The Bear and the Nightingale(73)

On the third day she resolved to ask Alyosha to watch with her. That evening a bloody dusk flamed up and died, leaving blue shadows and silence.

The family lingered in the kitchen—the bedchambers seemed very cold and remote. Alyosha sharpened his boar-spear by oven-light. The leaf-shaped blade threw little dazzles onto the hearth.

The fire had burned low, and the kitchen was full of red shade, when a long, low wail sounded without. Irina huddled beside the oven. Anna knitted, but all could see she was clammy and shivering. Father Konstantin’s eyes were so wide that the white showed in a ring; he whispered prayers under his breath.

There came the sound of dragging footsteps. Nearer they came, nearer. Then a voice rattled the window.

“It is dark,” said the voice. “I am cold. Open the door. Open it.” Then—Tap. Tap. Tap on the door.

Vasya rose to her feet.

Alyosha’s hands locked around the haft of his spear.

Vasya went to the door. Her heart hammered in her throat. The domovoi was at her side, teeth clenched.

“No,” Vasya managed, though her lips were numb. She dug her fingers into the wound on her hand and laid her bloody palm flat against the door. “I am sorry. The house is for the living.”

The thing on the other side wailed. Irina buried her face in her mother’s lap. Alyosha stumbled to his feet, spear in hand. But the shuffling footsteps started up, faded into nothing. They all drew breath and looked at each other.

Then came the squealing of terrified horses.

Without thinking, Vasya wrenched open the door, even as four voices cried out.

“Demon!” shrieked Anna. “She will let it in!”

Vasya had already run out into the night. A white shape darted among the horses, scattering them like chaff. But one horse was slower than the others. The white shape attached itself to the animal’s throat and bore it down. Vasya shouted, running, forgetting fear. The dead thing looked up, hissing, and a bar of moonlight fell across its face.

“No,” said Vasya, stumbling to a halt. “Oh, no, please. Dunya. Dunya…”

“Vasya,” lisped the thing. The voice was a corpse’s cracked wheeze, but it was Dunya’s voice. “Vasya.”

It was she, and it was not. The bones were there; the shape and form and grave-clothes. But the nose drooped; the lips had fallen in. The eyes were blazing holes, the mouth a blackened pit. Blood caked in the lines of chin and nose and cheeks.

Vasya wrenched together her courage. The necklace burned coldly against her breast and she wrapped her free hand round it. The night smelled of hot blood and grave-mold. She thought a dark figure stood beside her, but she did not look round to see.

“Dunya,” Vasya said. She fought to keep her voice steady. “Get you gone. You have done enough evil here.”

Dunya pressed a hand to her mouth. The tears sprang to her empty eyes even as she bared her teeth. She swayed, quivered, chewed her lip. Almost it seemed she wished to speak. She started forward, snarling, and Vasya backed up, already feeling the teeth in her throat. And then the upyr screeched, flung herself backward, and ran like a dog toward the woods.

Vasya watched her until she was lost in the moonlight.

There came a rasping breath from the horse at Vasya’s feet. He was Mysh’s youngest, little more than a foal. She fell to her knees beside him. The colt’s throat was laid open. Vasya pressed her hands to the torn place, but the black tide ran carelessly away. She felt the death as a sinking in her belly. From the stable, she heard the vazila’s anguished cry.

“No,” Vasya said. “Please.”

But the colt lay still. The black tide slowed and stopped.

A white mare stepped out of the darkness and laid her nose very gently against the dead horse. Vasya felt the mare’s warm breath against her neck, but when she turned to look, there was only a little trickle of starlight.

Despair and weariness were a black tide, like the horse’s blood on her hands, and they swallowed Vasya whole. She held the stiffening, blood-streaked head in her arms and wept.



THE HOUR HAD GROWN OLD, and they should have long since gone to bed, when Alyosha came back into the winter kitchen. He was gray-faced, his clothes all spattered with blood. “One of the horses is dead,” he said heavily. “Its throat was torn away. Vasya is staying in the stable tonight. She will not be dissuaded.”

“But she will freeze. She will die!” cried Irina.

Alyosha smiled faintly. “Not Vasya. You try arguing with her, Irinka.”

Irina pressed her lips together, laid aside her mending, and went to heat a clay pot in the oven. No one was quite sure what she was about until she dished up milk, baked hard, with old porridge, picked it up, and made for the door.

“Irinka, come back!” cried Anna.

Irina, to Alyosha’s certain knowledge, had never in her life defied her mother. But this time, the girl disappeared over the threshold without a word. Alyosha cursed and went after her. Father was right, he thought darkly. My sisters cannot be left alone.

It was very cold, and the dvor smelled of blood. The colt lay where he had fallen. The corpse would freeze overnight, and tomorrow was soon enough to bring the men to butcher it. The stable seemed empty when Alyosha and Irina went inside. “Vasya,” called Alyosha. Sudden fear seized him. What if…?

“Here, Lyoshka,” said Vasya. She emerged from Mysh’s stall, soft-footed as a cat. Irina squeaked and nearly dropped her pot. “Are you all right, Vasochka?” she managed, tremulously.