Was this how Slava saw her?
“He’s not here,” Kostya finally answered, not meeting her eyes. Why wouldn’t he meet her eyes?
Rubbing a chill from her arms, Matrona abandoned the pottery and sprinted to the izba beside it. She rapped her knuckles on the door.
Creaking floors alerted her to someone’s approach. Afon opened the door, a short ceramic jug in his hand. His blue eyes—Jaska had inherited his dark gaze from his mother—looked at her through a film of drink, and he lifted the jug to his mouth and took a swig. Matrona smelled the stench of alcohol when he spoke. “Whattaya want?”
That strange cooling sensation erupted within her once more. She sensed a blissful stupor within the Maysak patriarch, and beneath it a thick blanket of failure—
She averted her eyes, shivering under the force of the unwanted revelations. “I’m looking for Jaska.”
Afon looked her up and down. Drank again.
“Papa,” Galina’s soft voice sounded from within. “Please go rest.” She appeared at her father’s elbow and pulled him from the doorway. He silently obliged, his legs quivering slightly with every step.
Galina filled the doorway with her body, as if eager to hide the home she lived in. Matrona looked at her and gritted her teeth, resisting the strange doll-sight. To her surprise, her mind and body cooperated, and she saw only the surface of Galina.
“Matrona.” Galina paused, as though seeing her for the first time. “How can I help you? Has Roksana worsened?”
The serpent dug its fangs into Matrona’s heart at the sound of Roksana’s name. “No. I don’t know. I’m looking for Jaska.”
Galina frowned. “Feodor asked him to stay away from you.” Then, lower, “He asked all of us.”
“Feodor is not my husband.” The word yet danced at the back of Matrona’s tongue, but she choked it down. “Please, it’s important. Where is he?”
Galina shook her head. “If he’s not at the pottery, I don’t know. He’s not here.”
“Spit at his feet!” Olia’s voice boomed from a back room. “Hesse . . . and by Rhine. Kiss the mouth that curses us!”
Is that why they went mad? Matrona wondered. Olia and Roksana. They discovered themselves too quickly. Slava’s spells poisoned them.
Galina winced at her mother’s shouting. “I’m sorry, Matrona.” Whether the apology was for her brother’s absence or her mother’s vulgarity, Matrona wasn’t sure.
Matrona felt the air rush out of her. She nodded. “Thank you.”
Galina had shut the door before Matrona turned away.
The walk home was too long, as though the village stretched with her every step, making minutes feel like hours on a thread-thin path. When Matrona stepped into the izba, struck by the heat of the brick oven, her mother’s head snapped up. “You’ve certainly forgotten your responsibilities as of late!”
Then her mother met Matrona’s eyes and paused, hands frozen midwipe on her apron.
“What is it?” Matrona asked.
Her mother cocked her head ever so slightly to the side. “I . . .” She cleared her throat and looked away, the malice draining from her face. Something else replaced it—something Matrona struggled to identify. The cooling sensation she’d experienced with the others prickled her skin, but Matrona resisted it. She did not wish to see inside her mother.
Matrona asked, “What?” and looked down at herself, searching for anything amiss.
Her mother merely shook her head. Lines broke up her forehead into rows. Her cheeks sucked in slightly, her mouth pursed, her eyes clear and downcast. Not so dissimilar from how she looked on the rare occasions when Slava came for a share of milk and cheese.
Almost like she was . . . intimidated.
“Mama,” Matrona pressed, “what were you going to say?”
Her mother shook her head and busied herself with the oven. “Nothing. Busy is all.”
Frowning, Matrona relaxed and studied her mother. Really looked at her, at the faint moles on the side of her neck and the wrinkles dipping around her eyes. The feeling of falling engulfed Matrona.
She saw hard hands in her mother’s life; she’d been raised by strict parents as well. There was a survival instinct rooted deep within her heart, and Matrona wondered where it hailed from. Loss twined through every part of her mother’s being. Loss for Esfir, her disappearance lacking closure. Loss for her unborn children, for were her body fit, she would have had more than two. And most surprisingly a possessiveness of Matrona herself, rooted in the desire to make sure everything went well for her, because she was to be her parents’ only legacy.
