Mistress of the Solstice (6 page)

“Right.” Ivan slowly got to his
feet and shook off bits of the forest debris.

Wolf watched him intently.
“Ready?”

“Always.” Ivan’s
smile seemed forgotten on his face. The way he stared into the darkness
of the firs made Wolf doubt the boy was seeing their prickly fingers
barring his way.

Not a good frame of mind for Leshy’s deadly game.

“Are you sure?” Wolf asked.
“I can’t guess these riddles for you,
you know. And if you lose—”

“I will become a
kikimora
.
Yes, I know.”

“Kikimoras are not just swamp spirits. They remember
who they used to be. They have full awareness of what they lost. And
when you hear that hysterical laughter…they’re not
laughing for joy.”

As if in response, a wail rose in the distance—a gurgling, sick
laughter, interlaced with such pain and anguish that Wolf saw goose
flesh rise on Ivan’s arms.

“I think I get the idea,” Ivan
said.

“Good. You do remember what I taught you,
right?”

“For the moment.” Ivan raised his
arms in front of his face to protect it from the drooping fir branches
and dove into their dark shelter, disappearing from view.

“Good luck,” Wolf called out.

There was a crackle and a muffled curse.

“Thanks!” Ivan’s
voice said eventually. It sounded faint, coming from a distance.

The boy knew how to move fast when he wanted to. He was good. Wolf hoped
he was good enough.

The swamp looked eerie in the waning light. Ivan crept forward,
painfully aware of the smacking sound his feet made on the wet grass.
Among the deadly stillness of the gnarled trees draped by the curtains
of the long lichen beards, his footsteps rang as loud as the church
bells on a clear summer day.

Not that he had hoped to creep up on Leshy unawares.

He came to a small grass-covered clearing where the ground seemed
firmer, a little island in the outskirts of the swamp. This had to be a
good place.

Ivan settled on a fallen birch trunk, among its fleshy protrusions of
wood ear.

“Just call him,” Wolf had said.
“Leshy loves to play the game. He will
come.”

But how did one “just call” the
mighty spirit of the forest, one of the most ruthless among the
Immortals?

Ivan raised his head and shouted into the still night air:
“Leshy! Come out, Forest Father! I am here to
play!”

“Ay! ay! ay!…” said the echo.

In the light of the rising moon Ivan could clearly see through the
sickly swamp forest, but he could barely make out the bushes next to
him. He tried to listen, but all he could hear was the buzz of a lonely
mosquito in its determined attack on Ivan’s neck. He
waved it away. After a while the sound came back, closer, more
insistent, and he turned, trying to catch the annoying insect.

Then he heard a laugh.

It was no more than a giggle, full of merriment and mischief. It almost
made Ivan smile in an inadvertent desire to join in the fun. Then, as
the sound sank in, he felt the skin on his back creep.

He turned slowly toward the small
beresklet
bush that had
been looming over his shoulder ever since he sat down on the fallen
birch trunk. The moon was high enough now to make out a pair of
glistening eyes, a bulb of a nose, a mischievous grin—

A face, framed by a thick crown of leaves.

The old man straightened out from his crouch and
walked from behind the dead tree onto the open grass.

“I thought you were going to let me freeze back there,
boy,” Leshy said. “It surely took
you a long time to notice me.”

His voice croaked like that of an ancient, but at the same time it was
so cheerful and energetic that, against reason, Ivan smiled.

“Hello, old father,” he said, doing
his best to sound casual, as if talking to a forest spirit had nothing
to it. “I thought you weren’t
coming.”

“What, to miss a chance to play riddles with someone
who thinks himself clever enough for the old man?”
Leshy chuckled and settled down on an old stump.

Now that Ivan could better see the Forest Man, it was
hard to understand how he could have mistaken him for a bush. His
clothes were similar to the kind worn in villages—a long linen shirt
tied at the waist with a rope, baggy pants, and
lapti—
the wicker shoes
held in place by pieces of string wrapped around the ankles. His hat
was woven out of fresh twigs that looked like they were still growing,
and the rope at his waist seemed to have a fringe of green leaves but,
all in all, the outfit didn’t seem that unusual.

