The Bear and the Nightingale(53)

Konstantin’s glance sought his icons. He looked deep into their strange solemn faces. His own face changed. “Father,” he whispered. “Lord. Angels. After all your silence, do you speak to me at last?” He shook in every limb. He strained all his senses, willing the voice to speak again.

“Can you doubt it, my child?” said the voice, gentle again. “You have always been my loyal servant.”

The priest began to weep, open-eyed, soundless. He fell to his knees.

“I have watched you long, Konstantin Nikonovich,” continued the voice. “You have labored bravely on my behalf. But now there is this girl who tempts and defies you.”

Konstantin clasped his hands together. “My shame,” he said feverishly. “I cannot save her alone. She is possessed; she is a she-devil. I pray that in your wisdom you will show her light.”

“She will learn many lessons,” replied the voice. “Many—many. Have no fear. I stand with you, and you will never again be alone. The world will fall to your feet, and know my wonders through your lips, because you have been loyal.”

It seemed that trumpets must play when that voice spoke. Konstantin shuddered with pleasure, the tears still falling. “Only never leave me, Lord,” he said. “I have always been faithful.” He clenched his fists so tightly his nails made furrows in the skin of his hands.

“Be faithful,” said the voice, “and I will never leave you.”





Kyril Artamonovich loved above all to hunt the long-tusked northern boars, swifter than horses. The day before his wedding, he called for a boar-hunt. “It will while away the time,” he said to Pyotr, with a wink at Vasya, who said nothing. But Pyotr made no objection. Kyril Artamonovich was a famous hunter, and pig-meat in the autumn was a fine thing, fattened on chestnut-mast. A good haunch would grace the wedding-feast and bring color to his daughter’s pale face.

The whole household rose before dawn. The boar-spears lay already in a shining heap. The dogs had heard the sound of sharpening, and paced their kennels all night, whining.

Vasya was up before anyone else. She did not take food, but went to the stable, where the horses pawed anxiously at the noise from the dogs outside. Kyril’s young roan stallion trembled with each new sound. Vasya went to him and found the vazila there, perched on the colt’s back. Vasya smiled at the little creature. The stallion snorted at her and pinned his ears.

“You have bad manners,” Vasya told him. “But I suppose Kyril Artamonovich drags you around by the mouth.”

The colt put his ears forward. You do not look like a horse.

Vasya grinned. “Thank God. Do you not wish to go hunting?”

The horse considered. I like running. But the pig smells foul, and the man will strike me if I am afraid. I’d rather graze in a field. Vasya laid a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Kyril was going to ruin the beautiful colt—little more than a foal—if he kept on. The colt bumped her chest with his nose. Water and greenish slime dribbled onto her dress.

“Now I’m more of a scarecrow than usual,” Vasya remarked, to no one in particular. “Anna Ivanovna will be delighted.”

“The pig won’t hurt you if you’re quick,” she added to Ogon. “And you are the quickest thing in the world, my beauty. You need not fear.”

The colt said nothing, but put his head in her arms. Vasya rubbed his silky ears and sighed. She would have liked nothing better than a wild ride through autumn forest, preferably on the long-legged Ogon, who looked as though he could outrun a hare in an open field. Instead, she was to go to the kitchen, knead bread, and listen to the gossip of a bevy of visiting women. All this while Irina showed off her many perfections and Vasya tried not to burn anything.

“Ordinarily I would curse a maid for a fool that got so near my horse,” said a voice from behind her. Ogon threw his head up, nearly breaking Vasya’s nose. “But you have a hand with beasts, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Kyril Artamonovich came toward them, smiling. He caught the colt by his rope halter.

“Hush, mad thing,” he said. The colt rolled his eyes but stood, shivering.

“You are abroad early, my lord,” said Vasya, recovering.

“As are you, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Their breath made clouds; the stable was chilly.

“There is much to do,” said Vasya. “The women will ride to meet you after the kill, if the day is fine. And tonight we are feasting.”

He grinned. “No need to excuse yourself, devushka. I think it a fine thing in a girl to rise early, and to interest herself in a man’s stock.” He had a dimple on one side of his mouth. “I’ll not tell your father that I found you here.”

Vasya regained her composure. “Tell him if you will,” she said.

He smiled. “I like your spirit.”

She shrugged.

“Your sister is prettier than you,” he added musingly. “She will be an easy wife in a few years’ time: a little flower. Not a girl to trouble a man’s nights. But you—” Kyril reached out, pulled her to him, and ran a hand down her back, in an assessing sort of way. “Too many bones,” he said, “but I like a strong girl. And you will not die in childbed.” He handled her confidently, with the expectation of being obeyed. “Will you like making me sons?” He kissed her before she knew, while she was still bewildered by the strength in his hands. His kiss was like his touch: firm, with a sort of proficient enjoyment. Vasya shoved at him, to little effect. He tilted her face up, digging his fingers into the soft place behind her jaw. Her head swam. He smelled of musk and mead and horses. His hand was very large, splayed against her back. His other hand slid over her shoulder and breast and hip.