The Moon Child

by Mark Lucek

  She waited, the safety of the sacks only a few feet away, as she swallowed down a pang of fear. One of the woyaks poured vodka onto the fire and the flames leapt higher. A tiny wooden altar had been placed behind the fire, surrounded with offerings of meat and fish. At the back stood a carved wooden figurine, a copper thunderbolt glinting in his hand. Even from this distance Iwa could make out the figure: it was Piórun, the firelight flickering across his finely varnished war helm. Around the altar a white-robed priest danced, a rabbit struggling in his hands. At his feet shone a tiny silver bowl. As the drumbeat rose, the priest took out a small curved dagger and, with a shout of excitement, drew the blade across the rabbit’s neck. A line of blood poured warmly into the bowl and the rabbit’s feet twitched as if trying to break free from the man’s grasp.

  And, as the blood flowed, the air became hot, crackling with an unnatural intensity as if something evil had been brought into the world. Then all was quiet again. Yet there was something in the dark, Iwa felt it – a hushed murmur as someone moved, careful to keep to the shadows.

  But it wasn’t that which caught her attention: on top of the pyre the bones of Karnobog burned. She could make out the remnants of the litter as it crumbled into the fire. The flames licked over the open cage of his ribs and tickled around the eye sockets of the dying god as his neck broke and his skull tumbled into the conflagration.

  A wave of anger swept through her, lending her limbs extra courage as she ran towards the sacks. Too late she realised that a woyak was slumped against them. She threw herself down and prayed that he was too drunk to notice. The woyak’s head rolled back, a dark line of vomit creased across his neck.

  More vodka was poured on the flames, and there was a loud crack as the fire rose before dying down. Temporarily blinded by the suddenness of the light, it took her a moment to realise what she’d seen. The woyak hadn’t been sick at all. His throat had been ripped open, the blood congealed darkly around his neck.

  She drew back, so shocked that she gasped out loud. She was so caught up with the sight that she hadn’t noticed that the singing had stopped. The wind changed and she had a sense of something evil; a thick, choking sensation that clung about the forest. In the dark something moved. She sensed shapes all around her. Then a barrel of vodka was heaved onto the fire and, as the flames roared bright as day, she saw men running between the sacks.

  From the camp there was a howl of rage as the woyaks grabbed their weapons. Fire arrows scarred the night and one of the men near her fell, an arrow shaft running clean through his neck. Suddenly everyone appeared to be yelling. Iwa clamped her hands to her ears to drown out the noise, her knees pressed to her stomach as she curled against the sacks.

  Someone almost ran into her – it was one of the hunters, the clan marks tattooed clearly along his arms. He was scared, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Perhaps he’d been asleep when the woyaks had attacked, for he wore nothing more than a thin tunic, woefully insuffcient for keeping out the cold.

  He’d been caught up in the fighting. A dark line ran ragged across his cheek where someone had hastily tried to bind the wound. Now he paused as another arrow flew through the air, and she could see the fear in his eyes.

  Desperately she tried to cry out, but she was too scared. The events of the last night tumbled over her and blotted out all reason. The hunter paused over her for a moment, his hand reaching out. Maybe he would kill her. Iwa shuddered. But he reached for the sacks, grabbing fitfully for the nearest and the lightest.

  Already the woyaks were running towards them. War cries howled in the night as a spear clattered by her feet. She was running with the men. She’d no idea how she’d found the courage to get up, only that she was running, her breath driven from her and her limbs trembling with fear.

  Everyone made for the trees, the hunters dodging over the broken ground so that the woyaks couldn’t take aim against them. In her panic, Iwa forgot to dodge and made straight for the forest. Maybe she should have been killed there and then, but the woyaks were loaded with meat and drink, and their arrows whistled harmlessly through the air.

  Taking a deep breath, Iwa covered her face with her hands as she crashed through the line of trees and into the forest. Instinctively she jumped behind an oak and slumped heavily against the bark. Then, without a look back, she made her way deeper into the forest. She moved slowly now, careful to keep silent as she pushed past a tangle of roots. Hopefully the woyaks wouldn’t want to wander in this far at night. Weighed down by armour and shield, they wouldn’t be able to move easily and would be vulnerable to whatever traps the hunters might spring.

