, the wooden ribs of the ship creaking under their weight as the elders dished out the food with their hands. Iwa elbowed her way to the front and was rewarded with a handful of nuts and a hunk of smoked meat that might once have been elk.
Quickly, she cats-pawed her way to the far end of the ship and sank into the darkness, her back braced against the timbers as she stuffed the meat into her mouth. Almost at once her lips curled in disgust and it was all she could do to keep from spitting it out again. The meat was so hard that she thought she might tear her teeth on it. It had been salted too, so heavily that her tongue felt ready to burst. Luckily the woyaks had also hauled up a barrel of fresh water into the centre of the boat.
She was just about to ask for a second mouthful of water when Katchka grabbed her arm and drew her from the others. ‘Tonight,’ the old woman whispered, ‘slip out once it’s dark, by then the men will have had their fill of vodka.’ She slipped a couple of reed baskets into Iwa’s hands. Iwa had no idea where she had got them from. Some of the women clutched a few possessions. They’d take them out sometimes and look at them with blank, careworn eyes.
‘No,’ Alia said as she realised what was going on, and the whole room stopped dead. ‘You’ll get us all killed.’
‘Better that than to rip open the womb of Matka Ziemia,’ Katchka said, ‘or do you want Jezi Baba to grind your bones into dust?’
‘Piórun protects Krol Gawel, and Piórun is mightier than Jezi Baba.’ Alia drew a deep breath. She’d gone too far and even some of the younger women edged away. Of course the clan had heard of the great god Piórun, who lived up high in his mountain and cast down bolts of thunder on all who angered him. Sometimes the clan would sacrifice a hare to him, but he was one of the newer gods: not like Bielobog or Chernobog or even Jezi Baba, and the clan didn’t trust him as much.
Yet not all the women seemed shocked, not nearly as many as Iwa would have expected, and, in the darkened corners at the stern, even some of the older women nodded. ‘Karnobog will look down and protect those who are his children,’ Katchka said, her voice rising to hide her fear. ‘Go and get the mushrooms and I’ll
wipe these Poles from the face of moist Mother Earth: krols, woyaks, keinezes and all.’
‘But what if Krol Gawel finds out?’ Alia cried. Behind her the women nodded, their faces filled with fear. ‘She’s bound to get herself caught and then the krol will set his men on us.’
Iwa tugged hard away from Katchka’s grip and hoped that she would listen. She almost gave out a sigh of relief as the old woman let her arm fall.
‘Don’t think I haven’t seen you casting doe eyes at the woyaks.’ Katchka turned on Alia as Iwa dropped the baskets and began to creep away. ‘Our men aren’t even cold in their graves and already you lust after their murderers.’
‘Can I help who takes a fancy to me?’ Alia said. ‘I’ve done nothing to encourage any man. Give me the chance and I’ll show you how much I hate these woyaks.’
‘Such fine words,’ Katchka replied, ‘but it won’t be long before you’re in some woyak’s bed, or are you after the krol himself?’
Alia began to say something, but the old woman had already turned to Iwa. ‘We’ll wait until after sunset. The woyaks will be good and drunk by then and you can slip out of the camp quiet as a hawk. Make your way to the aspen trees, you know the spot.’ Iwa nodded. Behind her the faces of the women were grey with fear and uncertainty. ‘You should be back well before sunrise.’
‘But…’ Iwa began, looking for help as the women huddled together in the shadowed recesses of the boat and murmured dark prayers to bleak gods.
‘If you force her to go,’ Alia said slowly, ‘then I’ll tell Krol Gawel.’ There was a long silence as Katchka stood with her back to the women. Then she turned swiftly. Alia screamed and fell to the floor clutching her cheek, blood pouring through her fingers.
‘Breathe a word,’ the old woman said, ‘and it’ll be your last.’ There was a hushed gasp as Alia lay sobbing on the floor. Katchka turned away and Iwa caught a glimpse of a blade in her hand. ‘And that goes for the rest of you. I’m not one to desert our gods so freely, or the memory of our menfolk.’
With that she hobbled over to the cauldron and kicked it hard so that it fell with an almighty clang, the last remnants of food spilling across the floor. ‘Krol Gawel feasts on fresh meat and leaves us to scrabble for crumbs. If that’s how you wish to live, then Jezi Baba can take your bones and grind them to dust for all I care. I’ll die whilst there’s still some fight left in me.’ A few of the women had gone over to Alia in a desperate effort to bandage the cut. ‘But don’t think that any of you will stop me,’ Katchka said, almost to herself, as she tucked the knife into her clothes.
Iwa turned to Jacek, who stared back at her with glazed eyes. A line of blood trickled across his lips. He was dead.
‘Karnobog look down upon one who has served you well.’ Iwa mumbled the ancient clan prayer, but she wasn’t a hunter and didn’t know all the words. If only Godek were alive. He should have been the one to send your soul into the ancestor world and now all you have is me.
‘Remember to get the mushrooms,’ Katchka whispered, as she closed the old hunter’s eyes. ‘May Karnobog grant us swift revenge. Jacek’s soul will slip into the ancestor world all the easier in the knowledge that he has been avenged.’ Slowly she turned away and hobbled into the bowels of the ship. Nobody else noticed.
How many more of us will follow him before the day is out? Iwa thought. Deep inside the folds of her clothes she felt the totem, the ivory warm between her fingers.
Chapter Four
Iwa huddled against the side of the ship and tried not to notice as Katchka watched the sunset through a gap in the tarpaulin. The air was thick with the scent of dusk and in the distance the beat of drums mixed with the hoarse laughter of drunken men and the crackle of a fire. The woyaks had taken the steps away and the women were as much their prisoners as ever.
