Anya and the Dragon

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Babulya interpreted Anya’s silence as an invitation to say, “He’ll probably be hiding somewhere all night because of that boy.”

  Anya choked on her soup a little as Dyedka roared, “Boy? There was a boy here? Which boy? That Sasha Melnik? I’ll poke his eyes out!

  “Not Sasha!” Anya interrupted. “The domovoi got mad because I wouldn’t give him the challah that I separated and burnt.”

  But Dyedka was stuck on the boy topic. “If not Sasha, then it must have been Kolya Lagounov!”

  Anya scrunched her face. The Lagounovs were the village chandlers. They made candles, which was fine, but Kolya was way older than she was. “Dyedka, Kolya isn’t—”

  “If you marry him, your great-grandmother-in-law will be Bogdana, and she’s terrible!” He pointed his spoon at Anya. “You’re too young to get married.”

  Anya groaned and threw her head back. “I’m not going to marry him! I’m never going to get married!”

  Mama shook her head. “Oh, Anya, of course you will.”

  “I won’t,” Anya said. “Babulya says marriage is for fools.”

  Babulya cackled. “What a smart girl. Don’t you settle for anything, Annushka!”

  Mama rubbed her eyes wearily and muttered, “I wish you wouldn’t, Mother.”

  “You married a good man, Masha,” Babulya said. “But not everyone does. That awful what’s-his-name who wanted to marry your sister . . . Wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’s his fault she left!”

  Mama’s lips tightened. “Tzivyah was always impulsive and hotheaded. She would have left regardless.”

  Dyedka, having finished his stew, slammed his spoon on the table. “Well, there you have it! Now we know Anya gets her attitude from your side of the family! Miro was as even-tempered as they come. Not an ounce of strife in the boy, not ever.” He looked down at his empty bowl and sighed heaviness into it. “Ah, Masha. I’m sorry.”

  Mama’s expression didn’t change, save for a subtle blink that was longer than usual. “You miss him as much as I do, Borya.”

  Anya hadn’t finished her stew, but her appetite evaporated as she thought about her father sitting in a ditch with a sword. She pushed her chair back, standing abruptly, and said, “I’m going to sleep in the barn.”

  “Anya . . .” Mama said.

  Tears burned the corners of her eyes, and Anya hurried out of the kitchen before she lost her composure altogether. She let herself cry about Papa only in front of the goats, because they didn’t try to comfort her or tell her it was okay or offer her false hope about his safe return.

  She walked across the garden, but then broke into a run the rest of the way to the barn. When she slipped inside and pulled the door shut, she shuffled to the nearest pile of straw and plopped onto it as the first tears forced their way out of her eyes.

  Anya put her hands over her face and cried, pausing only when she felt light pressure on her thigh. Zvezda lay next to her with his head on her leg, and when he saw her look at him, he offered a gentle bleat.

  Chapter Ten

  Anya startled awake. The barn was still dark, but the faint glow of sunrise lit the window in the hayloft. She moved to sit up, not entirely sure what had caused her to stir from sleep in the first place.

  As she turned her head, she noticed something was amiss. Her scalp felt different: tight and itchy. She reached up to feel her head and groaned when her fingers touched a hundred hay straws tied into her hair.

  Anya moaned. “Oh, come on!”

  Further evidence of nighttime mischief became apparent as she looked out of the hayloft and into the main part of the barn. Lined up along the hayloft railing were the bottles of milk she had put into the cellar the night before. All the tools that normally hung along the walls had been knocked off and scattered around the floor. That must have been what woke her up.

  The source of the mischief materialized on the other end of the hayloft on the railing. The domovoi tugged on his long beard with one hand, and with the other he pointed a stiff finger at Anya as he bared his teeth.

  “Are you still mad about Ivan?” Anya asked him.

  At the mention of Ivan’s name, the domovoi narrowed his eyes and growled.

  Anya pointed down to the mess on the barn floor. “You didn’t have to go and do that! How long have these bottles been here? The milk’s going to spoil.”

  The domovoi arranged his fingers into a very rude gesture.

