The Bear and the Nightingale(95)

The stallion struck out with his forefeet again and backed up, protecting the boy and girl on the ground. Alyosha blinked dazedly about them. “Get up, Lyoshka,” pleaded Vasya. “Please, please.”

The Bear shook himself and most of the strange creatures were flung off. He lashed out with one paw, and the great stallion barely evaded the blow. The naked woman fell to the snow, water flying from her hair. Vasya threw herself over her half-conscious brother. Monstrous teeth reached for her unprotected back.

Pyotr could not remember running. But suddenly he found himself standing, gasping, between his children and the beast. He was steady except for his pounding heart, and he held his broadsword two-handed. Vasya stared at him as at an apparition. He saw her lips move. Father.

The Bear skidded to a halt. “Get you gone,” he snarled. He stretched out a clawed foot. Pyotr turned it with his sword and did not stir.

“My life is nothing,” said Pyotr. “I am not afraid.”

The Bear opened his mouth and roared. Vasya flinched. Still Pyotr did not move. “Stand aside,” said the Bear. “I will have the old witch’s children.”

Pyotr stepped deliberately forward. “I know no witches. These are my children.”

The Bear’s teeth snapped an inch from his face, and still he did not move.

“Get out,” said Pyotr. “You are nothing; you are only a story. Leave my lands in peace.”

The Bear snorted. “These woods are mine now.” But the eye rolled warily.

“What is your price?” said Pyotr. “I, too, have heard the old tales, and there is always a price.”

“As you like. Give me your daughter, and you will have peace.”

Pyotr glanced at Vasya. Their eyes met, and he saw her swallow hard. “That is my Marina’s lastborn,” he said. “That is my daughter. A man does not offer up another’s life. Still less the life of his own child.”

An instant of perfect silence.

“I offer you mine,” said Pyotr. He dropped his sword.

“No!” Vasya screamed. “Father, no! No!”

The Bear squinted its good eye and hesitated.

Suddenly Pyotr flung himself, empty-handed, at the lichen-colored chest. The Bear acted on instinct; he batted the man aside. There was a horrible crack. Pyotr flew like a straw doll and landed facedown in the snow.



THE BEAR HOWLED AND LEAPED after him. But Vasya was on her feet, all her fear forgotten. She screamed aloud in wordless fury and the Bear whipped round again.

Vasya heaved herself onto Solovey’s back. They charged the Bear. The girl was weeping; she had forgotten she held no weapon. The jewel at her breast burned cold, beating like another heart.

The Bear grinned broadly, tongue lolling doglike between its great teeth.

“Oh, yes,” it said, “Come here, little vedma, come here, little witch. You aren’t strong enough for me yet, and never will be. Come to me and join your poor father.”

But even as he spoke he was dwindling. The Bear became a man, a little, cringing man that peered up at them through a watering gray eye.

A white figure appeared beside Solovey, and a white hand touched the stallion’s straining neck. The horse put his head up and slowed. “No!” shouted Vasya. “No, Solovey, don’t stop.”

But the one-eyed man cringed down into the snow, and she felt Morozko’s hand on hers. “Enough, Vasya,” he said. “See? He is bound. It is over.”

She stared at the little man, blinking, dazed. “How?”

“Such is the strength of men,” said Morozko. He sounded strangely satisfied. “We who live forever can know no courage, nor do we love enough to give our lives. But your father could. His sacrifice bound the Bear. Pyotr Vladimirovich will die as he would have wished. It is over.”

“No,” said Vasya, pulling her hand away. “No…”

She pitched herself off Solovey. Medved cringed away, grumbling, but already she had forgotten him. She ran to her father’s head. Alyosha had gotten there before her. He pulled aside his father’s torn cloak. The blow had crushed Pyotr’s ribs on one side, and blood bubbled up between his lips. Vasya pressed her hands to the wounded place. Warmth flared into her hands. Her tears fell onto her father’s eyes. A hint of color tinged Pyotr’s graying skin, and his eyes opened. They fell on Vasya and brightened.

“Marina,” he croaked. “Marina.”

The breath sighed out of him and he did not take another.

“No,” Vasya whispered. “No.” She dug her fingertips into her father’s slack flesh. His chest heaved suddenly, like a bellows, but his eyes were fixed and staring. Vasya tasted blood where she’d bitten into her lip, and she fought the death as though it were her own, as though…

A cold long-fingered hand caught both of hers, leaching the warmth away. Vasya tried to wrench her hands free, but she could not. Morozko’s voice wafted icy air across her cheek. “Leave it, Vasya. He chose this; you cannot undo it.”

“Yes, I can,” she hissed back, breath catching in her throat. “It should have been me. Let me go!” Then the hand was gone, and she spun round. Morozko had already drawn away. She looked up into his face, pale and indifferent, cruel and just a little kind.

“Too late,” he said, and all around, the wind took up the words: Too late, too late.