Page 9 of Devil's Deal

Swietko’s face, already swollen from drunkenness, colors an ugly purple. He raises his hand to strike but I dance out of his reach. Voices come from higher up the path, and Swietko drops his hand, giving me a nasty look.

“I’ll remember this,” he promises. “You’ll scream when I find you later tonight, hag.”

“Oh, how I’m shaking from terror,” I mock him quietly when he turns away. “Drinking has turned your brain into a sieve. You won’t remember anything. It’s a wonder you know which way to piss.”

He tenses, but then Bogna’s voice drifts closer.

“Jaga! Wait for me!”

“Tonight,” Swietko mutters and walks swiftly down the path to the meadow just as Bogna reaches me.

She wears a gorgeous blue kerchief over her dark hair, her cheeks red from excitement. Her husband follows at a stately pace, ignoring me completely as his wife grips my hands in greeting. At twenty-four, Bogna is three years older than me. She’s my only friend.

And the only person in the village who is friendly with me in public.

“You look beautiful. You’d be the Kupala queen if you weren’t married,” I say, giving her husband a once-over to make sure he’s well subdued.

He ignores me, looking ahead with empty disinterest, and I nod to myself. The dose is right. He should be fine tonight unless he drinks way too much.

Bogna’s husband, Przemyslaw, is pumped full of calming herbs I supply her with. I’ve been doing it for two years, ever since she burst into my cottage, her face beaten black and blue, her rib broken, blood streaming down her legs.

She came to me because the whisperer who took over after Wiosna’s death turned Bogna away. There Bogna was, hurt and crying on her doorstep, and Czeslawa, the whisperer, told her to go home, back to her violent husband, because Bogna didn’t have anything to pay with. And how could she? She ran for her life and didn’t have time to grab a jar of honey or a basket of eggs when her drunk husband tried to beat her to death.

So Bogna found her way to me because she knew I trained with Wiosna. I treated her wounds, held her hand, and fed her herbs that sped up the miscarriage caused by her husband hitting her repeatedly in the stomach. When the night came, we buried her tiny, lifeless daughter behind my garden patch and Bogna cried in my arms.

We’ve been friends ever since. She often says I’m a much better whisperer than Czeslawa, who has the official title in our village.

I was supposed to take over after Wiosna died when I was sixteen. But most people here didn’t want me. They brought a whisperer from another settlement and gave her Wiosna’s cottage. And just like that, my destiny was diverted, my safety uprooted. As a whisperer, I would have had an unshakeable claim on a place in the village and among its people. Now, I can be run out of here any moment, and that would be a death sentence.

I hate being forced to live among these people who hate me so much. And yet, when I’m with Bogna, I can’t help being grateful that the fates let me stay. Because I was here when she needed help desperately, and that’s worth more than happiness.

She’s another reason why I’m determined not to piss people off too much. Bogna needs me here.

But that reminds me I should control my temper better. It was stupid to mouth off to Swietko, even if I only spoke the truth. His wife gets herbs to treat his impotence regularly, because she wants to have children.

Bogna told me.

“You should be the Kupala queen,” Bogna says, waving her hand as she gives me an appreciative look. “Those poppies are gorgeous! They look like they were plucked right in Wyraj. So pretty!”

I smile. If only she knew.

Chapter four

Fire

We reach the meadow as dusk gives way to night, the sky growing heavy with dark purples and blues. The brightest star, Lady of the Night, glimmers over the horizon in the east. God Chors begins his nightly walk across the sky, his silver face almost round. It will be full moon in a few nights.

A collective laughter soars high into the night sky, men and women standing in a large group by the biggest bonfire laughing at a joke. It’s not yet rowdy, but the atmosphere of celebration makes everyone relaxed.

Children run here and there. They will stay for now, when it’s still tame, but when the celebrating turns bawdy, they’ll be sent home.

The big Kupala fire burns tall and bright in the middle of the meadow. It’s built to be higher than any man, shooting gold sparks into the air smelling of evening dew, smoke, and herbs. Dotted around the huge meadow are smaller fires, a large ring of five just at the edge of the river.

“Oh, look at them!” Bogna whispers, her voice growing wistful as she eyes a group of young women, a dozen or so, emerging from the river. Their thin shifts cling to their bodies, dark nipples and hair between their legs contrasting with the white of their clothes.

All girls wear chaplets and it’s clear they worked hard on them today. Robust, flowery crowns rest on intricate braided updos, colorful and stunning. Those chaplets will play an important role in the Kupala rituals tonight, deciding the girls’ fates.

I watch them closely and finally relax, a smirk tugging at my lips. Those chaplets are beautiful, the flowers fresh enough. But none of the girls wear poppies as sumptuous as mine. None of their flowers are as deep in their color, as alive. It was worth the nosebleed and pain.

---