by Anna Kashina
A broom appeared in her hand. Leaning out of the mortar, she swept the forest floor. The swirl of wind in its wake lifted the mortar and its load into the air, raised it higher and higher, and carried it above the trees and into the distance.
—purr—purr—
He was so thirsty. If only he could have but a drop of water.
He lifted his tired head, but there was no water in sight. And the tale drew him, caressed him as it flowed on the waves of the cat’s deep purr…
It was another place, many kingdoms away. The old woman had climbed out of the mortar and was searching for something. A bloodied lock of blond hair stuck out of her bulging apron pocket.
Why do we keep coming back to this tale? The man is already dead, isn’t he?
He wanted to weep for the fallen warrior, but he had no tears left.
No water.
The woman settled into the thick grass, humming softly to herself. It was a tune both familiar and strange. One could swear it was the most common song, yet as soon as the sounds died out, he couldn’t remember any of them.
I—remember—nothing…
The woman stirred, suddenly alert. The tinkling sound of water disturbed the forest stillness. It was soft and pleasant, just like the woman’s song.
She kept singing as she crept through the grass toward the sound of the water. And there, at the side of the small hilltop, was a stream.
The woman took out the severed head and laid it on the grass. From the same pocket she produced a vial and filled it from the stream. She moved carefully, as if afraid to touch the water. Then she gave a shrill whistle and the heavy mortar came stumbling toward her through the forest undergrowth. The headless body dangled over its edge, arms flapping against the side.
The old woman took the body out and spread it on the ground. She took great care to adjust the head to the body, pressing it against the stump of the neck so that the young man looked merely wounded. With one hand, she held the head tightly against the neck. With the other, she sprinkled the water from the vial onto the wound.
The liquid foamed as it touched the skin. The foam consumed the blood and covered the cut. It bubbled, pristine white on the creamy white skin. And then—
…purr, purr…
The cut was no longer there. The head was melded on its neck just like it was supposed to. There was no sign that only moments ago the head and the body were separate from one another.
The woman kissed the vial and sprinkled again, this time on the corpse’s forehead. There was a sigh as it touched the skin. And a change. At first Ivan couldn’t name it. The body was still pale, but it was no longer—
—no longer dead.
The fallen warrior stirred. His eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at her. And now tears stood in the woman’s eyes. They brimmed her wrinkled eyelids and ran down her face, making their way among the folds of her wrinkled skin, dry like ancient bark.
She cried for the living where she had no tears for the dead.
“Have I—fallen asleep?” the man asked. Through the hoarseness of the freshly mended throat his voice was as young as his appearance. No more than a boy.
“You slept too long, Ilia.” The woman nodded, smiling through her tears. “Time to wake up.”
A cat’s face filled Ivan’s vision. The jewel-green eyes were no longer dreamy.
“I am tired of you, boy,” the cat said. “I think you are ready to jump off the cliff.”
Ivan didn’t question it. He clambered to his feet, stiff from too many hours of sitting on the hard ground, and wordlessly walked toward the precipice beyond.
He looked over the edge. There were bones down there. Many bones. He could just make out the white balls of skulls scattered among them, far below.
A pack of crows on the nearby boulders looked at him expectantly.
“Go on, boy,” the cat said from behind. “Jump.”
He took another step forward.
Why did I come here?
Who am I?
He was thirsty, so thirsty he couldn’t think straight.
Water.
Am I here because of the water?
He turned and looked at the cat.
“Water,” he croaked with a dry mouth. The sound of his voice was so strange, so ugly compared to the cat’s deep purr.
“There’s water down below,” the cat told him. “After you jump, you can have all you want.”
It made sense.
He turned back to the cliff.
But why had he come here in the first place? If only he could remember what had possessed him to look for water up here, on the hilltop, when there was so much water down below.
Was there something else he needed?
He thought of the old woman from the tale. She’d used water to bring a man back to life. At least he could remember that much. He couldn’t escape the thought that there was something important in that tale. Something he was missing.
He couldn’t jump off the cliff…yet.
“You’re wasting time, boy,” the cat said irritably. “One more step.”
Ivan reached inside his shirt, searching. There was something he had to remember.
His searching fingers came across something tucked deep into the shirt, and emerged holding a flower. A crumpled plant, withered almost beyond recognition. Two flowers on one stem, purple and yellow.
He held it out to the cat.
“Ivan-and-Marya?” the cat asked. “Why are you giving me that?”
Ivan-and-Marya.
Ivan—
—and Marya.
And then he remembered.
Marya
It was pitch-dark in the woods. The night air enfolded me in cold waves, carrying the fresh smell of wet earth and the distant wails of a night bird. In my dove shape I was not fit to fly in the dark. I narrowly avoided being skewered on several wickedly protruding branches and was beginning to think of turning back into my human form when Raven called out for me.
“Stay on that branch, Marya. I am flying over.”
Wind ruffled my feathers as he settled beside me, digging his claws into the smooth, paper-white bark of the birch branch.
I hoped he’d say something, but he just sat there in silence.