  Anya made the rude gesture back. “You can’t tell me who to spend time with. Ivan’s my friend. Deal with it!”

  The domovoi pointed his finger at her again, then scooted the finger to her right. At a milk bottle.

  She realized what he was going to do a second before he did it.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Too late. The bottle, moved by the domovoi’s magic, flew off the railing and smashed into pieces on the floor below. The one next to it followed, and the next.

  “Stop!” Anya lunged for the remaining bottles, but each one flew away from her fingers as she grabbed at them. “It’s almost Shavuot!” Mama would make thin, yeasty bliny and then stuff them with cheese, fold them up, and fry them. They needed the goat milk to make the cheese and to add to the bliny batter itself. Without milk and cheese, the bliny would just be sad pancakes.

  The dull tinkling of broken pottery echoed around the barn over and over, until the last milk bottle remained.

  She nearly got it. Her fingers brushed the cool, sweating side, but the domovoi was faster than she was. He snatched up the bottle with one of his hairy little hands and leaped away from her, dancing along the railing to where she had been standing a moment ago.

  As she whirled to look at him, he uncorked the top of the milk bottle. He held the bottle out, tipped it over, and let the milk spill.

  “You worthless spirit!” Anya yelled, running for him.

  He threw the empty bottle to the barn floor, where it smashed with the others. Then—​poof!—​he vanished, and the barn was quiet except for the clucking chickens below.

  Anya seethed for a few minutes. The house spirit wouldn’t ever have pulled a stunt like that if Papa were home. Who did the domovoi think he was?

  The house protector, she reminded herself. Before he had gone, Papa had told the domovoi to mind the family. Maybe this was his way of doing so, even if his opinion of Ivan was wrong.

  She climbed down the ladder and surveyed the damage from ground level before picking a shovel off the floor. She used it to push the broken ceramic of the milk bottles into a mound by the wall, and then she picked up the tools and returned them to their spots. Once that was done, she took one last look at the bottle mound and sighed. Hopefully, Dyedka would be able to replace the milk before Shavuot.

  Anya patted the goats on her way out of the barn, and she made her way to the house as she untied hay from her hair.

  Babulya was awake and tracing her withered fingers along the plants in the kitchen when Anya opened the door and walked in. Babulya perked up, turning her milky eyes toward Anya, and said, “Shabbat shalom, Annushka.”

  “Shabbat shalom.”

  “How did you sleep?”

  “The domovoi tied hay in my hair,” Anya said.

  Babulya cackled. “That fool made him upset.”

  Anya added, “And he broke all the milk bottles.”

  She didn’t cackle that time, instead pinching her lips together and blowing air out of her nose. “Is that right?”

  “I guess he was really mad.” Anya tore two pieces of bread off the leftover loaf and handed one to Babulya. “Ivan’s nice. I don’t know why the domovoi is so upset.”

  Babulya made her way to the table, bobbing as she took tiny steps and swept her hand in front of her. Anya darted to the table and pulled a chair out for Babulya, helping her ease into it.

  “That boy might be nice to you,” Babulya said. “But fools aren’t kind to everything.”

  Anya slid into the chair beside Babulya and chewed thoughtfully on
her bread. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Babulya picked at her slice with gnarled fingers. “He wouldn’t hurt a person, my dear. But what if you were something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “A rusalka, let’s say,” Babulya said. “Do you think Ivan and his family leave offerings for the rusalki?”

  Anya pressed her lips into a thin line. Ivan’s book wasn’t entirely correct about the rusalki, and if that was his only source of information . . . “No.”

  Babulya nodded. “Does your friend know what a domovoi is?”

  Anya nearly answered in the affirmative—​that was like asking if Ivan knew what the moon was—​but then she stopped. His book, again, had been entirely wrong. She didn’t know if his family had their own domovoi, and if they did, how did they bring it with them from house to house every time they moved? Where was it staying while they were at Widow Medvedeva’s home? How did they keep their domovoi from fighting with the Medvedev domovoi?

  Anya’s silence was enough for Babulya. She nodded and said, “I’m old and blind, but I still hear things. A fool never prospers in peace. Do you know what their magic is?”

