The Bear and the Nightingale(84)

“Think on it, Konstantin Nikonovich,” said the voice. “But I must have her before sunrise.”

“And how will I find you?” The words were softer than snowfall; a mortal man would not have heard them. But the shadow heard.

“Go into the woods,” hissed the shadow. “Look for snowdrops. Then you will know. Give me a witch and take yours; give me a witch and be free.”





Vasya awoke to the touch of sunlight on her face. She opened her eyes on a ceiling of thin blue—no, on a vault of open sky. Her senses blurred, and she could not remember—then she did. I am in the house in the fir-grove. A whiskery chin bumped hers. She opened her eyes, and found, once again, that she was nose to nose with the bay stallion.

You sleep too much, said the horse.

“I thought you were a dream,” said Vasya in some wonder. She had forgotten how big the dream-horse was, and the fiery look in his dark eyes. She pushed his nose away and sat up.

I am not, usually, replied the horse.

The previous night came back to Vasya in a rush. Snowdrops at midwinter, bread and apples, mead heavy on her tongue. Long white fingers on her face. Pain. She yanked her hand free of the blanket. There was a pale mark in the center of her palm. “That was not a dream, either,” she murmured.

The horse was looking at her in some concern. Better to believe that everything is real, he said, as if to a lunatic. And I will tell you if you are dreaming.

Vasya laughed. “Done,” she said. “I am awake now.” She slid out of bed—less painfully than before. Her head was clearing. The house was still as a noonday forest, save the crackle and pop of a good fire. A little pot nestled steaming on the hearth. Suddenly ravenous, Vasya made her way to the fire and found luxury: porridge and milk and honey. She ate while the stallion hovered.

“What is your name?” she said to the horse, when she had done.

The stallion was busy finishing her bowl. He slanted an ear at her before replying. I am called Solovey.

Vasya smiled. “Nightingale. A little name for a great horse. How did you get it?”

I was foaled at twilight, he said gravely. Or perhaps I was hatched; I cannot remember. It was long ago. Sometimes I run, and sometimes I remember to fly. And thus am I named.

Vasya stared. “But you are not a bird.”

You do not know what you are; can you know what I am? retorted the horse. I am called Nightingale, and does it matter why?

Vasya had no answer. Solovey had finished her porridge and put his head up to look at her. He was the loveliest horse she had ever seen. Mysh, Buran, Ogon, they were all like sparrows to his falcon. “Last night,” Vasya said hesitantly, “last night, you said you would let me ride.”

The stallion neighed. His hooves clattered on the floor. My dam said I should be patient, he said. But I am not, usually. Come and ride. I have never been ridden before.

Vasya was suddenly dubious, but she replaited her tangled hair and put on her jacket and cloak, mittens and boots, which she found lying near the fire. She followed the horse into the blinding day. The snow lay thick underfoot. Vasya eyed the stallion’s tall bare back. She tried her limbs, and found them weak as water. The horse stood proudly and expectantly, a horse out of a fairy tale.

“I think,” said Vasya, “that I am going to need a stump.”

The pricked ears flattened. A stump?

“A stump,” said Vasya firmly. She made her way to a convenient one, where a tree had cracked and fallen away. The horse poked along behind. He seemed to be reconsidering his choice of rider. But he stood alongside the stump, looking pained, and from there Vasya vaulted gently to his back.

All of his muscles went rigid, and he threw his head up. Vasya, who had ridden young horses before, was expecting something of the sort, and she sat still.

At last the great stallion blew out a breath. Very well, he said. At least you are small. But when he walked off, it was with a mincing, sideways gait. Every few seconds he turned his head to see the girl on his back.



THEY RODE ALL THAT DAY.

“No,” Vasya said for the tenth time. Her night in the snowy forest had left her weaker than she had realized, and it was making a hard task harder. “You must put your head down and use your back. Right now, riding you is like riding a log. A large, slippery log.”

The stallion put his head round to glare. I know how to walk.

“But not how to carry a person,” Vasya retorted. “It is different.”

You feel strange, the horse complained.

“I can only imagine,” said Vasya. “You need not carry me if you do not wish to.”

The horse said nothing, shaking his black mane. Then—I will carry you. My dam says it grows easier in time. He sounded skeptical. Well, enough of this. Let us see what we can do. And he bolted. Vasya, taken by surprise, threw her weight forward and wrapped her legs around his belly. The stallion careened between the trees. Vasya found herself whooping aloud. He was graceful as a hunting-cat and made about as much noise. At speed, they were one. The horse ran like water and all the white world was theirs.

“We must go back,” said Vasya at length, flushed and panting and laughing. Solovey slowed to a trot, his head up, his nostrils showing red. He bucked with sheer high spirits, and Vasya, clinging, hoped he would not have her off. “I am tired.”

The horse pointed an ear at her in a dissatisfied way. He was hardly winded. But he heaved a sigh and turned. In a surprisingly short time, the fir-grove lay before them. Vasya slid to the ground. Her feet struck the earth with a great jolt of pain, and she sank, gasping, to the snow. Her healed toes were numb, and some hours’ ride had not improved her weakness. “But where is the house?” she said, gritting her teeth and heaving herself to her feet. All she saw was fir-trees. Day’s end mantled the wood in starry violet.