Matrona stepped back, blinking the impressions away. Her mother avoided looking at her, just as Kostya had, but perhaps that was for the better. Matrona was speechless. All of that wrestled inside her mother’s soul? It was protectiveness that caused her heavy-handedness?
Numb, Matrona moved past her mother and down the hall, trying to process the revelation. She didn’t understand it. Was there something broken in Slava’s spell? How did such sorrowful motivations translate into harsh actions?
Taking a deep breath, Matrona shook herself, trying to clear her mind as she slipped into her parents’ room. She went to the mirror that hung near the window and inspected herself in it: light skin and light eyes, black hair and thick eyebrows, strong jaw. Nothing looked amiss. Nothing was different. So why were the others treating her as if she had become someone else? Someone . . . bigger?
She bit her lip and hugged herself. Perhaps this was what Slava had meant, being separated from the village. Would everyone see her differently, without even knowing why? Would she see all of them differently as well?
Matrona had a wrenching feeling this was only the beginning.
The next day, for the first time since Matrona could remember, neither of her parents reminded her to do her chores.
Her mother, especially, had always seemed to enjoy chiding Matrona over work that needed to be done, even if it had already been finished. But the morning after Matrona opened her fourth doll, her parents showed her a strange sort of deference, which they mostly exhibited in the form of silence.
Matrona wondered at it as they ate their kasha. Both of them were quiet, heads down. Just as Matrona used to be. When had she stopped bowing her neck at breakfast?
Her appetite was slim, but Matrona worked down as much of the porridge as she could. She itched, wondering just when Slava would call on her. Wondering how much time he would give her to digest what she’d learned. Not long, if he wanted to use Roksana’s coming child as a lesson.
Then there was Jaska. Murmurs of her own darkness slipped in and out of her mind as she tried to fathom what he must be experiencing. Was that why he hadn’t been home yesterday? Had the agony dropped him where he stood, with no passersby to help him home? Or had his family merely lied to keep Matrona at bay?
The cows milked quickly, though it may have been Matrona’s distractions that made the time pass so swiftly. Once the milk was separated and the cheese left to set, Matrona scrubbed her hands and face, smoothed her hair, and donned her newly cleaned red sarafan. She was going back to see the Maysaks and found herself indifferent toward what the village might have to say about it. She’d already lost Roksana; she couldn’t lose Jaska, too. That strange tingling sensation rose in her every time another villager crossed her vision, and she bit down on her tongue to keep it at bay. She couldn’t bear seeing into the souls of so many, not now.
Had Slava intended that to be part of her “responsibility”?
She reached the pottery. Only Kostya occupied it, so Matrona went straight to the house and knocked on the door, expecting Galina to answer.
No one came.
She knocked a second time, harder. No answer. No footsteps on the other side of the door, either. She chewed on her lip. Viktor lived in another izba with his wife. Galina often took Olia on walks to help her stretch her legs, and Afon . . . Afon could be anywhere.
But if Jaska’s
darkness was as debilitating as Matrona’s, he wouldn’t go far.
Stomach tight, Matrona knocked a third time. No answer. She turned the knob and called into the house. Still no answer.
She stepped inside, a flitting memory of what had happened the last time she entered a house uninvited bouncing about her head. The Maysak izba hadn’t changed much since Matrona’s child-tending days. The front room had a wooded smell, its log sides made of a lighter wood than those in her own izba. Worn furniture took up three of its four corners. Beyond that, a small kitchen and woodstove. Then bedrooms and a narrow set of stairs to the attic.
That attic had been converted into a bedroom, which Jaska and Kostya had shared as boys. Matrona wondered if that were still the case.
“Jaska?” Matrona called, walking through the house. She listened for the sound of inhabitants, or perhaps Afon snoring as he slept off his latest alcohol-induced headache. “Galina?” she tried.
