by Anna Kashina
“There was a girl. Yaga’s ward. Her kin.”
In the in silence that followed Ivan had time to give up on the rest of the story. Then Wolf spoke again.
“Elena. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“And?” Ivan prompted.
Wolf growled. “If you’re going to interrupt, boy, why don’t you do the talking?”
“Sorry. I won’t interrupt you again.”
They covered a lot of distance before the story continued.
“Yaga never said where Elena came from. The girl might have been her own daughter, for all I know. Or, perhaps Yaga and her sisters brewed the girl up in one of those giant kettles they use for their unspeakable herb stews. Whatever the origin, Yaga couldn’t keep the girl with her. The old woman’s a loner. There’s no room for two in her chicken-legged hut. Besides, the forest thicket is hardly a place for a healthy young girl.”
How could they brew someone in a kettle? And who were Yaga’s sisters? Ivan bit back the questions.
“So,” Wolf went on, “she released Elena into my care. She trusted me back then. And I, I took Elena to the only man I could trust to raise her among humans. A herb man, who already had another daughter to make Elena a perfect younger sister.”
Realization dawned. “Gleb,” Ivan whispered.
“Yes, Gleb. Gleb and his daughter, Praskovia.”
Ivan tried to remember everything he knew about Gleb. There wasn’t much to recall; the old herb man had spoken a lot, but told nothing about himself, only about Kashchey and Marya. Wolf had called Gleb his herb man. He’d spoken of Gleb giving up, so that Wolf had to find another herb man, Nikifor. Another herb man with a sad Solstice story. Perhaps Gleb, like Nikifor, had lost a daughter in a Solstice sacrifice?
The guessing must have shown on Ivan’s face.
“Don’t think you’re that smart, boy. You think you know everything now, but you don’t. Elena left Gleb of her own free will. She met a man she loved, and Gleb, as a good father, saw nothing wrong in blessing her marriage.”
“Then—” Ivan asked carefully, “what did happen to Elena?”
“Let’s just say that whatever happened, Baba Yaga blamed me for her fate.”
“You?”
Wolf shook his head. “If I hadn’t given Elena to Gleb, if I had interfered when she was leaving Gleb’s house to make her own home, if I had intervened at some point before it was too late, I could have saved her. Perhaps. I was right there, you know. But I didn’t. So, when the curse Yaga put on me almost turned me into an ordinary beast, I felt I deserved it.” He fell silent and trotted ahead.
Ivan didn’t dare to ask any more. But after a versta or two Wolf spoke again.
“You asked me once, why do I want to bring down Kashchey and see the prophecy come true. I guess now that we’re about to fulfill it, you deserve to know the truth. Of course, you’ll probably die and I’ll blame myself for your death, as well as the deaths of all those others who failed before you. Perhaps Yaga is right. There is no undoing what has been done. But, as far as I reckon, it’s well worth it to try to prevent such a thing from happening again.”
Ivan stared, his skin tingling with the guess he didn’t want to venture. “It was Kashchey who married Elena?”
“No. Kashchey wasn’t the one who married her. But he was the one who killed her.”
Ivan hadn’t realized how familiar the forest had become until they were back in the sickly swamps of the Thirty Ninth Kingdom. Old, gnarled trees hung out their lichen beards, like village matrons hanging sheets out to dry in the sun.
It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the sky. Thankfully, it was the longest day of the year and sunset wasn’t due for least several hours.
They stopped under a bearded tree.
“Now I must tell you what to do,” Wolf said. “Or, more importantly, what not to do.”
“I think I know what to do,” Ivan said. He immediately regretted his words, but it was too late.
“Oh, do you now? I can only imagine.”
Ivan thought it best to stand his ground. “We have the Needle, so Kashchey cannot harm us, right? And Marya—doesn’t she have to consent to marry me after I give her the Water?”
“Do you want her to?”
Ivan forced away the warmth that spread through his body at the mere thought of seeing her again. He longed to touch her again, to hold her hand, to look into her eyes. To see—maybe—that look of a trapped animal in her eyes melt away. To hear her laugh, just once?
He couldn’t afford such thoughts. Not now.
He shook his head. “Not against her will. I would never force such a thing.”
“I suppose you should have thought of that before invoking a sacred ritual by asking for her hand.”
“Will she have to?”
“Before the Sacrifice is made, she doesn’t have to do anything. It’s the Solstice. She’s the Mistress. She rules the night.”
Ivan’s expression changed to uncertainty. “But I thought—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You thought that she’d fall into your arms the minute she sees you, right? How could she, a powerful sorceress, the most beautiful woman in the world, resist such a charmer as you?”
Ivan raised his head and looked into the distance with unfocused eyes. “You’re right, of course. But ritual or not, I will never marry her against her will. She deserves a choice. She deserves a life, like any other young girl. She deserves a man she would love with all her heart. I’d rather die than force her.”
Wolf looked at him sideways. “It would seem that you have plenty of opportunities to die without inventing more. Why don’t we talk of important things instead, shall we?”
Ivan turned his head. There was a new expression in his eyes, their cornflower blue shaded by an overcast sky. “Of course. We should talk about important things instead.”
