Anya and the Dragon

by Sofiya Pasternack

  She swept her arm toward Ivan, who was still being hugged and petted by his brothers.

  Marina threw her arms around Dobrynya then, and he winced against his injured side. “Thank you for bringing them back, Dobrynya.”

  “Of course,” he said, then laughed. “They didn’t make it easy.”

  “No,” Marina said. “My Vosya never does.”

  Yedsha returned, and he wasn’t alone. The magistrate followed, perfectly clean and looking incredibly irritated that he’d been disturbed and dragged to the farm. When he passed the burned place where Anya’s house and barn had been, his eyes bugged.

  “Gospodin Ivanov,” the magistrate said softly as he halted in the field, “why—”

  “You told me no one lived here,” Yedsha said.

  The magistrate observed the burned home, the sooty villagers, and said, “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand you lied,” Yedsha said. “Because you wanted to, what? Force these people off their land?”

  Mama moved to Anya’s side and put her arm around Anya’s shoulders. “He told them what?”

  The magistrate’s face got red, and he stammered, “I said . . . What I said was, er, I said there would be an empty house, and . . .” He trailed off, mouth curling into a furious grimace, and he spat, “They’re Jews!”

  Anya’s mouth dropped open, and Mama sucked in a strangled sob. Everyone in the crowd was silent.

  “I was doing this village a favor!” the magistrate continued. “We don’t need a family of Jews here. We don’t need them in Kievan Rus’ at all!”

  Mama clutched Anya closer and sobbed. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh God.”

  Frenzied, the magistrate screamed, “And I know you all agree with me! This is a Christian village. Jews are a blight!”

  The magistrate stalked toward Mama and Anya, waving an accusatory finger at them. He turned to the fishermen in the crowd, panning over each in turn as he spoke. “This family is the reason the river is low! They poison the water!” He pointed at the nearby river.

  Anya wanted to ask him what sense that made; if they poisoned the water, they’d be poisoned with everyone else. But she couldn’t speak. Her palms were cold and sweaty, and she was dizzy. Her heart slammed against her lungs, knocking the air out so she couldn’t catch her breath to ask any of the thousand unanswered questions in her head. Did they really agree with the magistrate? Did the village hate Anya’s family? Would they be glad when they were gone?

  The magistrate was still ranting. He spun to another side of the crowd. “They’re why there are so many demons here! They’re cursed! It’s them!”

  Anya grabbed Mama’s arm. She realized several people had moved closer to her and Mama, and her heart pounded.

  Dusty old Bogdana Lagounova—​the chandler who Dyedka thought was terrible—​stepped forward. She held a bucket in one wrinkly hand. “I think you should go,” she said.

  Anya felt Mama shudder as she sobbed, and Anya went cold inside.

  “Yes!” the magistrate trumpeted. “Throw them out!”

  Bogdana threw her bucket to the ground. “Not them. You!”

  The magistrate’s triumphant cry died in the air. “What? Me? What possible reason—”

  “I think you should go too.” Father Drozdov joined Bogdana.

  “And us.” Sveta Mihaylova said. Her sister, Zlata, stood at her side, silent, but she held a piece of charred wood like a club.

  The magistrate watched with mounting disbelief as the other villagers voiced their agreement.

  “You stupid peasants,” the magistrate growled. He panted, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Miroslav Kozlov would have been a Christian if not for her.” He jabbed a finger at Mama, who recoiled away from it. “She tempted him away with . . . blood sacrifice, and converted him! That’s why I had him sent away! Jews aren’t supposed to be conscripted. The tsar doesn’t want them! So I told the conscription officers he was Slavist!”

  Mama gasped. She trembled and whispered, “Miro . . .”

  “You what?” Dyedka shouted from behind the crowd. He stormed forward as best he could on his wooden legs, eye fiery with hatred. “You sent my boy away to die!”

  The magistrate sneered. “I sent him away so he could be free from her influence. Not that a heathen would understand salvation.” He faced Dobrynya. “I had to get him out of the village. I have to get all of them out. You understand, don’t you?”

  Dobrynya’s mouth tightened, and he shook his head. “What you did was wrong.”

  Anya watched Dyedka’s fingers twitch, then swim through the air, reaching for threads she couldn’t see.

