He looked up, eyes wide, and then stood quickly. His hands went behind his back first, and then he tugged at his earlobe. “Uh . . . hey.”
“What were you doing?”
Ivan scratched the back of his head, eyes darting from place to place on the ground. “Um, dancing. I learned it when we lived in Kiev.” He cleared his throat. “It’s harder than it looks.”
It had looked hard. Anya said, “You lived in Kiev?”
“When I was little. Then we moved to Ingria, and now we live here.”
The farthest from Zmeyreka Anya had ever gone was Mologa, which was only a few hours away. There was a harvest festival there every year at the end of the summer, and Mama sold a lot of onions.
“Why does your family move so much?” Anya asked.
Ivan shrugged. “We go where the tsar says we need to go. Or Papa hears about a demon that needs exorcising.”
Whenever Anya complained about something, Babulya would inevitably swoop in with the story of her journey to Zmeyreka so many years ago. The way she told it, moving from one village to another was horrible, humiliating, and something she would never do again. And now Ivan said his family moved all the time. Fools were strange.
“Your mama said she’s from the east,” Anya said.
Ivan shrugged. “Yeah, but we’ve never been there. She doesn’t want to go back.”
That seemed strange to Anya, but maybe it was just much too far. As Anya understood it, someone could spend several lifetimes wandering the lands to the east.
“Your mama wanted me to tell you it’s time for breakfast,” Anya said.
Ivan’s eyes widened. “Are my brothers up yet?”
“No, except—”
Ivan ran toward the house, and Anya followed. He was practically frantic, jumping over obstacles and huffing hard by the time he reached the back door. He flung it open and charged inside.
Anya, gasping for breath, stumbled into the kitchen after Ivan. It was still empty for the most part, except for Marina and Yedsha sitting at the table beside each other.
Ivan didn’t say anything to them as he dove for the food, cramming meat patties, boiled eggs, and fried, flat cakes into his mouth.
“Good morning, Vosya,” Marina trilled.
“Mmurmg mmah,” Ivan mumbled through his full mouth.
Yedsha stood up from the table. “Anya! Are you ready to hunt the dragon?”
* * *
Anya, Yedsha, and Ivan took the road north through the village. Yedsha wanted to explore the ravines and cliffs Anya had mentioned to Ivan the night before, and Anya was happy to oblige. It was Shabbat, so she declined the rubles Yedsha offered her.
As they crossed the bridge out of the village, Anya tensed up. Would Yedsha want to see the house he was supposedly buying? Would Ivan tell him the house was Anya’s, and if he did, would Yedsha figure out what Anya needed those rubles for?
“Yedsha,” Anya said, skipping to the fool’s right side. He looked down at her and away from her home’s little turnoff. “I’d never heard of fool magic until I met Ivan. And then what you did to Sigurd was amazing. How does your magic work?”
“Oh, it’s very simple!” Yedsha said. “Do you know how regular magic works?”
Anya had an idea, but she shook her head. “No one uses magic here, so no.”
“Well,” Yedsha said, “everything in the world is connected in some way to a thread of magic. It could be earth magic for stones or dirt, or water magic for water or ice, or even metal magic or fire magic.” He whispered, “Or light magic. Dark magic. Those who use emotional magic can calm a foe, or incite a gentle creature to rage. Magical animals can interact with magic threads with special appendages on their bodies.” Yedsha motioned at the sky. “A dragon doesn’t fly in the same way a bird does, for example. Their wings have magic hooks all over them, and they naturally snag threads of air magic and use those to propel themselves through the air.”
Anya had meant to get him talking as a distraction, but now she listened, completely enthralled.
“The great bogatyri are humans who are imbued with magic power,” Yedsha said. “With strength or wisdom. And then me.” He smiled and bowed his head. “Simple fool magic. All it requires is its wielder not attempt to use it.”
Anya furrowed her brow. “You can use fool magic only by not using it?”
Yedsha nodded. “Correct!”
They had reached the fork in the road: the western fork led to Ingria, and the other road to the frozen expanses of the eastern kingdoms. Anya steered them west.