  Suddenly everything went quiet. She couldn’t make out any of the hunters, but knew that they were there all the same. She could hear their shallow gasps as they hid in the trees and the thickets. Stifling the urge to rush, she made her way through the trees with barely a sound to mark her passing. Tread lightly, Katchka’s words came back to her. Be one with the forest; make your every step as natural as the fall of a leaf, as careful as the tread of a fox. Craft each footfall with reverence, for you walk upon the body of Matka Ziemia herself.

  Maybe she should wait for daybreak and make her way to the summer camp. The hunters would be sure to gather there. But that was far away and she hadn’t any food.

  Then she heard the crack of flame, the scuff of armour and the scrape of bracken as a shield pushed through the forest. Resisting the urge to run, she moved cautiously into a clearing. Maybe she could keep going deeper into the forest and hope that the woyaks wouldn’t follow, but the need for silence slowed her. At the far end of the clearing there lay a tangle of hawthorn bushes. Creeping closer, she began to make out a gap where the bushes parted to form a tunnel so narrow that she could barely squeeze inside.

  Behind her a torch broke the darkness. She tensed and tried her best to melt into the surroundings. The sound of the woyaks was all around as she pressed flat against Matka Ziemia. If only the hawthorns could be thicker. With a thud two men entered the clearing, vodka-soaked eyes scanning the bushes.

  Neither carried much armour, all but their helms and shields forgotten in their race to get at the hunters. Now they looked scared, as if they longed for the easy comfort of their ships and the soft caress of vodka. But they carried spears and one kept his shield strapped to his back so that his left hand was free to hold a torch.

  ‘These hunters take to the shadows like rats,’ the torch-bearer said, as he swung the brand slowly over the scene. ‘Gone to ground and skulking like cowards,’ he muttered, as he prodded the bushes with his spear. ‘What I wouldn’t give for the chance to get even with the vermin.’

  Behind him the other man shivered. ‘Best be getting back,’ he mumbled. ‘As if we could find anything in all this.’

  If they were hunters they’d have spotted Iwa instantly, but they were young, their eyes sodden with vodka and the need for sleep. ‘It’ll be a cold night for guard duty,’ the torch-bearer replied, making a final sweep of the clearing. ‘Let’s not get back too soon; Grunmir always picks the shirkers to stand the night.’

  ‘Better the night watch than another moment in this place.’ The other man scanned the trees fearfully. ‘Wislaw is right, these trees are haunted. The souls of those who have died in anguish cry out and lurk amid these branches. We should never have come here.’

  They turned as if about to go and then stopped, their hands gripped tightly on their spears. ‘Did you hear that?’ one of them said as he backed into the clearing.

  Iwa sank deep into the bushes. She’d heard the noise long before. So the woyaks are deaf as well as blind.

  ‘Maybe it was nothing,’ the torch-bearer said, though she could still hear the sound plainly. It had an odd, unnatural timbre, like the rustle of a chain or the rushing of a fast stream over loose pebbles.

  ‘You sure?’ the other replied, as he looked to his companion. Neither of them appeared in a hurry to find anything. ‘Yanek?’ one of them said, as they came forwar
d into the clearing, the torch-bearer making ready to grab his shield. The sound intensified and an acrid smell filled the air, heavy like congealed pitch. ‘Yanek!’ the man shouted again, more in hope than anything else, his breath ghosting on the air.

  From the edges of the forest something moved and both men froze, the blood draining from their faces. It was like the mist, an outline, nothing more. Yet, as it began to congeal about the clearing, Iwa felt a sense of dread in the back of her throat, as if the air had been sucked from her. It was closer now, the sound ringing through her ears as the mist swelled and, in amongst the vapour, she thought that she could make out the semblance of a human face. In the centre, there was nothing but a gaping hollow that fell open like a hungry mouth.

