Anya and the Dragon

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Anya shrugged, and they walked back to some semblance of a path on the swampy ground. She didn’t want to tell him that she didn’t think a good arm would make a difference against Sigurd.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Anya dove deeper into the dark swamp, Ivan following carefully behind her. She stayed on the path, anxious to reach the end. She wasn’t sure what would be worse when they reached it: finding Sigurd and fighting him, or finding nothing at all.

  “I can add a bukavac to my compendium,” Ivan whispered from behind Anya. “With not one but two firsthand accounts of battling it!”

  “Lucky you,” Anya said. They crossed over another little bridge, and the path wound around a large tree.

  Anya came to a halt, and Ivan nearly ran into her. The path abruptly ended at the edge of a clearing. In the center of the clearing sat a hut with smoke wafting out of the chimney. A waist-high fence made of swamp-wood posts stretched around the hut’s perimeter. The hut had no door.

  Ivan whispered, “Anya, that’s Baba Yaga’s hut.”

  “Baba Yaga isn’t real, Ivan.” But her mouth was dry, and her heart was beating fast. “We should leave.”

  Anya moved to continue past the hut, and Ivan grabbed her arm with trembling fingers. “Wait. We should go in.”

  “That’s crazy,” Anya hissed. “We don’t have time for that. Håkon—”

  “She could help with Håkon!” Ivan argued. “We don’t know where he is, or how we’re going to get him away from Sigurd. In the stories, she helps sometimes.”

  Anya pulled her arm from Ivan’s grip. “In the stories, she also eats children sometimes.”

  “Still.”

  “Baba Yaga isn’t real,” Anya repeated. “It’s probably just a hermit’s house or something.”

  “There’s no door,” Ivan said, as if that explained it.

  “Maybe it’s on the other side,” Anya said.

  Together, they followed the fence around the clearing, searching for a door until they came across one. Two windows on either side glowed like jaundiced eyes in the darkness. A gate in the fence hung open on crooked hinges.

  “See?” Anya said. “There’s a door. It’s not Baba Yaga’s hut.”

  “She’s tricking us,” Ivan whispered.

  Anya rolled her eyes. It was just a swamp hermit’s house, and they were wasting time. She moved to continue past the house, but something caught her eye. At the top, a carving of a dragon stretched from one side of the door to the other. The dragon was familiar.

  Anya looked back at Ivan, who was shaking in his boots. He wheezed out nonsensical words, and Anya said, “Ivan, that dragon matches the one on Yelena’s grave marker. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  Ivan nodded slowly. “Do you think we should go in?”

  “I think I should,” Anya said, “but your arm . . .”

  Ivan’s wide eyes were locked onto the hut, and though he continued to wheeze, he shook his head. “If we’re getting eaten, we’re getting eaten together.”

  Anya took Ivan’s good hand in hers, and they started toward the gate. But before they could pass through it, the door to the hut swung open, and heavy orange light spilled out. Ivan and Anya both jumped and clung to each other as a figure silhouetted against the light stomped to the doorway, halted just inside, and jammed its hands to its skirted hips.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the figure snapped. A woman. An annoyed woman. With a lilt to her words that was kind of like Sigurd’s and kind of like Kin’s. “If you’re going to save Håkon, we have to hurry!”

  And the woman spun and marched back into the house, leaving the orange-lit doorway empty. Anya looked at Ivan, and he looked at her, eyes wide and popping. They scrambled through the gate, across the small yard, and into the little hut.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The hut was warm—​almost too hot—​after the coolness of the swamp. It was a single round room, and bookshelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling. The shelves were stuffed with books of all sizes, shapes, and colors. The windows flanking the door had benches in front of them with poofy pillows on top; the yellow glow Anya had seen from the outside came from hanging lanterns dangling on thin chains, casting light over the window seats.

  Anya and Ivan hurried farther into the room, their dirty boots sinking into a plush carpet that covered the floor. Small tables dotted the room, with more books stacked on top of each one. More books were stacked under the tables and teetered on the fireplace mantel. Anya tried to guess how many books had been crammed into this one room, but the only thing she could think was Every book in the world is here right now.

