The Bear and the Nightingale(51)

“I know,” said Vasya. “Besides, he is old, little bird. Dunya says he is nearly thirty.”

“But he is rich; you will have jewels, and meat every day.”

“You marry him, then,” said Vasya tolerantly, poking her sister in the stomach. “And you will be as fat as a squirrel and sit all day sewing atop the oven.”

Irina giggled. “Maybe we will see each other when we are married. If our husbands do not live far apart.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” said Vasya. “You can save some of your fat meats for me, when I come begging with my beggar-husband while you are married to a great lord.”

Irina giggled again. “But it is you who are marrying a great lord, Vasya.”

Vasya did not answer; she did not speak again. At length, Irina gave up; she curled up against her sister and fell asleep. But Vasya lay long awake. He has charmed my family, but his horse fears his hand. Beware the dead. It will be a hard winter. You must not leave the forest. The thoughts raced like water, and she was borne on the current. But she was young and weary, and eventually she, too, rolled over and slept.



THE DAYS PASSED IN a round of games and feasting. Kyril Artamonovich filled Vasya’s bowl at supper and teased her through the kitchen door. His body gave off an animal heat. Vasya was angry to find herself blushing beneath his gaze. At night she lay awake, wondering how all that warmth would feel between her hands. But his laughter did not reach his eyes. Fear rose at odd moments to seize her by the throat.

The days wore by, and Vasya could not understand herself. You must marry, the women scolded. All girls marry. At least he is not old, and he is well-favored besides. Why then be afraid? But afraid she was, and she avoided her betrothed whenever she could, pacing back and forth, a bird in a shrinking cage.

“Why, Father?” said Alyosha to Pyotr, not for the first time, at the start of yet another raucous supper. The long, dim room reeked of furs and mead, roast meats, pottage, and sweating humanity. The kasha went round in a great bowl; the mead was dipped out and tossed back. Their neighbors packed the room. The house overflowed now, and visitors crammed the peasants’ huts.

“Three days until she is married; we must honor our guest,” said Pyotr.

“Why is she getting married now?” retorted his son. “Can she not wait a year? Why after a hard winter and a hard summer must we waste food and drink on these?” His gesture took in the long room where their guests busily demolished the fruit of a summer’s labor.

“Because it must be,” Pyotr snapped. “If you want to make yourself useful, convince your mad sister not to geld her husband on their wedding night.”

“He is a bull, that Kyril,” said Alyosha shortly. “He has got five children on peasant girls, and he thinks nothing of flirting with the farmers’ wives, while he stays in your house, no less. If my sister sees fit to geld her husband, Father, she would have reason, and I would not dissuade her.”

As if by some unspoken accord, they looked to where the couple in question sat side by side. Kyril was talking to Vasya, his gestures broad and imprecise. Vasya was eyeing him with an expression that made both Pyotr and Alyosha nervous. Kyril did not seem to notice.

“And there I was alone,” Kyril said to Vasya. He refilled their cup, sloshing a bit. His lips left a ring of grease round the rim. “My back was to a rock and the boar was charging. My men had scattered, save for the dead one, with the great red hole in him.”

This was not the first narrative featuring the heroics of Kyril Artamonovich. Vasya’s mind had begun to wander. Where is the priest? Father Konstantin had not come to the feast, and it was unlike him to keep to himself.

“The boar came for me,” said Kyril. “Its hooves shook the earth. I commended my soul to God—”

And died there with blood in your mouth, Vasya thought in disgust. I should have been so fortunate.

She laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him with an expression she hoped was piteous. “No more—I cannot bear it.”

Kyril eyed her, puzzled. Vasya shuddered all over. “I cannot bear to know the rest. I fear I will faint, Kyril Artamonovich.”

Kyril looked nonplussed.

“Dunya has much stronger nerves than I,” said Vasya. “I think you should finish the story in her hearing.” There was nothing wrong with Dunya’s ears (or Vasya’s nerves, for that matter); the old lady glanced resignedly heavenward and shot Vasya a warning look. But Vasya had the bit between her teeth, and even her father’s glare from down the table would not turn her. “Now”—Vasya rose with theatrical grace and seized a loaf from the table—“now, if you will forgive me, I must fulfill a pious duty.”

Kyril opened his mouth to protest, but Vasya made a hasty reverence, slipped the loaf into her sleeve, and bolted. Outside the packed hall, the house was cool and quiet. She stood in the dvor for a long moment, breathing.

Then she went and scratched upon the priest’s door.

“Come in,” said Konstantin, after a chilly pause. The whole room seemed to quiver with candlelight. He was painting by the glow. A rat had gnawed the crust that lay untouched beside him. The priest did not turn when Vasya opened the door.

“Father, bless,” she said. “I have brought you bread.”

Konstantin stiffened. “Vasilisa Petrovna.” He put down his brush and made the sign of the cross. “May the Lord bless you.”