  The woyak raised his spear as his companion struggled to bring round his shield. The sound was intense now, thudding through Iwa’s ears and humming inside her head. The smell clogged her throat as she fought for air. There was a scream. She screwed her eyes shut. Jezi Baba, she prayed, for it could be none other than the night hag herself, spare me, a lone child of the forest who has done nothing to harm Matka Ziemia.

  Even with her eyes closed she could sense the presence of the night hag, as Jezi Baba swirled around the clearing, her breath slithering over bark and leaf. The thing was upon her now, and she could feel the night hag flying over her, her prayer draining away as she screwed her eyes tighter still. The air was thick with the stench of rotting flesh. She could almost picture the hag’s skin, drawn thin across her crooked nose as her eyes burned cold like waning moons. Why doesn’t she kill me? Iwa trembled as she readied herself for whatever fate the night hag had in store for her. Will she grind my bones into dust with her pestle and black stone mortar?

  If only she’d get on with it. Nothing could be worse than this waiting. But the night hag would not be hurried. The sound of the mist closed in all around and nothing could make Iwa open her eyes.

  Then it was gone. She waited, eyes shut, for a death that never came and when she next dared to open them, the sight made her close her eyes tighter still. In the middle of the clearing both woyaks lay, their faces twisted in agony. But it was their flesh that made her retch. It was as if they’d been sucked dry. Their skin was white and brittle as a smoked carp, and their eyes were the colour of soured milk. And yet there were no marks upon their faces and their armour was untouched.

  There was a cry; torches flared as a group of woyaks pressed into the clearing. They stopped short as they made signs to ward off evil or mutter curses under bated breath. Grunmir was the last to arrive, torchlight flickering darkly across his battle helm as he glanced at the fallen men and to the trees beyond. Iwa caught her breath and hugged the roots of her hiding place but Grunmir did not appear to see her. ‘Best get these two under cover quick,’ he said, as he took out a bearded axe from a sheath behind his back. The woyaks were quick to gather up the corpses and, laying them on their shields, carried them off through the woods.

  ‘Sound the horn,’ Grunmir said to the two woyaks who remained. ‘We need to get the others back to camp as quickly as possible.’ One of the woyaks raised a polished horn to his lips; the tone cut short as he turned and ran back. Only Grunmir remained, torchlight playing over the blade of his axe as, with one last look, he turned away.

  It was a while before Iwa gathered the courage to crawl into the clearing. Even then she was hardly able to move. She’d had enough, trembling as the trees cast malicious shadows, their branches scraped thin in the breeze. Numbly she began to stumble through the forest, hardly able to register the snap of twigs as she made her way aimlessly past the roots of a great tree.

  A hand grabbed her from behind, rough fingers crushing her lips as her head was pulled back. Instinctively she bit down hard and, with a squeal of pain, the hand let go. She didn’t have the energy to run as a blade struck out for her throat but, at the last moment, it fell short. ‘Iwa,’ a voice said, ‘what in the name of Karnobog are you doing stumbling around out here? I could have killed you!’

  She turned. In the dark it was hard to make out the figure which stood before her. He was only a fraction taller than her. His clothes were ragged and his skin was covered in mud and blood so that she could hardly make out the lineaments of his face. But, as he raised his hands, she could just about see the clan marks tattooed around his wrists, the sacred symbols of Karnobog barely visible under the layer of grime.

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t slit your throat.’ The figure put the knife back in its sheath. Even in the dark Iwa caught sight of the scraggy ends of eagle feathers dyed yellow and tied about the hilt with a silk ribbon. Only then did she realise it was Jarel, one of the younger hunters with his first kill marked barely a summer ago. ‘If I hadn’t had this to slow me,’ he pointed to a bandage high on his left leg, ‘you’d have entered the spirit world with my knife at your throat.’

  ‘Do I look like a woyak?’

  ‘You move like one.’ He winced as he transferred the weight from his wounded leg. ‘It would’ve been an easy mistake to make. I thought I knew all the women who’d managed to escape.’

  ‘That’s no excuse to go clodhopping through the forest with a knife and go about attacking the first person you come across,’ she retorted sulkily, her throat stinging from his grip.

