by Scott Bury
“I know how hard it is,” said Photius as he shrugged his pack onto his shoulders and led the way. “I lost my wife, too, to a pestilence, a mysterious plague from the East, when we were visiting in Persia.”
They continued in silence until Javor asked “How long have you been were you following it, searching for it? How did you come to my village a day before this—this monster?”
“Indeed, I was looking for Ghastog. As I said, I belong to an ancient order of learned men (and some women, too, by the way) whose purpose is to find and destroy as many monsters, fiends, ogres and dragons as we can.”
“But why?”
“I told you: they’re inimical to mankind. It is the theory of my order that the legions of Hell began a war long ago and conquered the Earth, destroying many of the gods. And there is another phenomenon happening now: the arising of the one God. I am not certain what it means, but the old gods, it seems, are dying out.”
“What does all this mean to me?” Javor asked, impatient.
“It is your destiny, Javor.” Photius stopped dramatically. “You have been chosen.”
Javor stepped around Photius and kept walking. “Chosen? For what?”
“To help rid the world of monsters, to clear the way for the development of mankind. You are destined to carry on the struggle to rid the world of monsters.”
“Forget it, old man. I’m going back to my holody and putting my parents’ farm back together. I’ve had enough of monsters.”
With another dramatic gesture, Photius swept back his cloak to reveal a long sword belted to his side. “A long time ago, I was chosen. I have carried the struggle on. In my time, I have destroyed dozens of such things, werewolves and ogres and monsters that beggar description. I have seen comrades, friends, loved ones ripped apart by them. But I did not shy away from my fate. I was chosen, I took up the arms, and I fulfilled my destiny.
“Now my doom has called me not only to follow demons, but in my old age, to find one to carry on the struggle for me when I am gone. And that one is you, Javor. You have been chosen to follow me.”
“Choose someone else, old man. I don’t care about your monsters. I don’t want to chase ogres around the world. I want to go back to my village and marry Elli and raise children. Forget it!”
Photius laughed again. “I did not choose you, Javor! You have been chosen by a power far higher than me or the Emperor of Constantinople, or the Patriarch of the new Church. You cannot evade this fate, Javor. It will follow you.
“Do not doubt yourself, Javor. Look at yourself: you’re taller and broader by far than anyone else in your holody, even your parents. You fought and defeated that monster without any training in warcraft, or in wielding a blade. And the magic amulet of your great-grandfather leaped into your hand of its own accord—because it knows its rightful owner.”
“I don’t care, Photius. I want no part of this.”
“If you’re so sure of that, my boy, then why haven’t you taken off the armour and sword?”
Javor swore and strode on, but he didn’t take off the armor or the sword.
By late afternoon of the next day, they could see Nastasciu again. Still, no one was out. Just like the last time I came back, with Elli and Grat. I guess I’ll never get a hero’s welcome.
The villagers were still hiding inside the holody, but this time, he did not find it any more damaged than when he had left. Javor waved at a woman wearing a flowered kerchief on her head who was watching over the log-wall. She called down to someone else to open the gate.
People had set up temporary shelters inside. They were tending fires or cooking, afraid to venture outside the stockade. They stared at Javor and Photius.
Javor went to the big wooden cistern in the centre and scooped water into his hands to drink. He washed his head and when he looked up again, there was Roslaw. That fool, Borys, was behind his shoulder.
“You’re back,” Roslaw said. Javor nodded and drank more water.
Hrech ran up and threw his arms around Javor. “You’re back! You’re alive! I was so worried for you!” He let Javor go, then hugged him tight again. Finally, he just stared as if he could not believe that Javor was really there.
The villagers gathered around them. “Where did you get the weapons?” Roslaw asked.
“From the monster’s cave,” Javor answered. Small children came up to touch his buckler. One started to play with the helmet on the ground. “Don’t touch that,” said Roslaw, sharply, and the children backed away. But the whole village stood around them.
Javor pulled his boots off, wiggling his toes gratefully in the dirt of home.