“Just after the girl disappears under the water, step forward and make your claim.”
“Right.”
“After the sacrifice is over—not before. And, no foolish deeds. No jumping into the water to rescue the girl, do you hear? It’s deadly in there. Vodyanoy himself is at work, and he never lets anyone slip his grasp.”
“But—we can’t just let the girl die,” Ivan protested. “If I came in right before the Sacrifice—”
“Then Marya will do whatever she wants with you. On the night of the Solstice, she is all-powerful. After the Sacrifice is done, the power goes to her father. Yet, while he is devouring the girl’s soul, he’s vulnerable. That’s when we make our move.”
“We can’t just stand there and let the girl drown.”
“We can. We must, if you truly want to put a stop to it. Don’t even think of jumping into the water, Ivan the Fool. You’ll have your chance to die if you miss the right moment with Kashchey. Or, with your lovely bride to be. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Ivan sighed.
“Good. Now, remember: you talk to Marya and I’ll handle Kashchey. Promise me you won’t try to interfere.”
“I promise.”
Wolf nodded. “Remember, boy, No one has ever come this close. No one, in all the history of this kingdom. It’s all up to you. Don’t ruin it.”
“I won’t.”
Marya
The surface of the lake was still as a mirror, reflecting the blue and pink of the sunset sky. The evening mist floated over the water, its flat wisps spreading through the tall reeds whose thickets treacherously concealed the real banks of the lake. Tiny swirls of current circled under the smooth surface. I knew the lake like a horse knows its stead. I knew exactly where to come to the shore, through the invisible paths among the reeds. I knew where one could enter the water safely, and where the treacherous current pulled you right down, into the weeds that would hold you underwater to your death.
The air was still and sweet-smelling. Even the birds were silent in that sacred hour when the Mi
stress of the Solstice took her lonely bath in the clear waters of the lake. I had to be clean like a newborn child when I went to collect the twelve secret herbs for the Drink of Love that would then be distributed to everyone attending the ritual. My servants in the glade were already starting the fire and boiling the water in a huge kettle, getting everything ready for me to do my part.
The water felt warm, like milk fresh from a cow. I felt the currents caressing my body, gently pulling me into their flow. I floated easily in their supporting hands, admiring the smooth spears of the reeds going down through the dark amber water, clear all the way to the bottom where green weeds waved like long strands of hair. Further upstream was a wide, deep place where the turmoil of the water created a standing whirlpool. The Sacrifice Pool. Treacherously calm on the surface, the waters in that place pulled you right in to the wavering locks of green slimy weeds on the bottom, weeds that caught you in their net of death. That was the place where the maiden was sacrificed. Where Alyona would disappear today, as many girls had before her.
I tried to relax and enjoy my swim. I turned onto my back in the slow wide stream, letting the lake carry me, letting my hair lie loose on the surface, wavering in the current just like the green weeds wavered along the bottom in the amber depths beneath me. My body took on a faintly yellow tint where the amber waters covered it. I watched the clear sky above gradually change from light blue and pink to deeper blue and crimson, before finally acquiring the sapphire tones of the early evening.
A lonely star shimmered just above the horizon. The air outside started feeling cooler than the water. Time to go.
With slight movements of my arms I used the current to take me to the shore, where my servants waited with my ritual dress. Unlike my usual black garment, this dress was white, and the wreath that covered my head, unlike any other flower-wreath of tonight, was made of white water-lilies, the kind that usually faded almost immediately after you picked them, but that always stayed fresh when they crowned my hair on the night of the Solstice.
I stood still while the servants dried my body and hair with a long soft cloth and clad me in my ritual outfit. The only words I could say before the Drink of Love was ready were the words of the enchanted rhyme of the twelve herbs, and I could only even say the rhyme to myself. Nobody else in the whole kingdom knew that rhyme, an ancient incantation that could only be passed from one Mistress of the Solstice to another.
When my servants were done, I passed dreamily out of their hands to wander the forest in search of the twelve herbs.
I enjoyed that quiet evening hour all by myself in the slumbering forest, where no sounds could be heard. I walked among the trees, through the glades, along the riverbanks. I sought out the twelve sacred herbs, collecting them, counting them by the slow rhythm of the incantation.
Thick, fleshy catnip stems crowned by their umbrella-like inflorescence of tiny blossoms.
Cozy, yellow-and-white chamomiles with their bitter medicinal smell.
Elegant lychnis with its small flowers of fluffy pink, resembling tiny campfires—the villagers actually called it goritsvet, fire-flower.
I collected the sweet plump balls of heady wild clover, and the long and fragile stems of pretty bluebells. From open glades I walked closer to the water to seek out the tall rose-bay plants with their pink, brush-like tips covered with flowers. Rose-bay added substance to the brew. Villagers called it “tea-plant”, and it was the one that gave the potion its special tartness, fragrant with the herbs and rich with the magic of Kupalo.
All the time I was reciting to myself:
Herbs of the magic brew, six and six,
Blend at my will into potent mix.
Six herbs of darkness, six herbs of light,
Grant me the power, grant me the sight.
