Page 14 of Devil's Deal

It’s so unfair, I want to hurl insults at them all.

Soon, the maidens come back from the woods, their dresses new and pretty, each more revealing than the last. They are flushed, their eyes sparkling with anticipation as they flirt with the boys. Already the Kupala Night courting begins, eager hands settling on warm bodies, for now just fondling through the clothes.

Wives go to their husbands to keep an eye on them as everyone watches the maidens. Soon, the young women ditch the boys and make a circle around the Kupala fire, dancing hand in hand as the golden light of the flames caresses their skin and chaplets. They sing to the beat of the drums, calling on Mokosz to bestow fertility and on Jutrzenka to delay the dawn so the night can last longer.

Through all this, I stand alone, feeling more wretched by the minute even as my foot taps out the rhythm. My body wants to dance, and the denial makes my skin tingle with tightness. Up in the sky, Chors makes his slow ascent, as lonely as I am.

This is the shortest night of the year, yet to me, it always seems like the longest.

Soon, Jarota puts away his cup and straightens his robe with fastidious movements. He clears his throat a few times and tests out his voice. It’s time for the blessing, then.

I glance at the ring of five fires by the river. We haven’t had a divine visitor in generations and yet, every year men devoutly put together those fires and keep them lit throughout the night. The walls between worlds are thin on Kupala Night, and if a god deigns to visit us, this is where they’ll appear.

The circle is empty, of course. I doubt gods take interest in mortals these days.

Jarota comes over to the big bonfire in the middle of the meadow and the maidens scatter, abandoning their dance. I sigh and put my empty cup away, coming closer as the zerca rolls back the wide sleeves of his robe. He has a pouch of herbs he’ll sprinkle over the flames: poppies, chamomile, sage. Harmless things that will make the smoke more fragrant and the people breathing it in, dizzy.

“Come forth, come forth! Let us thank the gods for their gifts and honor them by making merry and being fruitful!”

People gather around the big fire, but I stay away. I don’t want to be affected by the hypnotic smoke. I know Jarota uses it to give himself some legitimacy.

As the zerca, he’s supposed to have the gods’ favor. He’ll call on them now, and then he’ll pretend they answered. People will breathe in the smoke and see things.

Though with how drunk some of them already are, I don’t think the smoke is necessary.

Jarota drones on about calling the gods’ favor and thanks each of them in turn. Dadzbog, for giving us warmth and light. Mokosz, for making our fields and animals fertile. Perun, for ruling us fairly. And others, all the gods on Perun’s side, those he created, those he took in, and his children. Like always, Jarota doesn’t even speak the name of Weles.

Because people think it’s a curse.

When he’s done, he throws a fistful of herbs into the fire with a flamboyant gesture. The flames spark and sizzle as pungent smoke rises into the sky. I know this is just for show and gods don’t really listen to Jarota. And yet, I can’t help glancing at the ring of fires by the river, to my right.

I long to see a god, just once. Maybe even talk to them if I can, because I’m running out of ways to become the powerful witch who saved me. And if I don’t become her, I’ll die. My twelve-year-old self will die.

But when I look at the circle prepared for the gods, it is, of course, empty. Like always.

Jarota bids everyone to celebrate in ways that will please the gods and retreats, pouring himself a full cup of mead. To the left, a gaggle of young men gather in the shadows, shoving each other and laughing. Their linen shirts are open, their faces flushed and shiny with sweat. Drink and fire heated them up, and now they are rearing to go.

They try to get their eyes on the new Kupala queen.

A distance away, in the light of a small bonfire, the maidens have gathered. They shoot sultry looks at the boys, knowing very well they are being watched. After Jarota interrupted their dancing, the girls chose their queen, and like I predicted, it’s Ida.

They strip her bare.

“Crown the queen! Crown the queen!” the girls chant as the boys shush each other and shove to get a better view.

Ida stands naked, the fair hair between her thighs glistening with honey. The girls always put food between their legs for Kupala and don’t care about the consequences as long as it gets each of them an eager tongue between her thighs.

In a moment of soul-crushing honesty, I admit I’d like that, too. But not from any of these boys. Not from anyone I know.

The young men jostle and bicker, their eyes glistening in the dark. The Kupala queen is usually the prettiest, most popular of the girls. Every boy here practically weeps with gratitude for the treat of seeing her naked. Some of them have never seen a girl in just her skin. It will be their first time fucking, too.

Tonight, everyone but me will get some. Ida more than others if she’s willing.

I don’t envy her this, I tell myself, even as something bitter twists in my stomach. Tonight, she’s the prettiest. She commands the attention of everyone—she is their center, their Great Oak that grows in the middle of the world. I can almost feel the warmth of the power she wields, and I also know I’ll never get to have it.

If she’s the Great Oak, I am a gnarled, twisted pine tree that grows on unfriendly soil against the odds. No one admires me. No one chooses me to be their queen. And it’s shallow and vain, but a part of me longs for this attention. To just taste it once. To have it once.

But once is all she gets—what anyone gets. Next year, Ida will be dethroned. Every Kupala, another girl is the queen.

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