The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

“No,” Vasya said. “Please.”

But the colt lay still. The black tide slowed and stopped.

A white mare stepped out of the darkness and laid her nose very gently against the dead horse. Vasya felt the mare’s warm breath against her neck, but when she turned to look, there was only a little trickle of starlight.

Despair and weariness were a black tide, like the horse’s blood on her hands, and they swallowed Vasya whole. She held the stiffening, blood-streaked head in her arms and wept.

THE HOUR HAD GROWN OLD, and they should have long since gone to bed, when Alyosha came back into the winter kitchen. He was gray-faced, his clothes all spattered with blood. “One of the horses is dead,” he said heavily. “Its throat was torn away. Vasya is staying in the stable tonight. She will not be dissuaded.”

“But she will freeze. She will die!” cried Irina.

Alyosha smiled faintly. “Not Vasya. You try arguing with her, Irinka.”

Irina pressed her lips together, laid aside her mending, and went to heat a clay pot in the oven. No one was quite sure what she was about until she dished up milk, baked hard, with old porridge, picked it up, and made for the door.

“Irinka, come back!” cried Anna.

Irina, to Alyosha’s certain knowledge, had never in her life defied her mother. But this time, the girl disappeared over the threshold without a word. Alyosha cursed and went after her. Father was right, he thought darkly. My sisters cannot be left alone.

It was very cold, and the dvor smelled of blood. The colt lay where he had fallen. The corpse would freeze overnight, and tomorrow was soon enough to bring the men to butcher it. The stable seemed empty when Alyosha and Irina went inside. “Vasya,” called Alyosha. Sudden fear seized him. What if…?

“Here, Lyoshka,” said Vasya. She emerged from Mysh’s stall, soft-footed as a cat. Irina squeaked and nearly dropped her pot. “Are you all right, Vasochka?” she managed, tremulously.

They could not see Vasya’s face, only a pale blur beneath the darkness of her hair. “Well enough, little bird,” she replied, hoarse.

“Lyoshka says you are staying in the stable tonight,” said Irina.

“Yes,” said Vasya, visibly gathering herself. “I must—the vazila is afraid.” Her hands were black with blood.

“If you must,” said Irina, very gently, as though to a beloved lunatic. “I brought you porridge.” Clumsily, she thrust the pot at her sister. Vasya took it. The weight and the warmth seemed to steady her. “You would do better to come in and eat it by the fire, though,” said Irina. “The people will talk if you stay here.”

Vasya shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Irina’s lips firmed. “Come along,” she said. “This way is better.”

Alyosha watched in astonishment as Vasya let herself be led back to the house, put into her own place by the oven, and fed.

“Go to bed, Irinka,” said Vasya at last. A little color had come back into her face. “Sleep on the oven; Alyosha and I will watch tonight.” The priest had gone. Anna was already snoring in her own chamber. Irina, who was drooping heavily, did not hesitate long.

When Irina was asleep, Vasya and Alyosha looked at each other. Vasya was white as salt, with circles beneath her eyes. Her dress was streaked with the horse’s blood. But food and fire had steadied her.

“What now?” said Alyosha, low.

“We must watch tonight,” said Vasya. “And we must try the cemetery at dawn, and do what we can in daylight. May God be merciful.”

KONSTANTIN WENT TO THE CHURCH at sunrise. He dashed across the dvor as though the angel of death followed, barred the door to the nave, and flung himself down before the icon-screen. When the sun rose and sent gray light crawling across the floor, he did not heed it. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed the voice would come back and remove all his doubting. But all that long day the silence held perfect.

It was only in the sad twilight, when there was more shadow than light on the floor of the church, that there came a voice.

“Fallen so far, my poor creature?” it said. “Twice now the she-demons have come for you, Konstantin Nikonovich. They break your window; they knock at the door.”

“Yes,” groaned Konstantin. Waking and sleeping now he saw the she-demon’s face, felt her teeth in his throat. “They know I am fallen, and so they pursue me. Have mercy. Save me, I beg. Forgive me. Take this sin from me.” Konstantin’s hands clenched together and he bowed his face to the floor.

“Very well,” said the voice mildly. “Such a little thing to ask of me, man of God. See, I am merciful. I will save you. You need not weep.”

Konstantin pressed his hands to his wet face.

“But,” said the voice, “I would ask something in return.”

Konstantin looked up. “Anything,” he said. “I am your poor servant.”

“The girl,” said the voice. “The witch. All this is her fault. The people know it. They whisper among themselves. They see your eyes follow her. They say she has tempted you from grace.”

Konstantin said nothing. Her fault. Her fault.

“I desire greatly,” said the voice, “that she retire from the world. It must be sooner, not later. She has brought evil upon this house, and there can be no remedy while she is here.”

“She will go south with the sledges,” said Konstantin. “She will go before midwinter. Pyotr Vladimirovich has said it.”

“Sooner,” said the voice. “It must be sooner. There are fires and torments in store for this place. But send her away and you can save yourself, Konstantin Nikonovich. Send her away, and you can save them all.”

Konstantin hesitated. The dark seemed to breathe out a long soft sigh.

“It will be as you say,” whispered Konstantin. “I swear it.”

Then the voice was gone. Konstantin was left empty, rapturous and cold, alone on the church floor.

THAT VERY AFTERNOON, KONSTANTIN went to Anna Ivanovna. She had taken to her bed, and her daughter brought her broth.

“You must send Vasya away now,” said Konstantin. There was sweat on his brow; his hands trembled. “Pyotr Vladimirovich is too soft-hearted; perhaps she will sway him. But for all our sakes, the girl must go. The demons come because of her. Did you see how she ran out into the night? She summoned them; she is not afraid. It may be that your own daughter, the little Irina, will be the next to die. Demons have appetite for more than horses.”

“Irina?” Anna whispered. “You think Irina is in danger?” She quivered with love and fear.

“I know it,” said Konstantin.

“Give Vasya to the people,” said Anna at once. “They will stone her if you ask it. Pyotr Vladimirovich is not here to stop them.”

“Better she go to a convent,” said Konstantin after the briefest hesitation. “I would not have her meet God without the chance of repentance.”

Anna pursed her lips. “The sledges are not ready. Better she dies. I will not see my Irina hurt.”

“The first two sledges are ready,” replied Konstantin. “There are men enough. A few would be more than willing to take her away from here. I will arrange it. Pyotr can go see his daughter, if he wishes, after she is safe in Moscow. He will not be angry when he knows the whole of it. All will be well. Do you be quiet and pray.”