Light herbs are easy—pick them and toss them:
Color of bluebell, chamomile blossom,
Freshness of catnip, honey of clover,
Fire of lychnis, rose-bay flower.
It was now time to pick the six herbs of the dark, so I changed my rhyme:
Herbs of the dark are heady and strong,
Pick them is silence, sing them no song.
Dark herbs that seal the brew’s potent taste
Cannot be named, or your work is a waste.
I moved to the drier places, away from the water, where the fir trees clumped together guarding the darker part of the woods. Inhaling deeply the fresh smells of fir and earth, I tossed my damp hair behind my back and bent closer to the grass, trying to spot the deep purple flowers of nightshade. I only needed a few, and this was the perfect spot to find them.
A glimpse of purple caught my eye. I stuck my free hand into the tall grass and pulled out a flower.
Panic-stricken, I held it before my eyes. The pile of freshly collected herbs poured down from my arms like a rain of smells and colors. I froze with terror, looking at the flower in my hand.
Purple leaves on top almost hid from my eye the delicate yellow flowers underneath.
Ivan-and-Marya.
I never needed that plant in my brew. As far as I knew, it had never grown in that spot before, in the deep grass under the low fir branches. What kind of strange power had made me stumble upon it now, at this sacred moment? What power drove me not only to notice it in the grass, but to mistakenly pick it up?
I threw the purple-and-yellow flower as far away as I could. I sank down into the grass to collect the sacred herbs I’d dropped, and to regain the concentration I needed to finish my task.
When I finally entered the glade where the Solstice celebration was to take place, it was almost dark. One could still see some light crowning the tops of the trees surrounding the glade from the west, but it would soon fade, dimmed by the giant bonfire in the center of the open space. I walked slowly, straight to the fire, where a huge boiling kettle was set aside for me to make my brew. I walked, barely noticing the people circling the glade, people wearing wreaths of wild flowers around their heads, people hastily moving aside to make way for me. I walked, my arms full of herbs, the incantation with its slow rhythm sounding in my head.
Praskovia stepped forward and led me through, into the circle formed by my serving women around the kettle. They hid me from view, providing a lonely spot in the midst of chaos for me to do my magic. I settled on the grass, chanting, sorting out the herbs, counting their stems to make the exact amount needed for the Drink of Love.
Herbs of the magic brew, six and six,
Blend at my will into potent mix.
I counted bluebells, crushing them with my hands as I threw them into the pot, one by one. The water, could I have seen it clearly in that light, turned a light pink. I added chamomile flowers, snipping them off their long leathery stems. Chamomile added a strong flavor, and the boiling gave off a tart smell. My head cleared as I submerged myself into the realm of heady fumes emanating from the kettle. This was my world. I felt strong in it.
Six herbs of darkness, six herbs of light,
Grant me the power, grant me the sight.
Through the air of detachment surrounding me I could hear the voices outside my magic circle, people singing as they circled in a dance around the glade, but I paid no heed to them.
Light herbs are easy—pick them and toss them:
Color of bluebell, chamomile blossom,
Freshness of catnip, honey of clover,
Fire of lychnis, rose-bay flower.
Catnip plants sank into the thickening depths of the kettle, followed by fragrant heads of honeyed clover, bright spots of lychnis, and armfuls of rose-bay. My pile of herbs was getting small as the brew became fuller, gradually acquiring the rich, sweet smell that would make my head swim if I inhaled it too deeply.
But the brew was only half-finished, and the smell had not yet acquired its special heady touch.
I watched the brew grow dark, swirling as the last of the rose-bay blossoms disappeared into its dark depths. And then the color of the brew began to
fade, so that in the wavering light of the bonfire, it looked almost the color of light amethyst. Amethyst, the stone of soberness.
It was time for the dark ingredients, only a few of them, but necessary for that special final touch, signaled by the heady smell that made one feel lightheaded when the drink came into its full, magic power.
To do this right, I had to be detached, concentrating fully on the task at hand, and yet, secretly, at this time of all others, I was most vulnerable to the influence of emotions.
Dark herbs that seal the brew’s potent taste
Cannot be named, or your work is a waste.
I felt a little disoriented as I threw in the last ingredient and spoke in my head the last line of the incantation.
The Drink of Love was ready.
Alyona was beautiful in her ceremonial garb that mirrored mine—a long white dress, a wreath of lilies crowning her long, loose hair. She looked ghostly, almost transparent, as she was led through the glade by a procession of men and women from the palace, each holding a candle in their hands. My kiss shone on her forehead like a five-pointed star. Her eyes were closed and my father, walking behind, carefully guided her steps, extending his calming magic to keep her in check.
A fine gift to the Solstice. Just like the ones that came before, just like the ones who would come after, for ages to be.
As the procession stopped before me, I swallowed a mouthful of the rich, bittersweet brew and, fighting to suppress the feeling of lightheadedness it gave me, held out the ladle for Alyona to drink. My father and two serving women had to guide her to me and support her as she took a sip with trembling lips.
At least, she isn’t crying anymore, I thought. I hope she holds together until the end.