Anya and the Dragon

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Mama’s face trembled, but she didn’t cry. Stiffly, she hurried to Anya and eased the letter from her. She read the letter, eyes darting back and forth so fast that Anya was sure she couldn’t actually be comprehending the words.

  But then Mama smiled, laughed, and said, “He wrote it a week ago.” She kissed the letter, hugged it to her chest, and murmured, “Oh, Miro.”

  “There’s one for you, Borya,” Dobrynya said to Dyedka, handing him a paper. “And more pages for Masha. And . . .” He held out the last paper to Anya. “One for you.”

  Anya did her best not to snatch it, but she felt like she did anyway. She held the letter in numb fingers, unable to bring herself to read it in front of everyone.

  Dobrynya recapped the case, stroked a thick finger down the hawk’s back, and said, “I’ll keep him here, so you can write a letter back. Hopefully he’ll return to where he came from.” He set the hawk on the top slat of the fence in front of the church, tethering the bird with its leather leg straps so it wouldn’t fly away.

  After Dobrynya walked away, a raven flew overhead, cawing loudly. Anya looked up and watched it circle the celebration. It made eye contact with her—​she swore it looked right at her—​and then flew north.

  He’ll send for you when he’s ready.

  With the letter clutched in one hand, and Zvezda on her heels, Anya followed.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Zvezda’s little hooves clacked on the bridge out of the village as he chased after her. When she looked back at him, he bleated loudly. Ivan trotted abreast of Anya halfway to Kin’s house. The three ran in silence until they crossed the rickety little bridge over the ravine river. Marching around on the ground in front of Yelena’s headstone, pecking at bugs and worms, was the raven from before. When it saw Anya and Ivan crest the path’s top, it cawed and flapped its wings again.

  A moment later, a familiar ruby head poked out of the fast-moving river. Håkon pulled himself out and shook tiny diamonds of water off his scales. Zvezda bleated, and Anya ran up to him.

  “Håkon!” She hugged him around his neck. “I was afraid you really died!”

  He used one of his clawed feet to mimic her hug, patting her awkwardly on the back. “I didn’t. Amazingly.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Anya said. “I thought, because the ibbur said the dagger would kill someone only if I really wanted them dead, and I didn’t want you to die, that if you looked like you were dead they might stop chasing you, and then you bled so much and . . .” She heaved a huge breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  He continued patting her. “What’s an ibbur?”

  “Long story.” She squeezed him.

  His hugging arm tightened. “So you meant what you said? You want me to be happy?”

  Anya sniffed. “Yeah.”

  Ivan approached then. “I thought she was crazy at first! And then she explained, but you never came back, so we thought you were dead.”

  Håkon laughed as he released Anya. He indicated his smooth chest. “I fell down the waterfall, and by the time I got to the bottom, it was all healed up.”

  Anya hugged him again. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

  Håkon smiled his dragony smile, and then he saw the letter in her hand. “What’s that?”

  She lifted it up. It had come out of the hawk’s case so smooth, but now it was wrinkled and a little damp in places. “It’s a letter from my papa.”

  “What does it say?”

  She shrugged.

  The dragon watched her, then said loudly, “Ivan, I can make a spider out of water. Come over here and see.” Off Håkon slithered, and Ivan followed, with the raven soaring after them around the other side of the house.

  Anya was alone. Except Zvezda. But he couldn’t read. She sat on the steps in front of the house, and Zvezda plopped down next to her. With trembling fingers, she opened the letter and read Papa’s graceful, smudged words:

  My beloved Annushka,

  I feel as though it’s been years since I’ve seen you, though I know it’s been only a few weeks. We arrived at the southern border in March, and, boy, is it warm! I think it will get very hot here once the summer comes.

  It’s not so bad here. The real soldiers have given us weapons training, so now I know how to use a sword better. The men in charge said that since I work with animals at home, I should be in charge of caring for the cavalry’s horses. Horses aren’t as interesting as goats, but it’s a better job than cooking or digging trenches.