“So,” I began after a long pause. “I thought you were friends with my father. How could you tell this boy, this fool, about my father’s death?”
To my surprise I sensed a smile in his voice as he replied: “There are things you don’t understand, Marya.”
“Then maybe you could try and explain it to me.” Why did I feel wrong? What had disturbed me so deeply? As if it were I who had to answer for my deeds to Raven, and not the other way around.
Raven didn’t reply immediately, but when he did, his voice didn’t waver. “He is not an ordinary boy, Marya. And he is certainly not a fool. You felt that too.”
“You know not to talk about my feelings, Raven. I have none.”
“You are in worse danger than you realize, Marya. And that puts all of us into danger as well.”
Now I caught it. He wasn’t smiling at all. The thing I sensed in his voice was the strain of keeping his voice level. But I was too angry to care.
“I suppose this is why you helped the boy along?” I snapped.
“I had no choice, Marya. He captured me and forced me bargain for my life.”
I stared. Raven was an Immortal, nearly invincible. No one could capture Raven, or force him to do anything.
“He captured you?”
Raven’s expression was unreadable. “I told you, he is not an ordinary boy, Marya. He had me in his power.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came. Dove throat was much too weak to express the entire richness of human emotions.
“How did he do it?” I finally managed.
“He had the Net.”
“You don’t mean—the Net?” My voice faltered again.
Raven only shrugged.
I still couldn’t believe it
. This boy? How could he possibly get Raven’s Bane? How could he possibly know about its existence and whereabouts when even I, Raven’s closest companion, had no idea about it? A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air.
I felt the need to speak to talk it through with Raven, as if talking could help. “How could he possibly find it? Who could have told him?”
Raven shrugged again. “Only the Immortals know about my Bane. I had entrusted it to Leshy, the trickiest of them all. He swore an unbreakable oath to keep it safe. It is the only thing in the world that is able to render me helpless.”
I opened and closed my beak, struggling to find my voice. Leshy. “How could the old Forest Man give it up?” I shivered. No one could hoax things from the old creature. Not even my father.
Raven cocked his head and looked at me sideways. “There is the riddle game.”
I scoffed, an uncomfortable sound through a bird’s throat. “You cannot seriously think the boy challenged Leshy and won the riddle game. I’ve talked to him. He seemed…simple-minded. Daft.” And so warm, vigorous, kind…The memory of the tenderness in his eyes, the warmth of his hand on mine, made me ache.
“I talked to him too, Marya. And yes, he could be all these things, but there’s something in him that escapes common logic. Such—”
“—innocence,” I said.
“—willpower.”
We stopped and looked at each other.
I had never remembered before feeling so vulnerable. Frightened. What doom were we headed to?
Raven’s voice sank to a half-whisper. “When he captured me, he knew exactly what to ask me for. Believe me, I didn’t make it easy for him to learn the truth. And yet, he got exactly what he came for. And used it.”
“How?” I insisted. “How did he know he must question you, and no one else? It would have been so much easier for him to approach, say, Praskovia.”
“If he did, he would be dead by now.”
“Yes.” I shivered at the thought. Praskovia. Her motherly looks were often deceiving, I knew that of her. She had always been kind to me, but deep inside she could be sterner than my father.
Raven shuffled on the branch, turning to face me. “None of us can imagine how much the boy must have gone through to catch me. He knew who I was. He knew I was the one he needed, at any cost. Granted, he was a bit rusty on the questioning bit, but in the end he figured out what questions to ask to get what he wants. Do you understand, Marya?”
I didn’t understand. I was daft, I was the fool. “So, what does he want now?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He asked for my hand.”
Raven’s eyes widened in astonishment. “He did?”
“Yes.”
“What a fool!”
“Yes. Just like his nickname.”
Raven shook his head. “Nicknames are such a burden at times.”
“Why, Raven? Why would he escape so many traps, do so many impossible things only to put himself in my power?”
“Perhaps his downfall was your beauty?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps.” I didn’t believe it any more than Raven did. I wasn’t even sure who was in whose power. There was a bond between me and this boy, linking us like the flower he had tried to offer me back in my tower. Ivan-and-Marya.
I longed to change back into human shape. I longed to get away, to the safety of my chamber, and to hide my face in Praskovia’s large bosom as I used to do in days gone forever.
I didn’t want to face this.
“I didn’t tell the boy about the Needle, Marya. I would have, if he’d asked me, because I was bound by the Net. But he didn’t ask. He already knew where it was.”
I became aware of the silence, disturbed only by the distant noises of the night forest. I stirred, trying to silence the maddening questions endlessly circling in my head.
Who was this boy?
How could he know so much?
Who was helping him?
And, why?
“All he wanted to know was how to get into your tower without running into your traps. I told him everything, Marya. I had no choice.”
“My father mentioned a prophecy.”
“Oh, yes. The prophecy.” Again I heard a smile in his voice, and wondered what true emotion it hid.
“I didn’t know there was one. I was taught by you and my father not to believe in them.”
Raven chuckled. “A wise teaching. Prophecies are nonsense; no more than rhymes that people make up to amuse themselves. It is the words that make prophecies that are to be feared.”