Few bothered with Katchka now, shooting fearful looks as the old woman hobbled past. She kept to herself, mumbling strange prayers, her eyes filled with a far-off look. Alia had settled at the prow, still sobbing as the younger women gathered round. One of the older women had managed to find some ointment and dipped it into some rags which the younger ones pressed to her cheek.
‘Go out this side.’ Katchka lifted a piece of the tarpaulin just wide enough for Iwa to crawl through. ‘The fire will cast plenty of shadows so be sure to stick close to the shore.’
Iwa slunk back and wondered what would happen if she refused to go. It wasn’t as if the woyaks wanted much from Matka Ziemia: a few trees, nothing more. Surely the mother goddess wouldn’t miss them, not when she had so many others to look after.
‘Be quick,’ Katchka hissed, as she lifted the tarpaulin a fraction higher, ‘before someone comes.’
If only they would, Iwa almost said, but the memory of the knife lingered. Sulkily she crawled forward and tried to ignore the looks of the other women. How many of them were ready to betray her? Surely one of the others would put a stop to this. But the memory of Katchka’s knife kept them in check.
They should have taken it from her and killed her. Iwa was surprised that the old woman had lasted this long, but as she glanced back she realised how many of the women were caught between fear and hope, each one ready to take grim vengeance on the woyaks yet almost willing her to stay.
Suddenly she had to get away, the stench of fear and loathing pressing in clammily over her as she allowed herself to be bundled over the side. At least here the air was clean, rubbed raw with the scent of the breeze that fluttered across the waters. Anything was better than the boat. Grunmir can skin my flesh from my bones for all I care.
‘Careful,’ Katchka whispered from inside. Iwa cursed as her knees scraped against the wood, the air driven from her lungs as she crashed to the ground.
‘Hush, you fool,’ Katchka said, snapping the tarpaulin shut. A second later and it opened again, and the reed baskets were flung down. ‘Do not come back until you have filled them. And I do not mean half full, either.’
Hardly daring to move, Iwa gathered the baskets up and rolled onto her knees. As if getting out of camp wasn’t going to be hard enough. In the distance there was a spit of flame, the sound of singing and hands clapping in time to the music.
Slowly Iwa began to make her way across the ground, scared to leave the side of the boat as she crawled on hands and knees. If only Matka Ziemia hadn’t decided to be so stony. A twig snapped in the dark, or was it just the crackle of the fire? She tensed, breath dry in her throat as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the night. Then she remembered the other ships further along the shore.
She had been careful to keep to the shadows, hugging the side of the ship so that it lay between her and the camp, shielding her from the eyes of the woyaks, but she’d forgotten about the prisoners kept further along the shore. Luckily the woyaks hadn’t bothered to mount a guard over the women – the lure of vodka and meat had been too great – but the hunters were a different matter. Some of the woyaks still stood guard there, their words muted as they gathered around a thin fire and cursed their luck. One stray glance and they’d see her.
‘If they string me up it’ll all be your fault Katchka,’ she mumbled.
Still not daring to get up, she crawled to the front of the ship. There she stopped and lay panting as she pressed into the cold stones. A few feet away the shale ended where the ground rose above the shoreline. At least there would be more cover. Glancing over her shoulder, she got up and broke into a shallow run, half expecting to hear the cries of the woyaks as they spotted her. But she was small and the shadows hid her well.
Then her courage gave out and she fell to the ground, cursing Matka Ziemia as her hand crushed against a thistle. She lay there for a moment and muttered a silent prayer to whichever god cared to listen, well, maybe not Piórun – she didn’t quite trust that one. The dark seemed to fold in on her, the leaves rustling as the breeze picked up, or was it the sound of footsteps? By the fire the drumbeat hastened as the woyaks leapt over the flames or swirled drunkenly to the
music and, in the distance, Grunmir danced, the light picking across the ridge of his helmet and the horsehair plume.
Even now Iwa’s fear of the man was so great that the briefest sight of him was enough to send a pang of dread through her stomach and drain her courage away. Around the fire the laughter continued as Grunmir swayed drunkenly in rough time to the music. One of the woyaks tried to jump over the fire but he’d had too much to drink, and howls of pain rang out as he crashed into the flames. Drunken roars of laughter swiftly followed as the unfortunate man rolled on the ground in a desperate attempt to smother his burning clothes.
Hopefully the woyaks would be too drunk to notice her, but still she dared not move. Was it just her imagination or was there someone else hiding in the dark? She strained but heard nothing.
Up ahead she could make out the dark line of the trees, drawn like a blackened hem. At least there was no moon to give her away. If only there were some mist, but the river was calm and the water was clear. Carefully she began to crawl on her hands and knees, wondering if it would be better to break into a run. The safety of the forest couldn’t be far away. But now there was nothing to shield her from the camp, and if the men turned they’d be bound to see her. In her imagination the trees were so close that all she had to do was reach out and touch the bare bark, but, in truth, she knew they were far off; wishful thinking would be the death of her.
Yet she couldn’t crawl all the way. Up ahead some sacks lay piled up in a loose wall. If she could make for them then at least she’d have some cover. She tensed, breath held as she made ready to spring up. One short burst of speed, she told herself, and she’d be safe.
Then she heard the soft scrape of grass. Instinctively she pressed herself into the stony body of Matka Ziemia. Maybe it was a rabbit foraging in the dark, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. Would the woyaks really notice me? One tiny girl amidst all this blackness?