Page 13 of Devil's Deal

“You gave me such a fright!” Bogna says in an undertone, appearing by my side. The fire remains calm, not reacting to her presence.

Finally, I breathe out a long, soothing breath and draw in hot air. Bogna takes my hand and leads me away like I’m a child. My daze dispels, and I shake my head, welcoming the balmy air on my face as we put the fire behind our backs.

“What’s everyone saying?” I ask quietly.

Even though the flames spared me, I know how damaging any abnormal behavior of the Kupala fire is. And what happened was far from normal. No one would accept those hungry, licking flames as a simple result of burning pine needles or wet wood.

“They are disappointed,” Bogna says ruefully. “For a moment, we were sure the fire would devour you. It looked like… reaching hands. It was terrifying. But then, you stepped close, and it was all gone. Thankfully.”

Even though my legs are weak, the terror still coursing in my veins, I let go of Bogna’s hand. “Thank you. It was… I don’t know what happened.”

She sighs and pats my arm, looking up seriously. “I think Swietko hates you. He kept chanting ‘burn her, burn her, burn her’ under his nose.”

I nod, keeping my spine straight even though my body wants to sag in relief. Swietko’s hate is nothing compared to that terror I just felt, and the most important thing is that no one can accuse me of witchcraft now that the fire didn’t burn me. I can handle gossip, but as long as I wasn’t burned or marked, no one has a reason to run me out.

“He was rude to me today. I might have mocked his impotence,” I whisper, because we’re drawing close to a long bench laden with food and drink. A dozen people stand around with cups in their hands.

Bogna’s startled laughter quickly turns into a hum of disapproval. “You should be more careful. While many of us sure wish we could say whatever we want, there’s a reason why we don’t.”

“I know,” I say with a sigh, awkwardly squeezing her shoulder. I’m no good with touching people, but Bogna likes and expects it, so I make an effort. “I’ll do better.”

We stop by the bench and Bogna busies herself, pouring us both wine. People mostly ignore us, but Czeslawa, who stands nearby with the zerca, gives me a disdainful look.

“Pretty flowers,” she says, eyes narrowing on my chaplet.

She’s twenty years older than me, her brown hair already turning silver at her temples, now covered with a white kerchief. Dark, beady eyes burn shrewdly in her thin, elongated face. In the past, I’ve compared her unkindly to a horse, but now I have far better reasons to dislike her.

Like her turning Bogna away when she needed help the most.

“Thank you,” I say with an arch nod, tamping down on another flare of panic as I think that, of course, she’s suspicious. She’s a whisperer. She knows as well as I do normal poppies don’t look so sumptuous after being picked.

But I’ve been through my trial already. I’m safe for another year, and that’s what I focus on right now to stop my heart from galloping with fear.

Czeslawa’s mouth twists with contempt and Jarota, the zerca, gives me a perfunctory look and turns away. He’s in his fifties and just became our zerca when I was born. Wiosna always said he was a hack.

“Watch him after he lays a sacrifice, will you?” she told me once. “When everyone leaves, he takes the dead chicken home to boil for broth. A real sacrifice should be burned so it finds its way to the gods.”

Hack or not, Jarota has the respect of our people. Once, in the middle of a very dry summer when the lack of rain almost killed the crops, he made a flamboyant sacrifice that everyone gathered to watch. He killed a lamb, burned some herbs and said a few flowery prayers. The very next day, it rained.

Wiosna said he was a lucky bastard. Now, I’m just thankful he pays me no attention. Fire trial or not, if Jarota said one word against me, I’d be banished.

The headache that sprung in my temples after the spell earlier comes back, drumming on my skull from the inside. I blink heavily, turning away from the hostile glances of people at the table.

Gods, how I long for the solitude of my cottage. But Bogna presses a cup into my hands, so I accept my fate and stay. I have to. Being seen out and about is almost as important as the Kupala trial. If I stayed in my cottage, avoiding everyone like I want to, the gossip would soon grow too malicious to control.

People fear what they don’t know. I have to show myself, make myself known, so they see me as someone ordinary.

Gods. The lengths I go to just so my tribe lets me live among them. Maybe striking out on my own into the woods wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Surely I can avoid bears and wolves, and I certainly know what to do with evil spirits and creatures. Somehow, I don’t think it will be worse than this.

And yet, the bone crushing fear presses my ribs from the inside whenever I think about the darkness of the woods being my new home. The fear of that night comes back, and no matter how much I try to push it away—they are dead and you’re alive, you’re safe, you’re whole, there is no knife in your guts—the fear only grows stronger.

And that’s why I stay. Like the coward I am.

I convince Bogna to go to her friends and she does, admonishing me not to make any more enemies. Standing aside, I am clearly visible for everyone who cares to look, yet far enough so nobody decides to talk to me. I nurse my cup of wine, taking small sips, but mostly I just watch.

The envy and longing raise their ugly heads as I look at the villagers, who laugh and dance to the sounds of flutes and drums. Everyone lets loose as feverish excitement fills the air. Fires burn, mead flows in a steady stream, and the laughter and shouts grow louder and shriller.

All I can do is watch from afar. I’ve never been a part of any celebration, never allowed to be merry and carefree like everyone else in the village.

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