  Did you meet my friend who brought the letters? His name is Germogen. He uses magic to fly to your dyedushka, and to fly back to me. He’ll always be able to find the two of us, so I can send you messages this way. There’s no post in or out of the camps otherwise.

  I know you’re being very good for your mama and dyedushka and babushka. I miss you so much, and I can’t wait to get home and see you again. When I get home, we’ll race goats to the bridge and go up to the waterfall! Keep working on your reading and writing. Germogen can bring your letters back to me. I’d love to see something from you.

  Tell Mama you love her every day, because she deserves to have someone say it, and since I’m not there, you have to take over for me. Can you do that?

  I love you so much, Annushka, and I know this is hard for you. I’ll see you again soon. Happy birthday, and I’m so proud you’re becoming a bat mitzvah! I’m sorry I’m missing it. We’ll have double celebrations next year. Promise!

  Love,

  Papa

  Anya wiped away an errant tear that ran down her cheek as Zvezda leaned in and nibbled on the edge of the letter. She pushed his mouth away. “You’re a bad goat.”

  She didn’t mean it.

  Anya tucked the letter into her dress pocket, and Zvezda leaned against her. They sat on the steps of the house for a while, watching the river water rush past as she patted him, and then Ivan and Håkon returned to Anya’s side.

  Ivan put his arm around her and said, “Good letter?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “Good letter.”

  Håkon bumped her shoulder with his snout. “Want to watch me and Ivan have water wars?”

  Anya smiled, and Zvezda bleated. She still didn’t have any magic, and maybe she never would, but that didn’t matter just then. She had a home to live in, and a family that loved her, and two new best friends who were foolish and brave and wonderful. And that was all the magic she needed.

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is a blast, but it’s not something you can do by yourself. There are so many people who helped me write this book—​not directly, but whose little contributions to my life made this book possible.

  First, Rena Rossner, my incredible agent, who had faith in Anya and her story even when I didn’t. You made that winter the best, busiest one I’ve ever had, and I’m eternally grateful for your encouragement and tough love (and the apple challah recipe you gifted me!).

  The hugest of thanks to the team at Versify! To Erika Turner, my editor, for reading my manuscript eighteen thousand times (at least) and pushing me to make it better than I ever imagined it could be. To Margaret Raymo, for taking a chance on me and my story. To Kwame Alexander, for making me feel like a member of the Versify family. To the whole team at HMH: Mary Magrisso, Jessica Handelman, Margaret Rosewitz, Kristin Brodeur, Erika West, and Alix Redmond. Every time I turn around, one of these wonderful people is doing something great with my book, and the enthusiasm from everyone warms my heart.

  Jeff Langevin, the cover you illustrated literally took my breath away, and I can’t imagine anything more perfect for Anya’s story. Celeste Knudsen, your wonderful, flowery chapter art surprised me in the best way, and an extra thank-you for your extra-hard work!

  Alex Ott, my Pitch Wars mentor, and Kim Long, my almost-mentor: you two get a special thanks for being simultaneously the very first (non–friends or family members) who told me you liked my story and my characters. That small gesture on your parts, plus
Alex’s huge efforts during PW with my manuscript, did worlds for me.

  To Nevi, thank you from my entire heart for being my first middle grade reader. To Sophie and Melissa for being my first adult readers, and not being afraid to give me honest feedback (in the middle of the night, no less).

  Lindsay, thank you for always being available for my out-there messages, and for your honesty and bravery with critiques, and for your unfettered fangirling of my characters.

  Thank you so much to the Salt Lake City Writers Group: Shauna, Stephanie, Lori, Rebecca, Zach, Sean. I grew so much as a writer because of you all. I still have a long way to go, and I’m so grateful I’ll have such wonderful people by my side.

  To Lisa, Boris, and the gang at that language place I live near. Spasibo to you all for helping me with the Russian language and some Russian culture and having lengthy discussions about what the deal is with all those Ivans anyway. Thank you, Ben, for nerding out with me about Jewish history.