“But how do you do it, then?” Anya asked. “You used it to fight Sigurd. I saw you!”
“I didn’t try, though,” Yedsha said. “As I walked to him, the magic told me to pick up those objects. It told me to hold on to the fish. It told me to take the horseshoe. So I did. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I had trust in the magic. Fools must obey the magic of fate, and never try to control it.”
“Fate magic?” Anya shivered. Hadn’t Babulya said chaos?
“All magic is connected to the magic of fate,” Yedsha said. “Manipulation of the right magic in the right way could alter the trajectory of fate magic ever so slightly, and cause far-reaching changes. Only fools can interact with fate magic directly, and only by accident.” He grinned at Anya. “Fate is proud. It doesn’t like being told what to do.”
Anya didn’t quite know how to respond. The revelation of the true nature of fool magic chilled her. The fools themselves seemed uncommonly lucky, but how far did that luck extend? If they found the dragon up in the cliffs and it attacked, would fool magic protect Anya, or only the fools wielding it?
They reached another bridge, and Anya stopped them. She pointed off to the right side of the road, northward to the gray cliffs, and said, “This is the place I told Ivan about.”
Yedsha rubbed his chin as he looked toward the cliffs, barely visible over the trees. “Is there a road?”
“Of a sort,” Anya said, pointing again. A narrow but well-worn path branched from the main road, following the river’s shore into the forest. Anya had never taken the trail farther than a few yards off the road, so she hoped it was passable farther north.
“Well, off we go!” Yedsha declared, and he set off into the trees.
Chapter Twelve
Yedsha led the way, followed by Anya, and Ivan brought up the rear. Once they were deep beneath the canopy, the temperature dropped several degrees. After half an hour of stepping carefully along the sometimes-mushy, sometimes-crumbly path, they found that it thinned and disappeared as sharp rocks replaced the dirt. The trees thinned as well, getting smaller and more sparse; only the most dedicated among them could get a roothold in the rocky soil between the shaded cliffs.
Ahead of them, the scarce path crossed a wooden bridge over the water, and a little house sat on the other side. Yedsha halted. Anya halted. Ivan ran into the back of Anya and nearly made them both fall into the water.
“Ivan!” Anya hissed.
“Sorry!” Ivan said.
Yedsha turned back to Anya. “Whose house is that?”
“I don’t know,” Anya said. “I don’t ever come up here.” She shouldn’t have been up there even now. The woods weren’t safe, especially so far from the village.
“Well.” Yedsha’s voice was quiet. “Let’s see who lives here.”
He advanced up the path. Anya stood still for a few breaths and then followed. Ivan shuffled behind her.
The bridge was narrow but sturdy over the river. On the other side, a tall, thin stone stood in front of the water. Anya paused to look at it. It was as tall as her chest, thinner at the top and thicker at the bottom, carved with a border of knots and loops. A name was etched in the center: Yelena. A carved dragon beneath the name seemed to hold it up, supporting it on the stone. The top was worn smooth, the way some stones get after years of foot travel over them.
Anya touched the smooth top with two soft fingers. She hadn’t ever seen a stone
like it before, with the intricate carvings, but she immediately knew what kind of marker it was.
Yedsha was closer to the house, peering here and there, and Ivan came up behind Anya. “What is it?” Ivan asked.
“A grave,” Anya said. “Or maybe a memorial. I don’t think you can dig a grave in this earth.”
He leaned around her. “‘Yelena.’ Who is Yelena?”
“I don’t know,” Anya said. She didn’t know of anyone in the village named Yelena. She drew her fingers along the carved dragon, unable to believe the presence of a dragon on the stone was a coincidence.
Yedsha rapped on the front door. The three of them waited and listened for footsteps from within the house. Nothing. Yedsha tried the handle, and the door swung in.
Yedsha poked his head in, then stepped forward slowly. Anya and Ivan watched from their spot by the stone, and then Anya whispered, “Should we follow him?”
Ivan trembled. “We could.”