“So what happened to the monster?” asked Borys.
Photius put his hand on Javor’s shoulder. “Javor slew it after a tremendous battle, using the dagger of his great-grandfather, Medvediu.” From the back of the crowd, someone guffawed. “After dispatching the fiend, he despoiled it and then tossed its foul carcass back into the abyss whence it sprang.” Someone else snorted at that.
“The monster is really dead?” Roslaw asked.
“Verily!” Photius reached into the purse hanging from his belt. “Behold its claws!” And he held up one of the cruelly curved claws for all to see. The villagers drew back as if Photius would attack them with it himself.
Then Roslaw patted Javor on the shoulder. “Well done!” He smiled broadly, which twisted the scar across his face hideously. But his eyes were not smiling. “Thank you. Come, join us for supper. Tekla!” he called to his wife. Soon, Javor and Photius had bread, wine and meat and a crowd had gathered to listen to their story.
Photius did most of the talking. “We walked for days, three days trailing the fiend, on a trail as hellish as you can imagine. Every step was more and more desolate, until finally we were in the midst of a lifeless landscape. We stopped to rest for a moment, a minute’s respite from our labours, when we were attacked — ”
“By the monster?” someone asked.
“No, by one of its underlings, a minor cold-drake, a huge worm, the length of five tall men. I would have been devoured in an instant had it not been for the quick reflexes of young Javor here. He moves like a cat, indeed he showed himself a true warrior. He leaped and in one blow of his father’s axe dispatched the evil monstrosity ...”
Another laugh interrupted Photius’ monologue. It had come from Mrost, the young man who most consistently tormented him. “You said before that he used his grandfather’s magical dagger. Your whole story’s nothin’ but goat-shit!”
“It was his great-grandfather’s dagger, and that was on the monster that attacked this village, not on its menial ... ” Photius protested.
“You didn’t kill any monsters,” Mrost sneered. “You ran off, scared when you saw your parents killed, and wandered around for days. You picked up some of the armour from those raiders—we saw what the monster did to them, and you had rich pickings. Now you’re hungry so you come back here and try to claim some glory for yourself, you coward.”
Javor stood up, hand on his sword-hilt. “I went for revenge for my parents, Mrost!” he shouted, his face hot. It was the first time he had ever stood up to Mrost, and he felt his heart pounding. Why am I afraid of him? I’ve just killed two monsters! “Who’s the coward! Come over here and say that!”
“Javor is a great warrior, a kind this village will not see again,” said a low, calm voice. It was Vorona, the witch. As usual, no one had noticed her until she was right behind them. This time, she was covered almost head to toe with a featureless cloak and grey hood. “It is time for you to be anointed as a warrior of the gods, Javor. Come.” She held out her hand. Everyone fell silent as she led Javor toward the gate of the holody. She said not a word nor made a gesture, but two of the young men serving as guards at the gate opened it for her so that she didn’t even break stride.
She led Javor down the slope past the village, directly to her hut near the riverbank, as the villagers watched from the gate. Javor hesitated outside her doo
rway. He had never seen the inside of her hut—he couldn’t think of anyone else who had, other than Photius. Then he thought again that he was a warrior who had killed two fearsome monsters, and he must look silly, afraid to enter a woman’s hut.
Still, he nervously pushed past the skins across her doorway.
In the dim light, Vorona gestured for Javor to remove his armour. He dropped his helmet, buckler and weapons to the ground, standing in his tunic and torn trousers and rope sandals. She herself removed her hood and cloak, leaving just a thin colourless wrap. From some recess, she brought out earthenware jars and some wooden bowls. Murmuring prayers or spells, she mixed wine, water and milk in the bowl, then sprinkled a handful of dust into it. Next, she lit a candle, which cast very little light but seemed to give off a lot of strange-smelling smoke. More dust on the candle filled the hut with a sharp smell and made the flame dance crazily.
Javor began to feel dizzy. He found he couldn’t look at anything but Vorona, who seemed to shimmer in the candle’s dancing light.