The place seemed completely empty, which was strange, given the number of Maysaks who inhabited it. It could be disastrous if someone, especially Afon, discovered her roaming it, but she had to check the attic before she’d be content to look for Jaska elsewhere.
She didn’t want him to be alone, as she had been.
The stairs to the attic were so steep, they were almost a ladder, and Matrona had to ball her skirt into her fists to climb them. She heard a soft groan, so she hurried up the remaining steps, nearly hitting her head on the sloping roof.
There were two low beds, one against each angled wall, both narrow with bits of straw poking out from the mattress. One simple side table between them, one half of a candlestick, a pitcher, a cup. Jaska stretched out over the leftmost bed, one elbow swung over his eyes, the other tucked next to his ribs. His hand rested on his stomach as though it pained him.
It came almost unbidden this time, showing her a layer of darkness dripping like sludge. The doll-sight pierced through it, and she saw dancing across Jaska’s hair a faint loneliness that mirrored her own, a desire for truth knotted in his core. There was a drive inside him to find solutions to problems, his or others’. Deeply ingrained affection for people; disorganized thoughts. A pain for his parents that pressed on her as heavily as Kostya’s had.
A trust and affection for a woman tied up with another man.
Her pulse quickened and her bones felt light enough to float.
She swallowed and whispered, “Jaska.”
He startled as though waking from a deep and treacherous sleep. He sat up ever so slightly, now pressing a hand to his head. Matrona thought she could feel the pulsing pain of it in the too-warm air. She crossed the room to him, ignoring the squirming feeling in her gut that told her it was improper. The floorboards creaked under her feet. Jaska blinked his red eyes before his gaze found her. Matrona thought he looked almost relieved.
She knelt on the floor beside his bed. “Is it terrible?” she asked at the same time he said, “You opened it.”
His voice was strained, and he closed his eyes again, wincing as he did so. “Yes,” he answered. “Yesterday . . . was worse.”
“I looked for you.” She took his hand in both of hers, if only to root him to reality, to give him some sensation other than the roiling darkness that consumed his mind. “You weren’t home.”
“I was . . . in the wood. Setting snares. There until dark, then . . . I got lost.” He chuckled once, a dry and scratchy sound. “Haven’t done that . . . since I was a boy.”
“I remember.” It was the reason she’d been asked to tend to the Maysak children for a time. The boys had gotten lost, and it was determined someone needed to watch over them since the older children struggled to do that, work, and tend to Olia’s sickness.
He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing with the effort. Releasing him, Matrona went to the side table and poured water into the cup there. Jaska accepted it with a weak grip and drank slowly.
Matrona set the empty cup on the floor. “It will fade.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“No one is home—”
“Not anywhere with me,” he clarified, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. “I’m . . . awful.”
“You’re not.” Matrona snatched up his hand again and squeezed it. “It’s just the spell.”
“It’s all true.”
“It will pass. In a day or two, the shadows will brighten, the memories will fade, and the voice will quiet. Then you’ll be yourself again.”
“I don’t . . . want to be.”
“Be what?”
He groaned. “Myself.”
“Jaska Maysak.” She rose from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, though the narrow mattress barely allowed enough space for her. “You are not awful. You are not any of the things Slava’s sorcery would have you believe.”
His eyelids fluttered open. A vein rose in the center of his forehead.
“You are wonderful,” Matrona continued, softer now. “You are diligent. You are a dedicated son and a faithful brother. You work tirelessly in that shop to see to the needs of the village. You’re patient with your father . . . and with Feodor.”
Feodor’s name felt strange on her tongue, tasteless and heavy. Feodor. She hadn’t thought of him since he’d escorted her to Slava’s home. Didn’t want to think of him.
Jaska snorted. “That man’s back wouldn’t bend if an ox sat on it.” His eyes looked a little clearer, and Matrona let a trickle of relief urge a smile onto her face.