Anya moved first. She stopped at the open door and peered in as Yedsha had done. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Yedsha stood in the center of the room, surrounded by sturdy wooden furniture, thick animal-hide rugs, and more weapons than Anya could believe existed. Swords, daggers, spears, sickles, axes, and some weapons Anya couldn’t even name were mounted on the walls, covering every inch of space. A huge, round wooden shield dominated the chimney over the fireplace. Painted across the front of the chipped, marred shield was an intricate red dragon.
“Another dragon,” Anya murmured.
Yedsha stood near a sword, inspecting the handle so closely that his nose nearly touched it. He looked back at Ivan and Anya. “We should go.”
She followed Ivan out of the house, and Yedsha shut the door behind him. On the way back down the path toward the road, he said, “I don’t want either of you coming up here again.”
Anya nodded, and Ivan said, “Yes, sir.”
* * *
Babulya was taking her tiny steps across the road with a company of chickens when Yedsha, Ivan, and Anya walked back past the farm. It was hard to avoid going past, since it was off the only road going north of the village, but it was set back too far from the road for the fools to see. But Babulya was heading right for the path down to their house, and Anya didn’t want the fools to wonder where the old lady was going. She called out, “Babulya!”
Babulya stopped short of the path. So did all the chickens. Babulya waved in Anya’s direction as they approached.
“Annushka!” Babulya cocked her head, listening. “Who are your friends?”
Anya hesitated, fear bubbling up inside her. Would Yedsha realize what house they were near? Would Babulya realize Anya was helping fools hunt a dragon? Would the domovoi sense Ivan and destroy more food?
She realized she’d been quiet for too long, so she pointed to the boy beside her.
“This is Ivan, Babulya,” Anya said. “And his papa, Ivan Yedsha.”
Yedsha bowed low. “It’s very nice to meet you, Gospozha.”
Ivan mimicked his father. “Very good to see you again.”
Babulya nodded, her face puckering. “Ah. Well. Likewise. Come with me, little Anya. You have chores.”
Anya offered Ivan a small wave as she went with Babulya. Ivan and Yedsha continued south to the village.
Babulya snaked her arm through Anya’s and said, “Walk me home, Annushka.”
Anya did, leading Babulya down the sloping drive. As soon as Ivan and Yedsha were gone around the trees, Anya expected Babulya to scold her about doing the exact thing she had warned Anya away from that morning. But instead of asking about the fools, Babulya said, “That boy made the rusalki restless.”
Anya held in a frustrated groan. She had a feeling any bad fortune would be blamed on Ivan from now on. “How?”
Babulya didn’t answer her. “Go hang an offering for them.”
“I did that a few days ago.”
Babulya shrugged. “They’re restless. Hang another piece. It can’t hurt.”
Anya sighed. “Yes, Babulya.”
Inside, Anya rummaged through the cupboard with the linen in it. She dug around for a small piece, found one, and then trudged out the door, south toward the river.
A large willow tree hung over the water, dipping the tips of its branches in the current. Too many of the willow’s branches didn’t touch the water anymore.
Anya paused a decent distance from the tree, watchful for the water spirits. She didn’t see any, and she’d just started toward the tree when a loud splash from the river nearly made her jump out of her skin. She backed away from the water, out of reach of anything lurking there. Her mind went immediately to a vodyanoi, its scaly face and froggy eyes and impossibly wide, hungry mouth. A rusalka might not do anything to her, but a vodyanoi? She’d be drowned before she realized it.
She searched the river’s surface for a full minute, but no splash came again. When nothing sinister leaped out at her, she hurried to the willow and spotted a branch she could tie her linen to.
Movement across the water drew Anya’s attention. A rusalka sat in the shallows near the other shore, combing her fingers through her copper hair. She watched Anya with empty sockets, somehow still beautiful even without eyes. The spirit smiled, and a chill ran up Anya’s spine. Had that rusalka made the splash? Anya looped the linen around the branch and went to tie the knot.
The water in front of the rusalka rippled, and a second redhead emerged. The rusalki exchanged glances, then both turned their empty eyes to Anya.
Anya’s fingers trembled as she struggled to tie the knot. The linen’s ends kept slipping out, refusing to be tied. She was trying to do it with half of her attention turned to the rusalki on the other bank, and that wasn’t working.