  To my husband. Thank you for being patient and being present even when I wasn’t. For supporting me. For letting me take over the office and buying me that really awesome trunk-desk. For buying me cupcakes and celebrating every little thing. For reading my drafts and doing your best to answer weird questions about dragons and root vegetables and the climate of Russia in the tenth century during June and “People know what the Völsunga saga is, right?”

  My kids. Thank you for being my inspiration. I wrote this book for you. If you love it even a fraction as much as I love you, I’ll be happy.

  And finally, I want to thank you, reader. For giving my book a chance to be a part of your life for a while, and for believing in nice dragons.

  Sofiya Pasternack

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Anya and the Nightingale.

  The warmth faded, and Anya looked up. The ibbur’s hut was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar road with trees on all sides; half of the trees had decided to put on their fall colors, but the other half stubbornly clung to summer green. The sun shone into Anya’s face out of a clear blue sky. Ivan stood next to her, likewise blinking away the brightness, and he mumbled, “What happened?”

  Anya looked around. “I think she brought us to the Pecheneg territories.”

  “Patzinakia,” Ivan corrected. “It’s called Patzinakia.”

  “Fine, Patzinakia,” Anya said. “I think we’re there.”

  “How does she do that?” Ivan yelled.

  “Be quiet!” Anya hissed. “Håkon, hide.”

  She realized then that Håkon wasn’t there. She spun, her heart seizing in her chest, and almost tripped over a pile of coats and bags on the road next to her. It was a hodgepodge of their clothes, but also new coats and hats that didn’t belong to them.

  She pointed. “There’s your coat . . .” She bent closer, staring.

  A foot poked out from under the pile. A human foot.

  “Ivan,” she gasped, and knelt. She threw his coat at him and pushed the bags away. Underneath it all, a boy lay face-down on the road.

  Oh no. When the ibbur had let them out, they must have landed on top of someone. She rolled the boy over, grimacing, hoping he was alive.

  Ivan pulled on his coat as he bent to peer at the boy. “Does he look familiar to you?”

  Anya shook her head. She had never seen him before in her life. He had deep golden hair, curling around his ears and at his neck. His clothing was too big for him, threadbare, and he wore oversize, scuffed boots. A smattering of freckles colored the rosy skin at the tops of his cheeks. She reached out to touch his face. Then his eyes snapped open. They were a familiar shade of brilliant blue.

  Anya jerked her hand back. “Håkon?”

  He looked up at her. “An—Ayn . . .” He ground his teeth together and a look of panic crept across his face. His lips moved like he had a mouthful of honey. “An. Ya.”

  She couldn’t speak. She just stared at him with her mouth hanging open. Ivan stood by, equally agape.

  Håkon—was it really him, though?—looked back and forth between them. His panic was plain on his face, and mounting. “I f-feel . . . strange.”

  “You look strange,” Ivan mumbled, and Anya swung her fist at his leg. “Ow!”

  Håkon’s breath hitched and it took him a few tries to get out “Wh—what did she do?” He tried to roll off his back, but only moved from the waist up. He swung his arms up, and then froze. He brought his hands back, trembling, in front of his face.

  Then he screamed.

  “Håkon!” Anya slapped her hand over his mouth. His breath blasted against her palm as he continued screaming. She shook his head back and forth. “Stop! Stop it. Someone’s going to hear you.”

  Finally, he quieted, and Anya took her hand away from his face. His mouth was still twisted in a silent scream. He didn’t blink.

  “What,” he squeaked finally, looking down at himself. At his human body. His breathing got faster and faster the longer he looked. He kicked one foot and started keening, like he was going to scream again.

  Anya put her hands on his arm. “It’s okay.”

  “Okay?” He crossed his eyes, looking down his face at where his dragony snout no longer stuck out. “Whuh-whuh-where is my face?”

  Ivan pointed to his own. “You’ve got one like this now.”

  “I hate it!”

  “You haven’t even seen it,” Ivan scoffed. “It’s not a bad face.”