She sought to pull him from the throes of the sorcery, to push aside the shadows lingering in his expression. “You are kind. You’ve been nothing but kind to me even after I opened my first doll. You’ve helped me more through this ordeal than anyone else.”
Jaska pulled his hand from her grip and pressed it into the bed, trying to sit up. Another wince.
“You may not believe in God,” Matrona went on, quieter still, “but you are faithful. You believed me. You care in a way other people do not. You’re not afraid to show your heart, and it’s good, Jaska.”
She felt the warm pads of his fingers on the back of her arm, though she hadn’t seen him move. The touch made no sound, yet it sent a wave of alertness through her. Jaska’s gaze leveled with hers, and through that singular connection, Matrona could read his thoughts, clearer even than the memories his doll had spilled into her mind. Her pulse reverberated off the slanted walls in beats of three, and in them she heard the name again: Fe-o-dor.
Jaska’s fingers tightened, a soft grip.
Feodor didn’t love her. He couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted more than anything. Even if that hadn’t been true, Matrona didn’t love him, and she had come to realize she never would.
Jaska pulled ever so faintly, urging her forward.
We’re all just dolls anyway, she thought.
She let herself drift toward him.
Jaska’s lips met hers. Shivers cascaded down the sides of her neck. His hand traced up her arm and slipped behind her braid, cradling her head, pulling her closer.
His lips were softer than she would have expected. His breath washed over her cheek as he turned his head and claimed her mouth again. Matrona eagerly gave it to him, parting her lips against his. The scents of wood smoke and angelica danced through her nose and throat.
Rough hands cupped either side of her face and pulled her back, just enough so that Jaska could rest his forehead against hers. His eyes were closed. She struggled to catch her breath.
She shouldn’t be here.
She didn’t want to leave.
“You make it better,” Jaska murmured. “The darkness. I’m sorry.” Despite the apology, he brushed her lips with a chaste kiss.
Matrona swallowed, the taste of him lingering in her mouth. “It will pass.”
He opened his eyes and smiled—smiled, despite the pain she knew was flooding him. That smile made her heart beat at an exhausting pace. But it faded, and Matrona knew he was thinking it, too. Feodor.
“I opened the doll.” Her words, spoken on a whisper, were intended as a distraction, for she didn’t want to disturb the strange sort of tranquility that had settled in the sliver of space between them. “Nothing . . . terrible happened. Others behave oddly toward me, as though that first doll was never opened. As though I’m older and more deserving of respect than I am. My mother . . . she’s almost submissive.”
Jaska studied her eyes. “I feel nothing different. Toward you, that is.”
She was relieved to hear it. “Perhaps because we’ve opened two of your dolls. But the fifth doll, Jaska. It’s me. It’s us.”
Jaska leaned back and rubbed his temple with his thumb. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Not really. But somehow we’re inside those dolls. Somehow our bodies comprise the fifth part. I think . . . I think that’s why I see the wood grain in the sky, in the wood. I’m seeing the inside of the doll.”
He studied her. “But they fit in our hands.”
She nodded.
He shook his head. “Sorcery.” He winced. “And Slava?”
“Wants me to learn how to make them. Jaska, everyone has a doll but him. He wants me to make one for Roksana and Luka’s baby.”
“They had it?”
“Not yet, but soon. He says the baby will disappear if we don’t make the doll within a few days of its birth. I think”—her voice choked—“I think that’s why my sister vanished. She didn’t have a doll. Back then . . . Slava claims he didn’t know.”
“He didn’t know the rules of his own sorcery?”
She shrugged. Jaska tensed suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut. Matrona could only wonder at what cruel things stirred inside his mind. Could she use her new doll-sight to find out?
Did she want to?
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
Jaska leaned against the sloping roof beside his bed and gave her a hooded look, one that seemed to say Feodor without any letters or sound. He took a deep breath. “Make time go faster.”
“Perhaps Slava knows a way.”
The Fifth Doll Page 16