  The room’s hearth crackled on the opposite side from the door, and a pair of great big chairs sat before the fire. The woman was nowhere to be seen. The room was silent except for the fire’s grumbling.

  Anya swallowed hard, peering up at Ivan. He was breathing loudly through his nose, searching the room with wide eyes.

  “I think,” he said softly, “that was Baba Yaga.”

  “She’s not Baba Yaga,” Anya said.

  “She could be,” Ivan argued.

  “But she isn’t!”

  Anya and Ivan jumped as the woman spoke from behind them. She bustled past, books stacked high in her arms. She wasn’t very tall, maybe coming to Ivan’s shoulder, and she had long auburn hair braided to her waist, with a white kerchief over it. She dumped the books into one of the chairs by the fire and began pawing through them as she said, “I’m not Baba Yaga. Her hut has chicken legs on it. And I don’t eat children. I just enslave them.”

  Ivan choked a little, and Anya backed up, ready to kick the door open so they could escape.

  The woman turned with an impish grin on her freckled face. “Just kidding.”

  Anya had wasted enough time being lost in the swamp, and she wasn’t going to waste any more. “You said that to save Håkon, we had to hurry.”

  “We do.” The woman checked book after book, tossing each rejected tome onto the other chair. “But I have to find the right—​Aha! Finally!”

  She snatched up a red book and flipped it open, coming toward Anya and Ivan. She looked about Mama’s age. The white apron over her white dress had blue waves embroidered along the top.

  The woman rustled through the pages, then thrust the book at Anya. “Read that page. You’ll know when to stop.” She pointed a finger at Ivan. “You. Come here. Bring that broken arm with you.”

  Anya and Ivan stared, wide-eyed. “What?” he said.

  The woman sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t fight the Varangian with a broken arm. Now, give it to me.”

  “Why?” Ivan leaned away.

  “Because I’m going to heal it!” the woman snapped.

  Ivan remained where he was. “Are you a witch?”

  “No.” The woman glowered at him.

  Ivan narrowed his eyes. “A vila?”

  “No.”

  “Kikimora?”

  “What?” She frowned. “No.”

  His eyes got wide. “An upyr!”

  “I’m a person!” the woman said. “Just a person, and I died, and I’m trying to help you.”

  Anya said, “You died?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “It doesn’t matter. We need to hurry.”

  “Why are you trying to help us?” Anya asked.

  The woman groaned, exasperated. “Because.”

  Anya almost asked what that meant, but then she realized she already knew. A person who had died but remained in order to help others. A nice ghost. She pushed Ivan’s shoulder gently toward the woman. “Go, Ivan.”

  He balked. “But what if she—”

  “She won’t hurt you. She’s an ibbur.” Anya looked at the woman. “You are, aren’t you?”

  The woman held her breath and nodded. “Yes.”

  Ivan shrank away from her. “Don’t possess me.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “If only this could be that easy.”
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  Anya clutched the book to her chest. “I’m . . . I’m sorry you died.”

  The woman shrugged. “I’m lucky, all things considered. Now, Ivan, get over here. And Anya, read that page.”

  Anya looked down. The words inked on the paper were old and faded. In some places, they weren’t even Russian. But she tried anyway: “‘And here begins the tale of mistletoe, that most unassuming and gentlest of plants. For though it has always been soft and kind, it was once used to kill. Three brothers: one beloved, one blind, and one wicked. The wicked brother, through trickery, coached the blind brother to kill the beloved one with an enchanted dagger of mistletoe.’”

  Ivan’s pained squeak made Anya look up. He grimaced and held up his broken arm, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. The woman stood by him, fingers plucking at the air, head cocked like she was listening to something.

  The woman peered up at Anya and said, “Keep going.”

  Anya watched a tear roll down Ivan’s face. “But—”

  “He’ll be fine,” the woman said, gritting her teeth. “Keep going.”

