The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

“It shall be done,” said Konstantin fervently. “Just as you say, it shall be done. Only never leave me again.”

All the candles wavered with something very like a long sigh of satisfaction. “Obey me always,” returned the voice. “And I will never leave you.”

THE NEXT DAY THE SUN drowned in sodden clouds and cast ghostly light over a world stripped of color. It began to snow at daybreak. Pyotr’s household went shivering to the little church and huddled together inside. The church was dark except for the candles. Almost, thought Vasya, she could hear the snow outside, burying them until spring. It shut off the light, but the candles lit the priest. The bones of his face cast elegant shadows. He wore a look more remote than his icons, and he had never been so beautiful.

The icon-screen was finished. The risen Christ, the final icon, was enthroned above the door. He sat in judgment above a stormy earth with an expression that Vasya could not read. “I invoke Thee,” said Konstantin, low and clear. “God who has called me up to be his servant. The voice out of darkness, lover of storms. Be Thou present among us.”

And then, louder, he began the service. “Blessed be God,” Konstantin said. His eyes were great dark hollows, but his voice seemed to flicker with fire. The service went on and on. When he spoke, the people forgot the icy damp and the grinning specter of starvation. Earthly troubles were as nothing when that voice touched them. The Christ above the doors seemed to raise his hand in benediction.

“Listen,” said Konstantin. His voice dropped so that they had to strain to hear. “There is evil among us.” The congregation looked at each other. “It creeps into our souls in the night, in the silence. It is waiting for the unwary.” Irina crept closer to Vasya, and Vasya put an arm around her.

“Only faith,” Konstantin continued, “only prayer, only God, can save you.” His voice rose on each word. “Fear God, and repent. It is your only escape from damnation. Otherwise you will burn—you will burn!”

Anna screamed. Her scream echoed the length of the little church; her eyes bulged beneath the bluish lids. “No!” she screamed. “Oh, God, not here! Not here!”

Her voice seemed to split the walls and multiply so that there were a hundred women shrieking.

In the instant before the room fell into chaos, Vasya followed her stepmother’s pointing finger. The risen Christ over the door was smiling at them now, when before he had been solemn. His two dog-teeth dented his lower lip. But instead of his two eyes, he had only one. The other side of his face was seamed with blue scars, and the eye was a socket, crudely sewn.

Somewhere, Vasya thought, fighting the fear that closed her throat, she had seen that face before.

But she had no time to think. The folk on either side of her clapped their hands to their ears, flung themselves facedown, or shoved their way toward the safety of the narthex. Anna was left standing alone. She laughed and wept, clawing the air. No one would touch her. Her screams echoed off the walls. Konstantin shoved his way to her side and struck her across the face. She subsided, choking, but the noise seemed to echo on and on, as though the icons themselves were screaming.

Vasya seized Irina in the first moil of chaos, to keep her from being swept off her feet. An instant later, Alyosha appeared and wrapped strong arms around Dunya, who was small as a child, fragile as November leaves. The four clung together. The people milled and shouted. “I must go to Mother,” said Irina, squirming.

“Wait, little bird,” said Vasya. “You would only be trampled.”

“Mother of God,” Alyosha said. “If anyone learns Irina’s mother takes such fits, no one will ever marry her.”

“No one will know,” snapped Vasya. Her sister had turned very pale. She glared at her brother as the crowd pushed them against the wall. She and Alyosha shielded Dunya and Irina with their bodies.

Vasya looked again at the iconostasis. Now it was as it had always been. Christ sat in his throne above the world, his hand raised to bless. Had she imagined the other face? But if she had, why had Anna screamed?

“Silence!”

Konstantin’s voice rang like a dozen bells. Everyone froze. He stood before the iconostasis and raised a hand, a living echo of the image of Christ above his head. “Fools!” he thundered. “Are you children to be afraid of a woman screaming? Get up, all of you. Be silent. God will protect us.”

They crept together like chastened children. What Pyotr’s bellowing had not accomplished, the voice of the priest did. They swayed nearer him. Anna stood shuddering, weeping, ashen as the sky at dawn. The only face paler in that church belonged to the priest himself. The candlelight filled the nave with strange shadows. There—again—one flung across the iconostasis that was not the shadow of a man.

God, thought Vasya, when the service haltingly renewed. Here? Chyerti cannot come into churches; they are creatures of this world, and church is for the next.

Yet she had seen the shadow.

PYOTR LED HIS WIFE home as soon as could be managed. Her daughter undressed her and put her to bed. But Anna cried and retched and cried, and would not stop.

At last, Irina, desperate, went back to the church. She found Father Konstantin kneeling alone before the icon-screen. After the service that day, the people had kissed his hand and begged him to save them. He looked at peace then. Even triumphant. But now Irina thought he looked like the loneliest person in the world.

“Will you come to my mother?” she whispered.

Konstantin jerked to his knees, looked around.

“She is weeping,” said Irina. “She will not stop.”

Konstantin did not speak; he was straining all his senses. After the people left the church, God had come to him in the smoke of extinguished candles.

“Beautiful.” The whisper sent the smoke curling in little eddies along the floor. “They were so frightened.” The voice sounded almost gleeful. Konstantin was silent. For an instant he wondered if he was a madman and the voice had come crawling out of his own heart. But—no, of course not. It is only your wickedness that doubts, Konstantin Nikonovich.

“I am glad you came among us,” murmured Konstantin under his breath. “To lead your people in righteousness.”

But the voice had not answered, and now the church was still.

Louder, Konstantin said to Irina, “Yes, I will come.”

“HERE IS FATHER KONSTANTIN,” said Irina, drawing the priest into her mother’s room. “He will comfort you. I will get supper; Vasya is burning the milk already.” She ran out.

“The church, Batyushka?” sobbed Anna Ivanovna when the two were alone. She lay in her bed, wrapped in furs. “The church—never the church.”

“What foolishness you talk,” said Konstantin. “The church is protected by God. God alone makes his dwelling in the church, and his saints and his angels.”

“But I saw—”

“You saw nothing!” Konstantin laid a hand on her cheek. She shivered. His voice dropped lower, hypnotic. He touched her lips with a forefinger. “You saw nothing, Anna Ivanovna.”

She raised one trembling hand and touched his. “I will see nothing, if you tell me so, Batyushka.” She blushed like a girl. Her hair was dark with sweat.