Page 15 of Devil's Deal

The girls giggle, bringing out the robe of flowers and grasses they wove for their queen. They will drape it over Ida to mark their choice.

“We choose you, Kupala queen! Let us bask in your beauty and favor. Let us all be as beautiful as you tonight.”

The girls wrap the woven flower robe around Ida’s naked body, tying it around her breasts and stomach, covering her sticky thighs. She is crowned their queen, and soon, they carry her into the forest, where she’ll bequest her favors. As they go, they sing the customary Kupala song.

Oh, Kupala queen, the fairest of us all,

Give us some of your charms so our skin can glow.

Give us a few of the sparks that dance in your eyes,

Make our limbs lithe so each can claim her prize.

With hoots of laughter, the girls disappear between the trees and the boys follow, not even trying to stick to the shadows. They shout and warn the girls to hide well if they want to keep their secrets, and some of the maidens turn and blow them kisses.

I sigh and swirl the dregs of wine in my cup, mercilessly stomping down on all the bitter, resentful feelings that rise in my chest. I should be among those girls, carefree and joyful as I flaunt my charms. Instead, I have to stay here among the older adults, alone and pitiful.

I shake my head. No, I’m not going to suffer any more ignominy tonight. I put my cup away with a thump and look around one last time at the burning fires, the black outlines of spruces against the starry sky, at the people laughing and talking in raucous voices.

I turn to go home when my heart swells with painful terror in my throat.

The circle of bonfires by the river is no longer empty. Someone is there.

Chapter six

Gods

I don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t move. All I do is stare at the dark, smoky shapes moving hazily between the five fires. I’m completely certain none of those shapes are mortal. They are something else.

Dark and made from shadows, they are opaque and ephemeral. But as I watch, my eyes watering from refusing to blink, the shapes harden and coalesce.

Suddenly, it’s not just smoke with a hint of an arm or a head here and there. They are shapes of people.

I blink once, because the tears gathering in my eyes make me doubt my vision. Then I inhale a deep breath, focusing on the air. Did I breathe in some of Jarota’s herbal smoke by mistake? Is that why I’m seeing things?

But the air I breathe is clear, smelling of wine, smoke, and the cool scent of the river at night. I dig my toes into the wet grass, grounding myself, and look at the circle of fires again.

This time, I see colors and faces.

The sounds of celebration behind me grow distant as I focus my entire attention on the visitors in the circle. I see luxurious green and blue fabrics, the likes of which I’ve never seen anyone wear before. The colors are bright, as if the fabrics had been spun from leaves and the blue of the sky. No dye I know can make a color like that.

Yet when I try to see their faces, they are obscured, as if covered by thick fog.

My body unfreezes and I take an uncertain step forward. Then another. Curiosity is stronger than fear and self-preservation, and so I walk, my mind stuttering through potent disbelief.

I’m looking at gods. The gods are here. I see them!

Yet, what exactly do I see? I squint, stopping when I’m about ten steps away, the celebration left firmly behind me. The shapes in the circle are filled with vivid colors and yet, there is an air of vagueness to them. The lines where the bodies end and the air begins are smudged.

“Here? Really?” a grumpy male voice rings out, and I flinch. It’s melodic and strong, and yet, there is an echo to it. As if we’re in a deep underground cave.

“A backward village where the dogs bark out of their asses,” a female voice answers, confident and strong. It’s marred by the same odd echo. Despite the scornful words, I don’t think it sounds truly displeased, only curious.

“Do they, really?” another male voice asks, ringing with laughter. A sudden gust of warm wind runs past, making my dress flutter. “Mortals are strange. Why would the dogs be backwards like that? Do they shit with their mouths?”

“Because it’s a backward place, and no, they don’t. It’s a figure of speech,” the first male voice, answers, sounding exasperated. “Please, Strzybog. Drop the idiot act and look around. We have a spectator.”

I gasp, not because they noticed me, but because of the name. Strzybog. The lord of wind, the son of Perun and Mokosz, one of the royal gods of Wyraj. My heart clatters in my chest like it wants to run, but my feet are frozen to the cool grass.

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