“How so?”
“People are foolish. They believe in words. They repeat those silly rhymes, carry them from village to village, until everyone recites them with reverence and stores them away at the backs of their minds. And then the evil comes. Those hungry for power find out prophecies and make them come true. It does not take much for common villagers to believe.”
“But how could one make a rhyme come true?”
“Say, there is a rhyme that tells of a true king who would come dressed as a beggar in the dead of winter, produce the Sword of Doom and cut down the old tree by the well to open the way for a new spring.”
“And?”
“And then, somebody decides to win this kingdom over. All they have to do is find a handsome woodcutter, dress him in rags, give him a sword strong enough to chop wood, and—there you have it. All he has to do is show up. The people will do the rest for him. They want to believe.”
“There is still the matter of a new spring.”
“You’d be amazed what people would be willing to believe for a true king.”
“So, what does our prophecy say?”
The Raven recited, in a deep solemn voice:
“The power of Kupalo goeth forth into ages,
Yet rule of immortal doth carry its doom.
On the night of the Solstice, a hero of legend,
Cometh marked by an arrow through turmoil and gloom.
His guides are the creatures of magic and wisdom,
His strength is no weapon, but fire in his eyes.
He carrieth death for the rule of the kingdom,
He bringeth new life for the new sacrifice.”
I considered it. It didn’t make sense.
“That’s all?” I asked in disbelief. “How do you know what it means?”
“It’s a prophecy, Marya, a rhyme. It doesn’t mean anything. Yet, it can be interpreted in many ways. Since your father insists on calling himself Immortal, and there are many who want to see the end to his rule, we all have been on the lookout for the appropriate signs.”
“Such as—?”
“Such as a boy with unexpected powers, who happens to wonder into our kingdom almost on the eve of the Solstice. Such as—certain signs that make everyone wonder who this boy really is.”
“You can hardly call this one a hero of legend.”
“He doesn’t have to be. It’s about the signs.”
“Signs?”
The Raven sighed and ruffled his feathers, settling up on the branch. “You need to give me and your father a bit more time to sort this out, Marya. Trust us.”
“I do,” I said. “But maybe you should also trust me? The boy has already once caught me unawares. It would have helped if I’d been prepared.”
Raven only shook his head.
“How do you know there’s a connection between the rhyme and the boy?” I insisted. “How do you know a prophecy is even involved? What makes you think this boy is different from any other fool who comes to seek my hand?”
“This rhyme,” Raven ruffled his feathers again, “is almost as old as the Solstice itself. Of course, we don’t know for sure, but we aren’t the only ones taking it seriously. There are many who would like to see this one come true.”
“How do you know he is the one to fear?”
“He has a birthmark on his shoulder. It looks exactly like an arrow.”
&n
bsp; “An arrow-shaped birthmark?” I scoffed. “I stopped believing such tales when I was five. It must be a trick. Nothing that soap and water couldn’t take care of. Come, Raven. Such a possibility surely must have crossed your mind?”
“Of course it did, Marya. You are missing the point. It is not about the boy. It is about those who are behind him, helping him to bring down your father’s rule. And, whether it is magic or cunning, we have to deal with it.”
“How?”
“By learning what it is we are dealing with. Who is our enemy?”
“A boy. Perhaps a talented one, but no hero for certain. Why do you think there is more to it?”
“Perhaps no more than a boy,” Raven said quietly. “But there are things about him. Have you noticed his eyes, Marya?”
His eyes. Cornflowers on a bright sunny day. The mere thought made me warm.
“It couldn’t have been easy to find a boy who fits the rhyme so well. Think about it.”
I did. The rhyme did fit. And yet, when someone talked about fire in the eyes that can serve as a weapon, they usually meant something else—like the cold hellfire of my father’s eyes that could destroy his enemies with a single glance. Not the warm, mischievous fire that invited a smile. And a longing. Oh, such longing…
I grasped on to the shreds of my sanity. “But a prophecy has to fit exactly, doesn’t it? Not just sort of. And, according to the rhyme, he’s supposed to come on the night of the Solstice. It seems that your magic hero is a little early.”
The Raven gave me a thoughtful look.
“What was the task you gave him, Marya?”
“To find the Hidden Stream and bring back the Water of Life by the Solstice.”
“That gives him almost a fortnight. What makes you think he won’t do it?”
“Here are my reasons, if you will.” I forced myself to speak evenly, as if answering not a mockery but a real question. “It takes at least six months to walk from here to the Hidden Stream and back, perhaps three on horseback, if he has a really good horse. Besides, the stream is called ‘hidden’ for a reason. It will only reveal itself to an Immortal if he knows the right song. Yet, an Immortal cannot touch its waters. Why, in the past thousand years only Baba Yaga has used the water, once, to bring back a dead warrior she fancied. As far as I know, she used all of the water she had, and no one, mortal or immortal, could ever convince her to go back and find the stream again. So, our magical hero will either come back too late, or empty-handed, in both of which cases he will be killed. If of course he comes back at all.”