Leshy’s face was a different matter.
It looked like a crude woodcarving, rough and grotesque. Dark, deeply
set eyes glistened from underneath bushy lichen eyebrows. A bulb-like
nose hung over the crack of a nearly lipless mouth. Ivan
couldn’t tell if the Forest Man had any hair. All he
could see was a wavering mass of long
beresklet
leaves with
pink-and-red splotches of berries glimmering from his neck and
shoulders like delicate pieces of jewelry. They made a strange contrast
with the bark-like skin.

“So, what is your name, brave boy?”
Leshy asked.

“Ivan.”

The old man chuckled. “I must have
at least a dozen Ivans lurking out in the swamp, boy. You must have a
nickname of some sort, eh? Something to tell you apart from my other
kikimoras?”

Ivan sighed. It never had been easy to tell his nickname to strangers.
“Ivan the Fool.”

Leshy threw his head back, shaking with gurgling laughter.
“The fool, eh? You do know the rules of my
game?”

“Yes. I have to guess three riddles. Then I can ask
you anything I want.”

“Wrong!” Leshy
chuckled again, laughter dancing off his skin.
“
Then,
if you don’t guess, I get to play
with you in my swamp. I do ooh sooo need a new playmate. The other ones
are becoming oooh sooo boooring…Although, a fool? I
don’t know.”

He snapped his fingers and a pale wavering shape appeared in front of
him, a ghostly outline of a naked hairy man. Once, this man must have
been big and strong. Ivan could see it in the set of his square
shoulders, in the way wiry muscle sculpted its way along his long arms,
in the way he crouched, trying in vain to look shorter than his master.
His skin hung in folds, as if he had lost a lot of weight in a very
short time. His haunted wild eyes watched Leshy the way a dog might
watch its abusive master raise a stick.

Ivan could see the dim outline of the forest through his misty body.

“What do you say, Nikola the Wise?”
Leshy asked. “Want to play with Ivan the Fool here?
Is he smart enough for us?”

For a moment, the shadow man looked at Ivan with an inexplicable plea in
his eyes. Then, just as suddenly, his face twisted into a laughing
grimace and he produced a long, gurgling wail.

Only a very sick man would take the sound for laughter. Nikola the
Wise’s ghostly face spoke of nothing but agony. The
laughter made it worse.

“That’s
enough!” Leshy commanded. He snapped his fingers and
the kikimora was gone.
“I think he likes you,” he added,
throwing Ivan another mischievous glance.

Ivan took a much-needed breath. “Are we playing or
not?”

Leshy regarded him for a moment, his eyes glistening from deep within
their bushy sockets. “What could Ivan the Fool want
so badly that he would risk coming here to play with the old
man?” he mused. “What could be so
important that the fool of a boy isn’t even afraid of
our old Nikola the Wise, a learned man who came to my swamp thinking he
could guess any riddle in the world?”

“I’ll tell you what I
want,” Ivan promised, “after I
guess your riddles, old father.”

Leshy chuckled again. “You must have
a beast of a father, boy, if you think old Leshy is anything like
him.”

My father
, Ivan thought.
My sweet, old, gullible father. You have no
idea, old man.

He waited.

“I have taken a liking to you, fool
boy,” Leshy finally said. “I will
let you change your mind if you want.”

Ivan shot him a glance. “Afraid to
lose?”

The Forest Man was silent for a moment. “Very
well,” he said in a grave voice.
“Listen carefully to your first riddle. I will only
say it once.”

 

Marya

F
ew people know that immortality comes with a price. Every Immortal has
a bane, a magical item that can render him helpless and force him to do
someone else’s bidding. The Immortals guard their banes
closely, making sure that no one else knows what they are or where they
could be found. But secrets leak out. They always do.

I know that Raven’s bane is a net, one that can capture
him and hold him helpless until the Net’s wielder
releases him. He can be captured for ages if need be. And he must do
whatever the one who captured him wishes. Such are the rules of his
immortality.

I have no idea where Raven keeps his bane and who guards it against the
chance fortune-seekers. His secret is safe, for his powers are not as
desired as those of Yaga, or Domovoi, or Zmei Gorynych, the Fire
Serpent. Raven cannot grant you riches, glory, or long life. His true
price is in the knowledge he possesses. But very few know even that
much about him.