She stood. Without taking her eyes from his, she bent at the knees, grasped the bottom of Javor’s tunic and pulled it over his head. A tug at the tattered trousers’ waistband made them fall apart, and he was nude. Javor felt his throat go dry. She gave him the bowl; Javor drank. It tasted awful, but he swallowed without gagging, his eyes still captivated by hers. “Wine, to represent the blood of life. Water, the cleanser and purifier. Milk, which represents the female and male liquids that bring new life into the world. Salt, essential to life.”
She poured fresh water into another bowl, dipped a cloth in it and began to wash Javor, starting at his face, working downward. The scrubbing aroused Javor. Vorona washed every bit of his skin, which first warmed him, then left him cool. He felt as if every nerve in his body was alert, seeking stimulation.
From a small vial, Vorona poured some strong-smelling oil into her hand and spread it over his skin, starting at his neck, then his shoulders. The oil made his skin tingle. He felt hot, suddenly. “Sacred oil, pressed from acorns of the oaks holy to the gods,” she murmured.
Vorona’s hand moved lower, across his stomach. Javor flushed as he realized his penis was stiffening. Then her hand swept across it and his erection jumped, full. He held his breath. What is she doing?
“Your actions have shown you to be one chosen by the powers of the world to accomplish wondrous deeds,” she said, as if she had heard his question. Her hands moved up his arms. Without losing contact with his skin, she moved around him and began spreading the oil on his neck and shoulders. Drops of oil set his skin on fire as they ran down his back. His vision swam, and he felt as if he were rocking back and forth on his feet, no matter how hard he tried to stand still. He couldn’t speak.
“As a warrior, you must be anointed before you set out on your quest,” she said.
What quest? Vorona shook her head slightly. “You have begun a great quest. The events of the past few days show that you must leave the narrow confines of your life and seek a greater glory. Your quest will change the world, but first you must see the truth.” All through this, her hand swept across his skin, up and down his thighs, down to his feet, then back up the back of his thighs, across his buttocks, higher on his back.
Javor’s skin burned. He breathed hard as if he were running. Sweat ran into his eyes. She turned and seemed to be searching in the shadows behind her. Javor looked at her curvy back, barely covered by her threadbare wrap.
Before Javor could react, she stabbed him in the thigh with a thin blade. Javor jumped but somehow remained silent. Vorona collected the blood that flowed from the wound into another small bowl. When she was satisfied with the amount she had collected, she held a broad leaf against the cut, patting it in place.
She held out a tiny bottle. “Spit,” she said, and he spat as much as he could. When she had enough, she sealed the bottle and put it away behind her.
“Wine and water, blood and saliva,” she said. Then she stepped back and in one motion shrugged and shook her shoulders, and her wrap fell from her body, revealing an impossibly voluptuous beauty. Her breasts were full and heavy, her hips wide, her thighs smooth and white. He was aware, mortified of his erection stiffening again, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Vorona knelt in front of him, rubbed more oil onto her palms, took his erection in hand again and stroked, gazing into his eyes. Javor couldn’t believe what was happening. His mind went blank. His penis jumped and his skin burned. His breathing grew faster and hoarser, and in a few seconds he ejaculated. Calmly and efficiently, Vorona caught his semen in another bowl and set it aside. “Milk and semen, the beginning of new life.” Then she blew out the candle, dipped the cloth in cool water again, and again washed his whole body.
When it was done, Javor collapsed onto her straw mattress. She patted his forehead and gave him some wine in a clay cup. “Now it is time, my young warrior.” She gave him his tunic and helped him pull it on. “Time for you to go and find your destiny.”
Somehow, Javor struggled back into his armour and buckled his weapons on. He staggered out of the hut into the setting sunlight. How did it get so late? How long was I in there? He blinked, then walked back to the holody, where the villagers were getting ready for bed. Four stood on benches so they could see over the wooden palisade around the holody. Others tended the animals that had been brought into the shelter for the night. Javor found Photius beside a small fire, quietly eating a frugal evening meal. Photius shared a little more of his wine, and they listened to the muttering from the fires scattered around them.