  Anya hesitated, then started again: “‘The dagger, thrown by the blind brother, pierced the heart of the beloved brother, and he died. The mistletoe was so distraught, it vowed never to be rigid enough to form a dagger again. But the existing dagger could not be destroyed, and so it promised never to harm another through trickery, or by accident.’”

  The paragraph ended at a drawing of a sprig of mistletoe, and Anya looked up at the woman. She flicked her eyes at Anya. “Good job.”

  Ivan sucked in a high gasp and clutched at his arm.

  “Are you hurting Ivan?” Anya asked, reaching for her friend.

  “No!” the woman said. “Maybe. Yes. Don’t touch him. I’m almost done. It’s been a while since I practiced.”

  Anya pulled her hand back and watched Ivan suffer through the woman’s healing. “Why did you want me to read that?” Anya asked. “That was a sad story.”

  “So you’d understand.” The woman let her hands drop and said to Ivan, “Move your arm.”

  Ivan stopped grimacing and gingerly tested his arm’s range of motion. He moved it in every direction, his careful wince turning into a broad smile. “Anya, look!” he said, torquing his arm back and forth. “She fixed me!”

  Anya squinted at the woman. “How do you know Håkon?”

  The woman snatched the book from Anya. “That’s not important. Not now, anyway. Later, probably. But not now.” She spun and returned the book to the pile on the armchair, tossing it on top. “Anya, I need your help to keep him safe. I can’t do it myself. Will you help me?”

  Without hesitation, Anya said, “Yes. Of course.”

  Ivan swung a hand between Anya and the woman. “Wait! What does helping entail? Are you going to possess Anya?”

  “No one is getting possessed,” the woman snapped.

  “It doesn’t matter, anyway!” Anya swatted Ivan’s arm again. “I’d agree to be possessed. It’s helping Håkon!”

  “That’s so sweet, but I can’t possess you,” the woman said. “This isn’t that easy.” The woman took a breath. “I see the futures. There are a thousand endings to every story, and only by the telling does the ending become clear.”

  Anya swallowed hard, and Ivan asked, “You see the future?”

  “Futures.” The woman sighed. “We’re wasting them. The new sun. He is dying now.”

  Ivan opened his mouth, but Anya smooshed her open palm against his face, pushing him back as she said, “Håkon is dying? What do we do?”

  “You won’t like it,” the woman said, now hurrying to the nearest bookshelf. She rummaged through the shelf, pushing books this way and that, removing small wooden boxes and grunting when she opened them. Then, finally, she pulled a box off a shelf, flung back its lid, and stopped. She reached one hand toward Anya and said, “Come here.”

  Anya ran to her as the woman pulled a sharp stick out of the box. It was longer than Anya’s hand, a dark, dark wood. It looked relatively unremarkable, but it made the air around it shiver.

  The woman offered it to Anya, but she didn’t want to take it. She was sure the wood would feel cold under her fingers. “What is that?”

  The woman continued to hold it to her. “Don’t you recognize it?”

  “Why would I—” Then she realized she did recognize it. “The mistletoe.”

  The woman nodded.

  Anya raised a trembling hand and grasped the wood in unsteady fingers. It wasn’t cold. It was uncomfortably warm, like a beating heart.

  The woman balanced her finger on the long blade of the wooden dagger in Anya’s hand. “I see two ends, two futures for this story. This dagger is the fulcrum, the point on which both ends balance. Death, but only if you want it. Use it. Blood is best in the new sun.” She peered past Anya at Ivan. “Now is the time for action, fool.”

  Ivan was silent, and the woman left Anya to sweep past Ivan on her way to the door. She stopped there, hand on the door’s handle, and she said, “Do not fail him. Strike when the time comes. Be true.” She pushed the door, and a dark, packed-earth landing stretched before them.

  “Strike?” The mistletoe felt hotter in Anya’s hand. Maybe that was because she was gripping it so tight. “Strike Sigurd? But the mistletoe in the story didn’t want to kill anyone again.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. “But it will. Not through trickery. Not by accident. Only if you want it.”

  A cold feeling settled in Anya’s chest. “I stab him. And if I want him to die, he’ll die?”

  The woman answered with a slow nod.

