Page 7 of Devil's Deal

Thick, heavy drops of blood fall into the water and swirl, slowly dissolving. I watch the spectacle, breathing deeply as tremors run down my legs, my knuckles white from keeping myself upright.

Drip.

Another crimson bead of my blood lands in the basin, so red, it’s almost black. It spreads around, growing thinner at the edges, more translucent, until it becomes one with the water.

The water’s dark pink now. In the right light, it would look so pretty.

I squeeze my nose with one hand, bracing on the table with the other as my head pounds with vicious pain. Drip. Drip. Drip. At least it’s not gushing like minutes ago.

Darkness gathers in the corners of my cottage as the last rays of the sun dip under the horizon. Dadzbog goes to sleep after his day-long trip over the sky, and people prepare for the shortest night of the year.

There is only one small window in my cottage, and the fire went out along with the candles when I did the spell. I barely see my reflection on the surface of the bloodied water. My skin seems to have a deathly pallor, but it might be because of the bad light.

Normally, I would open the door to catch the last glow of twilight, but then people would see me from the path. And I can’t show them my weakness.

The time between the heavy drips grows longer as I breathe through my mouth. The shaking in my legs eases. Yet, it won’t stop, no matter how strongly I bid my body to harden. And time’s running out. I’ll have to walk out of here soon, and I’d rather eat dirt than show up weak and trembling.

A bout of nausea squeezes my gut when I consider the weight of all the scorn and disdain I’ll have to bear tonight.

To help myself calm down, I focus on my cottage and don’t think about anything else. I have only this one room, with an old, crumbling hearth, a threadbare rug, a few pots stacked on my old table, and a narrow bed filled with hay. Above me are old, wooden beams supporting the thatched roof. The stone walls should have been whitewashed in the spring, but I didn’t have enough to trade for the lime.

Like my mother when she was alive, I am given prices much higher than everyone else. Most villagers hope I’ll get tired of the unfair treatment and leave, but that would be certain death. There are deep forests out there, full of wolves and bears, and licho knows what else.

The worst are all the creatures Wiosna told me about that avoid human settlements but don’t mind eating a stray wanderer. Upirs, werewolves, wilas, strzygas, poludnicas, and others. Too many to count, all vengeful and deadly.

I can’t walk away even if I hate living in this village. So every time it seems I can’t bear it here any longer, I just grit my teeth and toughen up.

I am as tough as oak bark now. It’s a wonder I bleed at all.

No more blood falls into the basin. I let go of my nose and check it gently with my fingers. My headache slowly dissipates, becoming just a dull throbbing in the back of my skull. My legs almost don’t shake at all.

I grab a cloth and wash the blood off my face, careful to keep my head upright. My chaplet, the source of all this trouble, sits lush and beautiful on my braided hair, and I’d hate myself if I let it fall and get crushed after everything I suffered.

Outside, people laugh and call out to each other as they walk past my cottage on their way to the meadow. They used to grow quiet when they passed my dwelling, but not anymore. I don’t even have their fear now, just their hate.

I wash my face longer than necessary and then light a tallow candle so I can inspect my reflection in the water. The smoke stinks, oily and sticky, and the image isn’t as clear as I’d like, but at least I don’t spot any blood.

My dress is clean, too. It’s my best garment, a long linen dress that belonged to my mother. The neckline is low yet respectable, embroidered with poppies. According to Wiosna, the dress is cursed.

“Your ma wore it when Ratko came to the village. He fell in love at once. She would have saved herself so much suffering if she wore something drabber that day.”

I snort, but softly so as not to reopen the vessel that burst up my nose. Wiosna’s been dead for five years, yet her words sting as sharply as ever. Because it’s clear that I, the fruit of my mother’s and Ratko’s love, was the root of my mom’s suffering.

It hurts so much because I know it’s the truth. If not for me, my mother would be alive and happy today.

If only I hadn’t been born.

But because of me and the shadow I cast on our lives, she became sad and unhappy. Due to the high prices we got and the lack of neighborly help, everything was harder for my mom and me, until exhaustion and hunger pushed her into an illness when I was fourteen.

Neither Wiosna nor I could do anything for her. Wiosna told me quietly my mother decided to die, and so, even the most potent medicine couldn’t save her. I imagine if she had had another daughter instead of me, a daughter with dark hair and normal eyes, she would be happy and alive.

But it’s all in the past. I shouldn’t think about it, especially not tonight.

I breathe deeply to drown the painful tightness in my chest. The guilt never leaves completely, but I bury it for long periods of time. I’ve trained myself to do it, and now it comes effortlessly. A moment later, I can breathe more freely, though never fully expanding my chest.

With one last look down at the dress falling in soft lines to my bare feet, I make sure it looks presentable. I reach up to straighten my chaplet. It’s a sturdy, wild thing with a base of thin, flexible branches woven together with beautiful grasses.

But the most impressive part of it is the crown of enormous, luscious poppies blooming all over my chaplet. They are deeply red, their centers black, their fuzzy stalks strong as they bear the weight of the flowers.

---