  “No,” Anya said.

  “Chaos!” Babulya waved her challah in the air. “Disruptive, destructive, and it serves only them. And the domovoi knows that. He hears things too.”

  Anya sat, uneaten bread in her hand, eyes wide. Disruptive magic, indeed. She would count uprooting her family as disruptive. But once Yedsha paid her the money, she’d pay the magistrate, save her farm, and life could go back to normal.

  “Babulya, do you know a lot about magical creatures?” Anya said.

  “Oh, my fair share,” Babulya said. “Did I upset you, Annushka?”

  “No.” Anya stuffed the rest of her bread into her mouth and mumbled around it, “What do you know about dragons?”

  Babulya smiled. “Ah, dragons. We used to see them in the river sometimes, when your mama and papa were just little babies. Borya would tell everyone that the dragons ate goats, but they never did. They liked fish better, if I remember. And when we saw dragons, there was always good rainfall, and the chickens laid better. They’re good luck, dragons.”

  Anya said, “The tsar thinks there’s a dragon here. He sent Ivan’s papa here to find it. If dragons are good luck, why does the tsar want to hunt them?”

  Babulya’s smile dropped into a deep frown. “The tsar has done many bad things. You shouldn’t speak ill of the tsar because you’re still young, but I’m old, and if he arrests me for treason, I won’t live long enough to make it to prison. Ha!” She leaned back in the chair as she hooted with laughter. “Anyway, he’s done bad things. He made magic use illegal, and he called for the extermination of dragons.”

  “But he wants this one alive. Not exterminated.”

  Babulya nodded. “That’s how it always was. They were to be delivered alive to him. Thousands went into that palace in Kiev, but none ever came out. Of course he killed them. What else did he do? He used his bogatyri to do it. They used to be so noble, but now they’re hired killers.” She snorted. “He lets them use magic to kill, but I can’t use mine to grow plants?”

  “Ivan said his family’s allowed to use magic,” Anya said.

  “Fools,” Babulya said. “They do the tsar’s work. I hope that poor dragon escapes them all.”

  A heavy feeling of shame twisted inside Anya, and she got up from the table. “Do you need anything else, Babulya? I’m going out.”

  “Don’t break the Sabbath, Annushka.”

  “I won’t,” Anya said. “I’m just going to walk around.”

  “Hmm.” Babulya waggled her unfinished bread in the air. “I’ll finish this challah and then talk to my roses.” She winked when she said talk to.

  Anya grinned and put her hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “I love you, Babulya.”

  “And I you, Annushka,” Babulya said. “Be safe.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Widow Medvedeva was snoring in her rocking chair on the front lawn as Anya walked up to her house. She had a blanket tucked around her, and her head was thrown back. Little snores issued from her wide-open mouth. Anya was certain a bird would poop in it, so she used a single careful finger to tap the widow’s mouth shut.

  Several Ivanov sons were asleep around the fireplace, resting on one another at various angles. The smell of hot breakfast filled the air, and she followed the sounds of cooking to the kitchen.

  A woman flitted from the stove to several bowls on the counter, stirring and kneading and folding as she went. The pan on the stovetop popped and sizzled with whatever she was cooking there, and Anya’s mouth watered.

  The woman herself was barely taller than Anya, and much rounder, with black hair like Mama’s braided all the way down her back. Her skin was dark like Ivan’s, and the dress she wore looked luxurious even from the kitchen door. It was actually fastened properly. She was a princess, not a fool.

  Ivan’s mother reached one hand out and pulled an invisible thread of magic. A stream of water flowed upward from a bucket near the door, crossed the room, and cascaded into a large pot on the stove. The water started to steam almost immediately, and she slid a dozen eggs into it carefully.

  Anya lingered at the doorway, watching with wide eyes.

  Then someone grabbed her wrist.

  “Ah!” Anya spun and yelped, coming face-to-face with one of Ivan’s brothers.

  “Ah!” he yelled back.

  “Who—”

  “AAAHHHH!”

  “Semya!” Ivan’s mother hollered from the kitchen.