  Anya’s hand quaked. Sigurd had tried to kill Anya and Ivan twice each, three times if she counted when he had thrown her into the river near her barn, but she still didn’t think she could . . . “I can’t. I can’t kill someone.”

  “Because you will destroy the world, hmm?” the woman asked. “If you commit this sin to save a life, have you destroyed the world, or have you saved it?”

  “I . . .” Anya felt unsteady everywhere. “I don’t know.”

  The woman’s face fell into a sad frown. “Do not fail him. Please.”

  The pain in the woman’s voice scraped at Anya’s heart, and she blurted, “Who are you?”

  The woman took a deep breath, like she was going to answer, and then an invisible force shoved Anya and Ivan toward the door, through it, out of the hut, and into the night.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Anya and Ivan stumbled out into the darkness. As they turned around to look at what exactly they had stepped out of, the door slammed shut and vanished.

  Ivan shuddered and said, “What happened?”

  Anya stared at the empty night, clutching the mistletoe in one hand. She knew what she thought had happened, but it seemed too crazy to be real. There was a mistletoe dagger in her hand, though, and they were no longer in the swamp, so it had to be real.

  Anya registered the dull roar of a river. They weren’t standing in a wooded swamp but rather on a cliffside lookout, halfway up the path that wound its way to the top of the ravines north of Zmeyreka.

  The moon was gone, but it was light enough to see. Dawn approached.

  “‘Blood is best in the new sun,’” Anya mumbled, repeating the mysterious woman’s words. “Do you think . . .” She trailed off, understanding lighting her brain. Sigurd needed Håkon’s blood for his powers, and if blood was best in the new sun, then dawn would be the best time to spill it. She looked skyward, where the sun was making the horizon rosy. The new sun would be there any moment. “The sunrise! Ivan, we have to hurry!”

  Anya ran up the path with Ivan behind her. As they neared the top, the day grew closer; Anya had never before dreaded the sunrise.

  They neared the top of the cliff, both wheezing and gasping for air after trudging the last few hundred feet of the steep path. The river ran at the base of the ravine behind them, its roar bouncing up to them at the top. The valley behind them slept in dark
ness, but an unwelcome glow was descending.

  At the top, Sigurd stood by a huge dead tree, sword pulled. A stack of wide, flat rocks had been built near the tree; a large stone bowl rested on top of it. Sigurd’s horse was on the other side of the flat area, tethered to a live tree that grew beside the river that roared over the cliff’s edge. Håkon was secured in a net on the ground before Sigurd, eyes shut. Not moving.

  Anya’s heart thumped to a stop in her chest. They were too late. Håkon was dead.

  Then he moved his tail the tiniest bit, and Anya released a held breath of relief. But as Sigurd shifted the sword in his hand, she realized they were barely there in time.

  She picked a small stone off the ground and turned to Ivan. She whispered, “Hide! I’ll distract him, and you get Håkon out of here!” She waited for Ivan to nod and hide on the path over the cliff, and then she threw the stone at Sigurd. It bounced off the back of his head as she yelled, “Hey! Sigurd!”

  Sigurd turned slowly, face curled into a furious grimace. When his eyes focused on her, he uttered what were probably several Varangian swears and bellowed, “Why won’t you die?”

  Anya felt much less brave when Sigurd was glowering right at her, but she didn’t want him to know that. She did her best to square her shoulders and grip the mistletoe in her fist as she paced away from the path.

  “Let him go!” she demanded.

  The Varangian’s snarly face tightened. He brought the sword up, twisting it in a wide arc, and said, “None of your heroes are here to save you now. You’ll die at the end of my sword this time.”

  Anya kept pacing as Sigurd stepped in huge, menacing strides toward her. Behind him, Ivan snuck up the path and padded past the tree toward Håkon.

  Anya did her best not to watch Ivan, not wanting to draw Sigurd’s attention to him. In her mind, she was planning her escape route: She could follow the cliff-top plateau north for a way, and then there were rock jumbles and trees she could hide in. By the time Sigurd gave up chasing her, Ivan would have Håkon away safely, and . . .