Page 150 of Devil's Deal

So it’s not over yet. I still bear his curse.

I shake out my legs and arms, stretch my back, brush my hair from my face. Through all those long hours of sitting on this wet, cold stump, my mind finally figured out another goal.

Slowly, I walk deeper into the forest, keeping the river on my right side. I know that tomorrow, or even tonight, Darobor and Leszek, and maybe others, too, will come looking. I understand the need to avenge their loved ones. Of course, they will hope I stay close by so they can catch me and channel all their rage into hurting me.

So I must go.

It’s not even fear that guides me. It’s sheer survival instinct, something so ingrained, it doesn’t even take a thought to act on it.

I walk slowly but steadily. It’s easy without a heavy bundle of belongings. There is nothing to worry about, nothing to remember. Just put one foot in front of the other, over and over, until I’m too tired to go on.

Clear puddles fill the hollows in the ground, and I crouch by a deep one to drink. Rainwater tastes pure and sweet, and I have my fill, quenching both hunger and thirst. Then I walk some more. Dusk turns into night. The moon has grown bigger since I saw Chors, and now that the sky is clear, its light gently silvers my path where the trees aren’t too dense.

I manage not to think until exhaustion makes me stumble, so I stop and lie down, not bothering to find a dry or hidden place. What’s the point? If I get sick, Woland will heal me. If wolves find me, he’ll chase them away.

Before I fall asleep, I smile grimly. Yes, Woland will save me. Right after stealing everything that made my life worth living.

The next day, my hunger grows too great to satisfy with water alone. The weather is hot again, and as all the rain dries in the heat, the air grows unpleasantly stifling. I am deep in the forest now, but the river is still nearby. I follow its current, picking wild strawberries, raspberries, wood sorrel leaves, and unripe hazelnuts.

I don’t make haste and I don’t stop for long, because every longer rest makes the plants die around me. The forest is bright and filled with sounds, small animals rustling in the undergrowth, birds calling to one another high above. I keep walking for a full day without thinking, without feeling. I let my base needs guide me—to the river to drink, into the undergrowth for food, to a bed of moss when I’m tired.

That night, I sleep more comfortably, curled up in the roots of an old oak. I wake to find myself covered with its leaves, shrunken and black at the edges.

My curse affects even the mightiest of trees. I walk away from that place in haste, doing my best not to think about the dying tree.

But it’s like Daga said all those years ago.

Her blood will poison the roots.

On the third day, fissures appear in my armor of numbness. Images flash in my mind. Sara avidly listening to my tales. Darobor asking me to teach her. The baby in my palms, still alive, red and warm from her mother’s womb.

I don’t ruminate on them, just let them pass, walking, always walking. I find more plants to eat, digging up some roots, picking berries, munching on nettles. I don’t have hot water to make them not sting, but that’s fine. I barely feel their hostile touch on my numb fingers.

In the evening, I see a large, black bird resembling a chicken. It sits on a branch, glaring at me with bright yellow eyes. It seems to watch me with awareness much sharper than animals usually display. I’ve never seen a bird like this, so I stop to look. It makes a nasty, screeching sound and launches into a heavy flight, disappearing among the branches.

And I think I know what it was. I know tales of klobuks, black birds resembling roosters that live deep in the woods and come close to human settlements in winter. In the stories, if someone invited a klobuk into their home, the bird would steal from their neighbors and bring its loot to its host in exchange for food and a warm place by the hearth.

I wonder if meeting the bird means I’m so deep in the woods, no mortals come here. Or maybe the opposite—maybe there’s a village nearby.

The fourth day, I walk further, and there is no village. Instead, I see bright lights flashing between the trees, accompanied by sweet, female giggles. I have no idea what kind of licho it is, and when I try to follow the voices, the lights scatter, and everything falls silent.

My armor is cracked in many places now. I don’t cry, because there’s no point to that, but a dark cloud of hate and despair nestles in my gut and chest. It obscures even the fear of being out in the wilderness alone, the fear that ruled my entire life.

It doesn’t anymore. There is nothing to rule, because my life is ruined.

My zmora is restless, stirring inside me and asking to be let out, because the amount of hate I feed her requires an outlet. I keep her leashed, though. There is only one person I wish to hurt, and she can’t even fight him.

On the fifth day, when I emerge from the river after a long afternoon soak, Woland comes.

“I brought you soap for your hair,” he says gallantly, offering me a beautiful pot made of something that resembles polished white stone but shines brighter than any stones I’ve seen.

I look at it for a moment, the darkness inside me roaring. How dare he?

“You can shove it up your ass.”

He sighs, sounding impatient. “I hoped your lone travels would soften you a little. Clearly, I was wrong. Jaga, what’s even the point? You have nothing to go back to. No aim to reach for, either, and soon, the nights will grow cold and food will be scarce.”

He looks at me critically, no spark of arousal in his eyes even though I’m nude.

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