Page 143 of Devil's Deal

But there is no response, only the rain drumming on the river and the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance. I know he won’t come, yet I wait anyway, anger mingling with fear in my chest. Finally, when chills run down my back, I give up and go home.

The next day, it rains, too. I check my garden in the morning, and all the herbs I replanted are dead and black. Furious and helpless, because I don’t know how to fight this new licho, I spend the day trying to use magic. I still have some of Woland’s blood in me, so the first spell I do to fix a leak in my roof works at once.

I try another one, intending to erase the mark on my chin, but one look into a basin of clear water tells me it’s a failure. I remember how Woland said using his own magic against him doesn’t work, so I spend the rest of his power, and once I run out, feeling weak and dizzy, I attack the mark with my own magic.

But it’s useless. I try it three times, gathering the power and directing it with intent, and every time, it shatters against the invisible wall inside me. After the third time, I sprawl on my back on the floor, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling. It gently revolves, and it feels like I’m falling, my head light, my body weak and leaden. I stay that way for what feels like hours, too weak to get up, too anxious to fall asleep.

In the afternoon, an urgent knock on my door forces me to rise. I groan and stumble for the door, holding on to walls and furniture on the way. Lotta’s boy stands on the threshold, his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“Miss whisperer!” he says. “The zerca is feeling unwell! He’s coughing up blood!”

I pale. If his illness progressed so quickly, there is likely nothing I can do. I nod to the boy and tell him to run along, and then I pack everything I might need in my basket, gritting my teeth so I don’t sway on my feet.

Jarota’s house isn’t far from my new cottage, and when I enter, I find Lubka, who is his neighbor, pacing the kitchen. She wrings her hands anxiously in her dark apron. Jarota is in his bed in the bedroom. It’s loud inside, the rain beating on the thatched roof just like it does on mine.

“Perun be praised,” Lubka says when she sees me. “He’s coughing up a storm.”

I nod and wipe rainwater from my face and hands. I put my basket on the table and go into the bedroom to see how Jarota feels.

And it’s not good. As soon as I enter, I smell that particular stench that Wiosna taught me to recognize. It appears with some illnesses, forecasting death. It’s sweet and slightly rotten, the source being Jarota’s sweat filled with deathly fumes. His body fights a losing battle.

He looks so pale as he lies in his bed, twenty years older than yesterday. His face seems sunken, wrinkles deep. When he opens his eyes, they are feverish and unseeing.

He coughs as I lean over to check his temperature. Blood and mucus splatter my face.

I don’t make a sound, don’t even breathe, just take the cloth I usually carry by my apron and wipe myself clean. Jarota whimpers like a small child, helpless and in pain, yet too weak to scream.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, putting my hand on his forehead.

He’s not burning up, which is a very bad sign in his current state. That, combined with the sweet smell of death lying in wait, is a sure sign he’ll pass soon.

“He’s not lucid,” I tell Lubka when I come out, going straight for my basket. “And he likely won’t be. I can stay with him through the night. I don’t expect he’ll make it to morning.”

Her eyes are big, and she regards me as if I grew another head.

“What… What do you mean, he won’t make it? He was fine yesterday morning!”

There is fear and accusation in her voice, and I sigh with sadness. I know how this goes. People usually blame the bearers of bad news.

“These things move very fast sometimes,” I say gently but firmly. “I’ll give him medicine and something to ease his pain, but I don’t expect he’ll recover. Bloody cough is a sign of a serious malady. I’m sorry.”

Lubka’s lip trembles. She moves a step toward the door. “Is it… Can one get infected?”

I think about the blood that landed on my face and hope with all my might it’s not the case. Time will tell. Better not to think about it.

“It might spread, but I’m not sure,” I say calmly. “All I know is that some diseases that are easy to overcome for young people can be lethal to those more advanced in age. You are still a young woman. There shouldn’t be any reason to worry.”

She nods a few times, saying her hasty goodbyes. I go to Jarota and administer the medicine, which he swallows obediently without regaining awareness. Soon, he has another coughing fit, spraying his blanket with more blood. I wipe his mouth and feed the fire in the kitchen hearth. It’s chilly due to the rain, and I know he’ll be more comfortable when it’s warm.

Jarota dies in the middle of the night. Since he’s our zerca, he has some holy oils and a few smudging bundles, so I don’t even have to get my supplies. I wash him and burn his bloody clothes and blanket in the hearth, opening the front door wide to let the smoke out into the rainy night.

My tasks done, I wait for Rod, hoping to ask him about Woland’s mark, but I’m so exhausted, I nod off and miss his arrival.

When I wake, it’s dawn, and Milka beats down the door of Jarota’s cottage.

“Jaga, come quick!” she shouts, her face red from crying, her tears mixing with the rain wetting her cheeks.

“My husband is dying!”

---