  “MAMA!” Ivan’s brother screamed.

  “Come sit down and be quiet,” she said, pointing at the chairs lined up at the kitchen table.

  Semya released Anya and slid into a seat. His mother handed him a piece of bread. He crammed it into his mouth and smacked it around loudly.

  “Goodness.” Ivan’s mother sighed. She smiled at Anya. “Well, come in. Get some food for yourself.”

  Anya shuffled into the kitchen, not wanting to stand by Semya and get screamed at again. Ivan’s mother handed her a shiny apple.

  “You must be Anya,” Ivan’s mother said.

  Anya nodded and took the apple. “Are you Ivan’s mama?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, scooting the pot with the eggs away from the stove’s heat. She set her finger on its edge, and lacy frost spirals coated the pot. It stopped steaming. “You can call me Marina.”

  Anya chewed on a bite of apple, nearly hypnotized by Marina’s casual magic. “Ivan said you’re a princess.”

  Marina nodded.

  “Of where?” Anya asked.

  “Oh, very far away,” Marina said. “Far to the east. Would you like a boiled egg?”

  Anya nodded, and Marina spooned an egg out of the water. When she placed it in Anya’s hand, it was cold. Anya knocked the egg against the counter and said, “I’ve come to talk to Gospodin Yedinitsa about hunting the dragon. I figured he’d be up by now.”

  “No,” Marina chirped. “The boys all sleep in. Except Vosya, and this one, apparently.” She jerked her head toward Semya. “Why are you awake so early, my little dummy?” She said “dummy” so nicely, like she was calling him “sweetheart” instead.

  “There was that little man again,” Semya said. “And I wanted to catch him, but he was very fast and ran away. Then I saw her.” He pointed to Anya. “Hello!”

  “Hello.” She paused in knocking her egg against the counter to break it and waved at him.

  To his mother, Semya whispered loudly, “That girl and I are getting married someday.”

  Anya grimaced. They certainly were not.

  “Let’s get your older brothers married before we worry about you,” Marina said idly as she spooned more boiled eggs out of the cold water. “And Semya, the little man is Widow Medvedeva’s domovoi. I told you not to bother him, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but listen to this.” He took a deep breath in and blew it o
ut. “He’s a demon.”

  Anya stared at Semya. He could see the widow’s domovoi? How?

  Marina ticked a finger at Semya. “He’s a spirit, and this is his home. You leave him alone.”

  Semya tented his fingers under his chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “If he’s a cat, can I pet him?”

  “Only if you ask first,” Marina said.

  Semya slid off the stool, fingers still tented under his chin. Without looking at Anya, he said, “Goodbye, future wife,” and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Anya watched Semya go, and then she turned back to Marina. “Can all of them see the domovoi?”

  Marina shook her head. “No. Just that one.”

  Anya made a mental note to never invite Semya to her house. “You said Ivan—​er, Vosya gets up early. Where is he?”

  “Probably by the river,” Marina said, motioning vaguely in the direction of the water. “Would you mind finding him? It’s breakfast time.”

  Anya nodded and took her egg out the back door into Widow Medvedeva’s vegetable garden. It was a very nice, well-tended garden, but the widow clearly didn’t have plant magic. Anya dropped the eggshell into the garden as she passed.

  She rounded a stand of trees, looking for Ivan by the river while she took bites out of the egg. She stopped near the shore and watched the river for a few minutes. She thought of the red thing—​the red thing that hadn’t actually been red and was clearly just a jumping fish—​and then she heard a peculiar, rhythmic thumping. She stuck the rest of the egg in her mouth and crept quietly toward the sound, soon coming to a flat spot on the riverbank.

  Ivan leaped into the air, tapping his heels together off to the side, and landed on his feet as lightly as fall leaves. He leaped again instantly, bringing both legs up to either side in a split, touching his fingers to his toes before landing again. Another jump, this one with a spin attached, but it was clear he was getting tired. He didn’t go quite as high as he had before, and he spun around only halfway before thumping to the ground.

  He knelt, breathing hard, and Anya decided now was as good a time as any to make her presence known. She said, “Ivan!”