  Håkon still lay on his back, hands up in front of his face with the fingers curled in. Anya hooked her hands under his shoulders and tugged him, trying to prompt him to sit up. “Come on, Håkon.”

  He was dead weight as she tugged him forward. Sitting up, legs straight out in front of him, wasn’t a good position. He started to lean to one side and did nothing to stop himself from falling over.

  He let his arms flop against the road and wailed, “I don’t have a tail!”

  “Humans don’t,” Anya said.

  “How am I supposed to walk?” Håkon said. “Why would the ibbur do this to me?”

  Anya almost said she didn’t know why, but then she realized she did. “I bet the Pechenegs are just as hostile toward dragons as the tsar is. We couldn’t bring you here as a dragon. They’d kill you. So, she changed you.”

  Ivan crouched in front of Håkon and studied him. “How did she do it? Where’d the dragon parts go?”

  Håkon glared at him, looking miserable on his side, with his face in the cold dirt. He was much more expressive as a person.

  “Magic, obviously,” Anya said. “Håkon, come on, stand up.” She reached down to help him stand, but he remained in the dirt of the road.

  “May I have a moment, please?” he asked. He curled his arms in close to his body.

  “Are you cold?” Anya asked.

  Håkon grumped, “My skin is tingly.”

  “That’s goosebumps,” Ivan said. He grabbed the remaining coat off the pile the ibbur had left with them. “It means you’re cold.” He wrapped the coat around Håkon as tightly as he could while the dragon-turned-boy lay on his side.

  Anya felt bad for rushing him, but they couldn’t afford to just sit there. They needed to figure out where they were and find the door that fit the key the ibbur had given her. But Håkon looked so miserable and lost, and Anya decided that letting him find himself for a minute wouldn’t hurt. “Um . . . take your time, Håkon.” She caught Ivan’s eye, looked pointedly at the other side of the road, and walked a few paces away to stand there.

  Ivan patted Håkon’s shoulder and joined Anya. They stood, arms crossed, heads together, and Ivan said, “I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I dunno.” He shrugged. “Not that.”

  “This doesn’t change our plan, right?” Anya said. “Rescue Papa, bring him back to Zmeyreka.”

  Ivan looked unsure. She cleared her throat.

  “I mean, clearly,” Ivan said quickly. “But Håkon—”

  “Håkon is
fine,” Håkon said. He pushed himself uneasily into a sitting position, pulling his legs up in unsure, jerky motions. He clutched the coat around him like a blanket. He tried to get his feet under him, but he couldn’t figure out how.

  Ivan darted to him and fastened the coat shut over Håkon’s meager clothing. Then he sat by Håkon’s side. “Like this.” He tucked one foot under his behind, then leaned forward, balancing himself as he brought his other foot up and straightened out.

  Håkon tried to do what Ivan did, but he got his feet tangled and fell forward onto his hands. He grunted with frustration.

  “Or you could try . . .” Ivan mimicked Håkon’s position, on his hands and knees, and he walked his feet up and used his hands to push to standing.

  Håkon did better with this method and almost stood, but then stumbled as he tried to straighten up. His knees buckled and he went down. Anya and Ivan ran to him, each grabbing an arm and helping him up.

  Håkon laughed. There was something grim in it. “I need my tail back.”

  “At least you’re getting better at talking,” Ivan said.

  “You’ll figure it out,” Anya said. “Let’s find somewhere safe to sleep before it gets dark.”

  Anya and Ivan searched up and down the road. It was packed earth, much more heavily traveled than the roads in Zmeyreka. The trees crowded close to the road, their leaves rustling in a breeze that sounded like the whole forest sighing. That sigh and birdsong were the only sounds that disrupted the forest’s quiet.

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  About the Author

  Photograph by Elisha Frey

  SOFIYA PASTERNACK is a nurse whose fondest childhood memories involve her pet goats wrecking the house. When she’s not working at the hospital, she can be found enjoying Utah’s wild places, teaching her kids to make challah, and writing whatever new story has taken up residence in her brain.

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