  ‘I’d like to see you do better.’ He rested clumsily against a tree, with tiny sharp intakes of breath as he moved.

  ‘Let’s take a look at that.’ Not that she’d ever liked the boy, but suddenly she realised how scared she was. Anything was better than having to go back to the camp. Grunmir would skin me alive if he caught me, Katchka too if I don’t come back with those stupid mushrooms. And she’d spent far too much time alone in the forest.

  ‘You shouldn’t put too much weight on it.’ She tried to sound as comforting as possible. She’d never forgiven him for accusing her of stealing a brace of pheasants from the Salmon clan. She’d been less than ten summers old but he’d strung her up to a branch and threatened to whip her unless she confessed, and she’d have handed them over too, if Godek hadn’t cut her loose.

  After that she’d been careful to keep well away from Jarel. He was always quick to involve himself in the squabbles of the younger children, but around the campfires of the men he was slow to speak.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He turned sharply. ‘An arrow grazed my leg last night when the woyaks attacked. I should thank Bielobog that the archer didn’t take better aim.’

  ‘You’d be little use to anybody if the wound goes bad. There are some herbs deep in the forest, I’ve watched Katchka use them before.’

  ‘I’m one of the lucky ones. I saw Gedymin killed, Pasek too: taken from behind with a spear. I’d have joined them if it hadn’t been for Kazik. At least he managed to take down a woyak before he pulled me to the safety of the trees.’

  ‘Godek’s dead too.’

  ‘The hunt master,’ Jarel said. ‘I prayed that he would have lived. I even offered some rabbit bones in supplication to the gods, but they do not listen to us any longer.’ The boy turned to hide his tears. Hunt master Godek would have been the one to cut his forehead with the teeth of his first kill. She’d little idea about the hunter’s ceremony, but such bonds went deep.

  ‘The best have died before us,’ Jarel said. ‘We’re nothing more than a shadow clan, without flame or gods to bind us.’

  ‘At least let me take a look at your leg.’ Until then she’d only been concerned about not being left alone, but the tremor in his voice had softened her. ‘I could make up a poultice to ease the pain,’ she continued, surprised at the gentleness in her own voice.

  Shaking his head, Jarel didn’t reply. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ she continued quickly. ‘I’ve helped Katchka with the sick often enough.’

  ‘Save your poultice for those needier.’ With a wince he levered himself from the tree and began to pick his way along a narrow, rough path. ‘There are those who will be of better use than me.’

  �
�We don’t have to be a shadow clan.’ Iwa followed, afraid that he would leave her. Then he slipped, his leg twisting stiffly as he began to fall. Iwa was quick to catch him, his weight bearing down on her shoulder as she tried to right him.

  ‘It’s only when I stop for too long.’

  ‘That’s not a good sign,’ she said as she struggled to support him. At least he’d never taken more than his share of the kill.

  ‘I’ll be better once I’m rested. This,’ he tapped his leg, ‘will be better once the heat of day gets into my bones.’

  ‘I know where the woyaks keep their weapons,’ Iwa said as she began to guide him round the roots. ‘We could sneak up on them in the night. They spend all their time feasting and pouring vodka down their throats. We’ll wait until all that drink has made them stupid like the traders and then they’ll be easy to kill.’

  It didn’t take Jarel long to recover his movement and, after a few painful winces, he was able to push clear of her. At least he’s still able to move. Iwa clung to his heels, scared in case Jezi Baba came back for her. She’d been spared once, but the night hag could be tricky: it was best not to take anything for granted when dealing with the likes of her. If only there’d been a trace of the moon or a glimmer of light. All around her the forest was dark, the dim forms of branches reaching out as if to grab her.

  Jarel must have known the forests well. His feet hardly made a sound as he slid past a morass of roots. And if it hadn’t been for his laboured breath or the occasional break in his stride, there was little sign of his injury.

  But still he felt the pain of it, like a wounded animal, anxious to tease some movement into his bloodied foot. It was hard for him to keep track of the forest paths. Even in the dark he should have known them, navigating by the stars and signs that marked out the well-known trails.