Hrech hunkered down beside Javor. “Are you okay?”
He is the only one who shows any concern, Javor realized. He nodded.
“So, what happened here while I was away?”
“Nothing much,” Hrech shrugged. “We just brought as much as we could inside the holody, and kept a lookout. Vorona wanted to continue the solstice ceremonies, but no one else did. But other than that, it’s been quiet. No raiders, no monsters. Nothing.”
It was now dark. Hrech patted Javor on the shoulder and went back to his family. Photius said “You take first watch, Javor,” then stretched himself out on a blanket and fell asleep immediately.
Javor looked up at the sky, thinking of his parents. Have I failed you?
Yes, came the reply, but he could not tell whether it was his own thought, his father’s or someone else’s. He shook his head. There was no use wondering about that.
He tried to remember the sound of his parents’ voices. He thought of his mother, first: her quiet, high voice, so assured, yet so sad. “Not enough rain this year,” she had said while picking new beans—how long ago? Five days? Six? Seven? The day before the solstice. Javor was too tired to work it out, yet too nervous to sleep.
It had not been a good year for farming. The sun had shone mercilessly since the snows left, rain had been rare and the crops were puny. “Tomorrow will be a big day,” he remembered her voice saying. “You’ll be a man. Oh, the years go by so fast!”
“Do you ever think about Alla and Swat?” he had asked.
Ketia stopped picking beans and reached up high to touch Javor’s cheek gently. Tears wet her face. “You’re so big,” she said with a sad smile. “I never would have thought my baby would grow to be so tall.” She turned away and pretended to look under the leaves for more beans. Javor heard her sniff.
Sitting in the darkness beside the snoring Photius, Javor scolded himself. Why did I make my mother cry? Idiot!
Javor knew how much sadness his mother had carried every day. Her first baby, a girl, had been stillborn, as had her fourth. The second child, another girl, was Alla. Javor remembered her long dark hair and hazel eyes like her mother’s, and her clever hands that used to knit little toy lambs for him. She and Young Swat, the third child and first boy, had been Javor’s only friends for most of his life.
There had been two other children, but Javor had never known them; one had died in her crad
le only a few weeks after being born, the other had drowned in the stream as a baby, before Javor was born.
Then came the winter of the pestilence, three years ago. Javor remembered seeing men, women, babies looking drawn, pale, remembered how they coughed and trembled all day, remembered the babies’ weak cries. Within days, they would die. Boleslaw, the shaman, and his acolytes, two thin teenage boys, would go from house to house chanting prayers and burning incense, with no effect. Ketia prayed to Mokosh, the goddess of health and the spinner of the thread of life. Swat worked feverishly to patch every draft in the hut, but the winter wind still blew in, and ice still collected on the walls.
That winter was deep and hard. Snow came early and in volumes the oldest villagers had never seen, and they succumbed to the pestilence first. Boleslaw coughed up blood while burning incense and died in front of his acolytes. They were also dead by the next day.
In the deepest winter, Young Swat and Javor helped their father dig a trench through the snow so they could get in and out of their hut. Young Swat tired quickly and slumped into the snow as he watched the others dig with crude wooden shovels his father had made. He went back to the hut, and his mother screamed when he collapsed in the doorway.
Ketia touched her oldest boy’s face and recoiled: he was hot with fever. She and Alla pulled him into his bed and covered him as well as they could. He began to sweat and shiver at the same time. Frantic, Ketia tried to give her boy some soup, but he could not swallow.
Through the day, as the snow swirled and the wind howled, Alla wiped her brother’s forehead. She wiped his mouth and chin when he started to cough. By nightfall, Young Swat was coughing blood. Alla wiped his face and chest through the night, but by the next morning she had fever, too. They both coughed and shivered through the day, while their father stoked the fire until the hut was so hot that Javor had to step outside periodically and wet his throat by eating snow.