  Every goat in the herd turned to look at the magistrate.

  The magistrate noticed Dyedka’s movements, and he went from pleading with Dobrynya to glaring at Dyedka. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  “Or what?” Dyedka spat, bringing his hands up. The goats took a step toward the magistrate, Zvezda in the lead. “Or you’ll have me conscripted?”

  The magistrate pointed to Dobrynya. “I’ll have you executed!”

  Mama moved. She stepped forward, hands up, yanking threads. Her eyes were hard, shining with fury and grief.

  The magistrate’s threats died in the air as a slender willow branch snapped around his arm, tightening as another snatched the other arm. The magistrate wailed as Mama pulled more plant-magic threads and more branches wound around other parts of him. She stepped toward him as the tree dragged him back toward the river.

  Anya watched with awe as Mama wordlessly followed the magistrate to the riverbank. With a flick of Mama’s wrist, the willow’s graceful, slim branches jerked the magistrate, tossing him a few feet offshore.

  The magistrate went under and surfaced seconds later, gasping and sputtering. His meager hair was plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, with small pieces flopping this way and that as he floundered in the shallows.

  “You thought you were in trouble before this!” the magistrate shrieked. “There’s a bogatyr right here! He’ll throw you in prison, where you belong! You’ll rot there! Die there!”

  Anya’s stomach turned sour, but Mama didn’t seem to hear the magistrate’s threats. She finally spoke, her voice smooth and calm: “Gospodin bogatyr.”

  “Dobrynya Nikitich, Gospozha.”

  She nodded. “Dobrynya. You may take me to prison. But please let my husband’s regiment know what happened. Please bring him home.”

  Dobrynya put a finger to his lips, thinking. “I think you’ve suffered enough because of this man’s ignorance. If you promise me not to use your magic to throw him into the river again, I’ll forgive your trespass this time.”

  “And my husband?”

  “As soon as I leave here, I’ll speak with the proper authorities to have him sent home.”

  Mama nodded, a curt single shake. “Thank you.”

  “What?” the magistrate shrieked from the water. “No! She broke the law! She deserves to go to jail!”

  Anya stomped closer to the river, her words ripping out of her: “You broke the law too! Don’t you deserve to go to jail?”

  The magistrate screamed nonsense as he flopped toward the shore. The water behind him bubbled.

  A head surfaced, but it wasn’t the red of a rusalka. A vodyanoi rose up, his green hair matted with algae, tiny black scales clustering here and there on his sickly green skin. He looked froglike; his eyes were wide on his face, his nose was flat, his mouth was lipless and wide.

  The vodyanoi grinned, needle teeth flashing.

  The magistrate was oblivious to the danger behind him. He continued ranting about Mama going to jail and ignorant children and respect for elders.

  “Behind you!” Anya yelled.

  “Do not interrupt me!” the magistrate screeched.

  Dobrynya bellowed, “Get out of the—”

  The vodyanoi leaped forward, hitting the magistrate from behind. They both went under the water. The magistrate surfaced, floundering,
sputtering, gasping for air.

  “Help!” he screamed, then vanished under the water.

  A willow branch whipped over the water, then plunged into it where the magistrate had disappeared. It strained as it tightened, then withdrew and hauled the magistrate out by his ankle, still screaming, with the vodyanoi clinging to his back. As the branch dragged him out of the water, the vodyanoi howled and leaped back into the safety of the river.

  The branch released the magistrate once the vodyanoi had fled, and he collapsed onto the ground in front of Mama with a wet squish.

  Mama stood over him, her shadow covering his face. “You’re a terrible, wretched man,” she said. “But I didn’t throw you into the river so you could die.” She pointed a finger at the road. “Now get off my property.”

  The magistrate glared at her, then pushed himself off the ground. He straightened out his wet, dirty shirt, marched stiffly to the road, and vanished around the trees.

  Bogdana yelled, “Good riddance!” then picked up her bucket and went back to scooping up debris.

  Anya started toward her mother, but Father Drozdov beat her there. He wiped his robe’s sleeve across his forehead and said something to Mama that Anya never expected from the priest.

  “So,” the Father said, “what are you making for Shavuot?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Anya had never eaten so many bliny in her life.

