Page 118 of Devil's Deal

“He would say that. Strzybog is a petulant child who resents those brave enough to fight for a change. There is a war, Jaga, and he chose not to actively fight. Others don’t have that privilege. But Nyja doesn’t force anyone to join in. She offers them a choice, and most choose to train as soldiers once they are old enough. But whatever they choose, she takes good care of them. The nawkas have a much better life in Nawie than they could have here, difficult though it may be to accept.”

It is difficult to accept. I struggle with his explanation, until finally, the question bursts out of me.

“But what’s the point? What’s the point of them having souls if they won’t even experience life?”

Wiosna belabored this point so much, and it was clearly of great importance.

Woland laughs, long and hearty, throwing his head back like I just told him the funniest joke. I clench my fists, fuming. I hate feeling ignorant, but it appears I know very little about the things that matter.

When he’s finally done laughing, he looks at me fondly.

“The point is, my darling innocent, that mortals fuck and make babies. Some babies live, some die. That’s how mortality works. Regardless of when you die, your innate soul goes to Nawie, and your ancestral soul is taken to Wyraj. Your soul in Nawie gets to live there as long as it wishes. Some stay indefinitely. Some choose eternal sleep.”

“And the ancestral souls? What happens to them?” I ask.

“They roost in the Great Tree until Perun sends them back here,” he says, his fond smile vanishing. “He reuses them, over and over. They serve a purpose.”

A chill crawls down my spine. There is something hard in his voice, something nasty that’s not directed at me. He tenses, his hoof tapping to the rhythm with my foot.

“What purpose?” I ask, expecting him not to answer.

But Woland shakes off whatever rage came over him and looks at me squarely.

“Do you know how the first mortals were created?” he asks, his eyebrow raised.

I nod slowly, because I do know this story, but I’m uncertain how much truth is in it. He folds his arms and gives me an encouraging nod, so I sigh and recount the tale in brief words.

“One day, Perun bathed in a lake. After he came out, he wiped himself with straw and discarded it on the shore. Mokosz was with him, needy for his attention, but he left her alone. Once he was gone, Weles, Perun’s brother, emerged from the lake. He gave Mokosz what she wanted, lying with her, and then, together, they made little figures from straw and mud. Weles blew his magic into the figures’ mouths, but nothing happened, so he went away, angry and humiliated.

“Shortly, Perun came back and saw the straw figures. There were two, one made by Weles, the other, by Mokosz. Perun had the same idea as his brother, and he blew a life-giving breath into them. They started moving. Thus, the first man and woman were made.”

Woland nods slowly, his jaw clenched. “Ah, yes. The official version. Well done.”

“Well, what’s the unofficial one?” I ask, folding my arms.

He stands up, raising his hands up so high, they almost brush the thatch of my roof. I’m startled anew by how large he is.

“The unofficial, truthful version is that the figures came to life after Weles gave them his breath,” he says, turning away from me.

He looks at Magda’s body, and I can’t see his expression, but his voice is steady.

“See, Weles rules magic. He gave the straw figures the best of what he had: his cunning, his love of freedom, a spark of his magical skill. He made it possible for those qualities to be inherited by the first people’s children. It happens even now, that spark proliferating with every new mortal life. Thus, when a baby is conceived, they receive that spark from Weles’ breath. They have an innate soul.”

I don’t move, looking at the back of his head, mesmerized by the tale. It’s so different from what I was taught. In all the tales, Weles is the one who always falls short of his brother, the one who pulls pranks, who wields black magic, and sends monsters to threaten Wyraj.

Woland’s story paints a completely different picture of the dark god.

“When Perun saw those little figures walking and talking,” he continues softly, “it was right after he found out his neglected wife fucked his brother. He was livid, but Perun’s fury is never incendiary. He sits with it and plots, making sure to come up with a plan that will hurt not once, but forever.”

He falls silent, and I don’t dare rush him, so I wait, curiosity eating at me. Woland sighs and moves his hand over Magda’s body. A soft, questioning trill comes from inside her chest.

“And so, Perun came up with a way to despoil his brother’s creation,” he says. “He grabbed the straw figures, and though they fought and begged him to let them go, he forced their mouths open and blew his own breath into them. They grew limp in his hold, instantly subdued, and Perun laughed, putting them into this world so he could watch what they came up to. But he quickly lost interest, because the figures were lifeless and apathetic, seemingly devoid of a will of their own. He knew Weles would despair once he saw the damage, and that was all Perun wanted.”

He finally turns to me and gives me a long, piercing look. “This is all unofficial, Jaga. Once you’re in Slawa, never speak about this story. You’ll be executed for heresy.”

I snort, surprised by his seriousness. “But it’s just a… a tale…” I drift off, realizing I’m speaking nonsense.

No, it’s not just a tale. I met Rod. I saw the ancestral soul. I know gods exist, so somewhere in Slawa, Perun, Weles, and Mokosz live. And for some reason, Perun wants everyone to believe the version of the story I was taught.

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