The rusalka in the shallows joined the one in the deeper water, and both water spirits began to swim toward Anya.
With ragged breaths and shaking hands, Anya watched the rusalki approach.
Then both of them disappeared beneath the river’s surface.
Now she really couldn’t take her eyes off the water.
“Tie it, Anya,” she muttered to herself. “Just tie it. Tie it! Go!”
One more loop was attempted, and this time the linen slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the ground beside the bank.
Anya spat out an obscenity that would have gotten her a scolding if Mama had heard it. She darted forward to grab the linen from the bank, and she saw the pale arm of a rusalka half a second before it emerged from the water.
Anya couldn’t stop her forward momentum; her brain had been numbed too much by fear to make an intelligent decision anyway. Her hand landed on the linen as the rusalka’s hand did the same, and the water spirit’s cold fingers touched Anya’s as they both grasped the cloth.
Anya inhaled sharply, meaning to yelp or scream or something, but her voice froze in her throat as she looked into the rusalka’s face. Those empty sockets were less lovely up close, dripping river water down her cheeks like never-ending tears. Her stringy, wet hair hung down her shoulders and arms, spreading in the water like ruddy tentacles. Her white smock clung to her like a partly shed husk. The feel of her skin was like a dead fish beneath Anya’s fingers . . . Anya’s own skin crawled.
A second cold, wet hand touched Anya’s other arm, and this time she nearly choked on her own tongue, still unable to make any appreciable sound. The other rusalka had arrived and was reaching for Anya, no doubt attempting to drag her into the river to her watery death. People said rusalki drowned only men, but Anya wasn’t willing to take the villagers’ word for it. She lurched away from the water spirits.
Lurching got her only so far. They were waiflike but stronger than they looked. The second rusalka’s hand was like clammy steel on her arm.
Anya let go of the linen. “Don’t,” she muttered, breath hitching with every inhalation. “Please.”
The rusalka with the linen held it up, examining it, and then she rubbed it on her face, sn
uggling it like a baby with a blankie. The rusalka holding Anya stroked Anya’s hair; Anya was torn between trying to be pleasant so she didn’t offend the spirits and screaming until she lost her voice.
Linen in hand, the rusalka smiled at Anya, fluttering her long eyelashes as she did. Without eyes to offer contrast, the eyelashes looked like insects moving against the hollow sockets.
Another splash from the river. Anya barely heard it over the rush of blood in her ears, but the rusalki both turned toward it. They let go of Anya so suddenly that she fell backwards onto the riverbed, and in a matter of seconds, the rusalki were both gone into the inky river.
As they swam away, something else moved just beneath the water’s surface. It was bigger than any fish Anya had ever seen come out of the Sogozha. Whatever it was rippled just under the water, moving like a gigantic snake rather than a fish.
She watched it, frozen with fear, and then it breached the surface.
This snake—or fish, or whatever monstrosity it was—was red, and it had a row of spines along its back.
She ran. The long grass of the pasture whipped her legs as she fled from the water. When she reached her house, she crashed past Babulya and Mama, and slammed the door to the sleeping room shut.
She dove under the blankets on her bed, peeking only her face out of them, and she could hear Babulya tutting in the kitchen: “Slamming doors like they’ll last forever. Children these days.”
It took Anya a minute to notice the domovoi on the bed beside her, likewise under the blankets and poking only his bearded face out. He looked up at her, reached out a little hairy hand, and patted Anya’s softly.
There, there, the pat seemed to say. I’ve seen the dragon too.
Chapter Thirteen
Anya couldn’t stay hiding under her blankets all day. Eventually, Babulya opened the sleeping room door and said, “Come study, Annushka.”
Babulya shuffled to one of the dining room chairs by the stove. Anya made sure the table was clean, and then she crossed to their bookshelf. Their Torah scroll occupied its own shelf, wrapped in the nicest cloth Babulya had been able to purchase in Zmeyreka. It wasn’t as nice as the original cover had been, Babulya said, but the original cover had been singed before she pulled it from the burning synagogue, and stained as she escaped Sarkel and fled across Kievan Rus’, and she couldn’t leave the Torah in a dirty cover.
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