  The village square was decorated with a hodgepodge of greenery, flowers, and leafy garlands, plus a small birch tree the villagers had moved from the forest to the square. The tree was decorated with ribbons and beads, and the villagers danced around it while they sang old Slavist songs.

  Many of the villagers provided Mama with milk and cheese, and she made dozens and dozens of bliny for everyone. Every family brought a table, some chairs, and a dish to share. Old Andrei Vasilyevich strummed a gusli on and off all afternoon, and Ivan taught Anya to dance the way he learned in Kiev.

  The magistrate didn’t come. His house was empty.

  No one ever saw him in Zmeyreka again.

  Exhausted from Ivan’s energetic dancing, Anya took a break with two bliny and went to sit by the bridge to her house. She ate slowly, watching the water. Did the river seem higher? Or was she just being hopeful?

  A raven landed on the ground in front of her as Ivan came to sit by her side. They watched the raven strut back and forth across the road, and then the bird hopped closer, eyeballing the food in Anya’s hands.

  Ivan stared at the bird with squinty eyes. “Do you think Håkon sent it?”

  “It just wants food.” Anya tore off a piece of the blin, tossing it to the raven.

  The raven flapped its wings and gobbled up the morsel, then croaked at Ivan.

  Anya sighed. “If only Håkon sent it. Then I’d know he’s alive.” She hadn’t seen Håkon since he had fallen off the cliff the day before. Kin had been absent from the village as well, so she couldn’t even ask him. When she went to Kin’s house, no one answered the door. His smithy was dark and cold.

  The raven croaked again and bounced forward, flapping its wings. This time when Anya threw blin at it, it didn’t eat.

  Anya threw another piece of food. The raven cawed again, ignoring the treats being lobbed at it. It looked at Anya, head twisting side to side.

  “Do you know where Håkon is?” Anya asked in a low voice.

  The raven tapped its beak on the ground. “Caw!”

  “Is that a yes?” Anya asked. “I can’t tell.”

  The raven ruffled its feathers and glared at Anya. It picked up the blin but, instead of eating it, tossed the piece over its feathery shoulder, north, toward where Kin’s house hid in the ravine. Then, with huge exaggerated steps, it marched to the blin piece.

  Anya’s heart raced, but before she could ask the raven anything else, it snapped up the blin and flew away over the bridge.

  “So weird,” Ivan said.

  Anya wasn’t sure if it was weird or if it was a message. She and Ivan went back to the celebration.

  Dobrynya lurked near the tray of bliny Mama had made, sneaking one after another until Mama approached him.

  “You like my bliny so much that you’re staying, Gospodin bogatyr?” Mama asked.

  Dobrynya stopped mid-bite. “Well, I can’t leave now, Gospozha. What if the magistrate decides to come back? I have to be here to defend you.”

  Mama nodded. “Of course.”

  “Besides, if these get left out, I’m sure they’ll spoil.”

  “They will,” Mama said. In a quieter voice, she said, “Thank you for sending for Miro. I think, after all you’ve done for me, you could call me Masha if you’d like.”

  Dobrynya just smiled and stuck the rest of the blin in his mouth.

  Anya glanced toward Kin’s smithy again, and she saw the door crack open. Kin peeked out, and when he caught Anya’s eye, he motioned for her to come over.

  “Ivan.” Anya pointed to Kin, and they both hurried to him, passing by Dyedka and Yedsha making plans for the new Kozlov house and barn. Before she made it past, Yedsha looked up and saw her.

  “Anya!” He put a hand out, stopping her. “Look at our plans. What do you think?”

  She studied the drawings they had made and noticed one of the sleeping rooms had a tall loft in it. She pointed. “What’s that?”

  Yedsha thumped her on the back. “Well, your dyedushka and I figured a girl brave enough to stand up to a mad Varangian probably deserves a space for herself. Don’t you think?”

  Anya didn’t dare believe it. Her very own loft? It would be in the same room as Mama, but somehow being a few feet above her seemed like such a huge thing. “Yes. I think that would be very nice.”

  He grinned, then nodded behind her. “I think Vosya is waiting.”

  She turned. Ivan stood by Kin, motioning for Anya to come over. As Anya approached, Kin said, “So I guess this is some kind of flowers-and-cheese holiday, huh?”

  “It’s Shavuot.”

  “The day ye eat cheese?”

  “It’s remembering when we received the Torah,” Anya said, and after a pause, “and when we eat cheese.”

  He smiled, and a shiver of guilt chilled Anya’s skin. “Where have you been, Kin?”

  “Busy,” he said. “Sigurd’s horse needed attention. I’ve named him Alsvindr.”

  “Oh,” Ivan said. “That’s . . . nice.”

  Kin laughed. “Alsvindr is the horse that pulls the moon across the sky. I think it’s a good name.” He shrugged, then said softly, “I’ve got something for ye. Come inside.”

  Anya and Ivan followed Kin into the smithy. Anya looked around, hoping Håkon’s ruby head would poke up from behind an anvil. Kin pulled a long, cloth-wrapped item from one of his workbenches. He handed it to Anya, and she unwrapped the cloth to reveal a shining sword beneath.

  “Kin,” she breathed, barely whispering.

  “It’s Sigurd’s sword,” Kin said.

  Anya frowned. “What?”

  “I helped Dobrynya and Yedsha bury him,” Kin said. “And I asked for his sword. Neither of them wanted it. I melted it down and made ye yer own sword, Anya. And Ivan . . .” Kin disappeared behind his forge for a moment, then came back with a long staff. Either end was capped with gleaming metal. “Ye’re taller. I think ye’ve got the skill for a staff, as well.”

  Ivan took the staff from Kin, eyes wide. He ran his hands down the smoothed wood, then lifted it and bounced against its weight. “Thank you.”

  Kin nodded. “The metal’s magic, and ye can use it for magic. Yer both well deserving of such weapons. But . . .” He lifted a finger. “Ye can have them only on one condition. Ye leave them here until I’ve trained ye to use them.”

  Anya grinned. “You’re going to teach us to be fighters?”

  “No. I’m going to teach ye to use yer weapons,” Kin said. “Yer already fighters.”

  Anya was fine with that. She imagined being older, wielding the magical weapon, and
going on adventures with Ivan and Håkon. He’d be a bogatyr, and she could be a different kind of hero, and Håkon could . . .

  The fantasy fell away as reality intruded. Anya rewrapped the sword and handed it to Kin. “Thank you for the sword, Kin.” She took a deep breath. “Have you seen Håkon?”

  Kin fiddled with the magical sword’s cloth wrapping for several long seconds, saying nothing. He took Ivan’s staff and the sword into the ember-lit depths of the smithy, and then sunlight spilled in as the front door opened wide.

  Anya and Ivan turned. Dyedka hobbled in. Zvezda peered around one side of him, and another goat shoved on the other side, both trying to force their way into the smithy. He swatted them back and said, “Annushka, you’ll never believe it!”

  He turned back to the village square. Ivan trotted after him, pushing the goats out as he went. Before Anya left, she peered back into the smithy’s darkness, where Kin lingered by a forge, quiet.

  “Kin.” She had to know. “Have you seen Håkon?”

  Kin said nothing. Then, so quietly she barely heard him, he said, “He’ll send for you when he’s ready.”

  Her breath caught on its way in. “Annushka!” Dyedka hollered at her from outside, and she went to see what was so unbelievable.

  An enormous brown hawk perched on Dobrynya’s arm, its claws digging into his leather bracers. The huge bird wore what appeared to be a leather vest, with a solid cylindrical case attached to the vest on the hawk’s back. Zvezda stood at Dyedka’s side, neck stretched up as far as it would reach to sniff at the bird’s tail.

  “It’s a messenger hawk.” With his free hand, Dobrynya uncapped the case and teased out a stack of rolled papers. “I’ve never seen this many papers, though.”

  One of the papers fluttered out of his fingers, and Anya stooped to grab it before Zvezda ate it. As she did, she read the writing on the top of the paper: To my darling Masha.

  Her mouth dried up, all the moisture apparently being converted into stinging tears. She would know her father’s script anywhere.

  “It’s . . .” she mumbled. “It’s from Papa.” She turned to her mother, who stood frozen by the bliny tray, one hand clutched over her heart. “It’s for you.”