Fate of the Demon

Chapter 3-1

CHAPTER 3

In the stillness and the silence, it was almost as if Brygida were the only one around for miles. Vast, snowy windswept fields stretched ahead, an expanse of unbroken white that abutted barely visible farm houses, their roofs overburdened beneath shrouds of snow.

As the fleeting days gave way to lengthier nights, the cold and the dark claiming the land seeped into the hearts of men; they hid behind walls and fireplaces, beneath roofs and blankets, waiting for the winter to break.

Nature, too, waited beneath the cold and the dark, eager for rebirth, for the turn of the Wheel, and the anticipation burned in her own blood. Tonight, the gloom would drown all, black waters over flood lands, the longest dark of Kolęda lit by that burning hope for light, for warmth, for spring.

She smoothed her hands over the ample bear fur, the bristly guard hairs coarse, and the lingering musk of bear far from comforting, but somehow she felt less alone. The spark of Kolęda hope flared just as brightly in a Mrok witch’s heart as in any other, perhaps even more so—or was it only her kind who yearned for this evening as the light, the warmth, and the spring did?

The winter wind blew past, out toward the distance where the glow of a bonfire blazed in the night, haloed by small, winking lights in the grim. Candles—lots of them, tiny flames trying to illuminate the darkest time of the year, help the gods turn the Wheel from winter to spring, and invite the spirits of deceased loved ones to visit. Even in the dark, the way to Czarnobrzeg glittered.

Lively music filtered in, the gęśla and a band of singers, and the winking lights were dancers casting moving silhouettes that swayed with the flames. Merry voices carried from afar. A crowd of people approached from the direction of the village, a procession of masked carolers singing together, and they joined the festivities surrounding the manor house.

Most of them had donned what seemed to be goat costumes, familiar in their animalistic traits and the horns especially, but… far tamer than her demonic lejiń attire. Perhaps the villagers believed the threat of a goat herd was enough to scare away demons? At home, she, Mama, and Mamusia would have all been wearing their most frightening garb, trying their hardest to appease Weles and chase away the winter.

But here, it was far more of a celebration, the like only a multitude of people could provide, and something she’d never experienced on her witchlands. The Feast of the Mother a few weeks ago had come close, but its joy had quickly burned to ash with the violent events of that night.

She fell into step behind the crowd, without so much as a glance back from anyone. Laughter cut the air, loud and carefree, from near the bonfire, its smoky perfume welcome and familiar. A large man, his black hair streaked with gray, raised a cup to his mouth, its beverage running in rivulets down the sides of his face, and then slid a sleeve across his lips. His many rings glinting in the firelight, he clasped arms with a well-dressed man.

Dariusz, Nina’s father, with a stranger wealthy enough to afford fine woolen cloth.

It wasn’t so long ago that she’d suspected Dariusz of murdering Roksana. His wife, Zofia, had borne the bruises to have made it plausible, but in the end, Julian had proven his own guilt, and his villainy.

With a shudder, she looked over the crowds. She was here as a guest for the Kolęda festivities, but a part of her—the part that had been Mokosza’s Reaper of Death only a few weeks ago—took a second look at the men who watched women, attempted to divine their intentions. Julian had been a presence in Roksana’s life since her childhood, had been kind to her, had presented himself as a friend and an ally, and yet lurking beneath that congenial mask had been a monster. And here, many men wore congenial masks they had crafted, some by hand and others perhaps by devious intention.

“Mothers, hide your children,” a sardonic voice called out, and holding her mask’s headdress, she followed the sound. “Men, hold your ladies close. I say, there’s a demon among us.”

Stefan’s dark eyes gleamed in the warm light of the bonfire, matched to a wry smile. Finally, a friendly face.

“Grr,” she replied, mustering her best demonic growl.

He canted his head, hands on his hips, and pressed his mouth shut, although the edges twitched. No mask or costume, but he wore a gray robe sashed at the waist with red, longer than his usual tunics and more festive with the added splash of color. He’d slicked back his dark hair, and it reflected the fires like a wolf’s eye. “Come now, is that your best growl?”

The smile fled his face and his eyes widened, focused behind her. He reached up a hand.

Her mask brushed up against her face, abruptly pulled off. She squeezed her eyes shut but whirled.

“There is a demon among us,” Dariusz spat, his face twisted in a hateful sneer.

She swiped for her mask, but he simply raised it higher.

“You’re not welcome here.” He leaned in, holding her gaze. Firelight flashed red in his eyes.

Stefan stepped between them and, taller, snatched her mask away from him. “Brygida is here by our future lord’s personal invitation,” he said, his voice low and his face a breath away from Dariusz’s smirk. “Isn’t there a bottle missing you somewhere? Find your way back to it.”

An amused huff, and Dariusz thumbed his jaw casually. “Take care that your stallion doesn’t steal onto my fields tonight.”

“My stallion finds your fields inviting,” he replied with a dark, biting edge. “Perhaps they long for more than an old, clumsy jackass.”

Fire stirred in Dariusz’s gaze, and it didn’t seem to be animals and fields they were discussing.

“Come, come!” an older man’s voice beckoned. He wore a long, black hooded robe with the mark of the horned serpent, and held a staff decorated with evergreen sprigs, charred at its base. A special guest representing Weles?

Dariusz and Stefan’s locked gazes remained unbroken, but the old man removed Dariusz’s arm and then tapped Stefan’s shoulder until they turned to him. He pointed toward the bonfire.

“Let us see the future of Rubin together!” the old man beckoned, so merry and mischievous it was difficult not to smile.

The last thing she wanted was for Stefan to come to blows with Dariusz on her account, especially during Kolęda. She hooked her arm in Stefan’s, and his gaze flickered to her, its animosity fading. “Stefan, I want to hear all about this ‘seeing the future.’ Tell me.”

Without waiting for his reply, she took her mask from him, put it on, and led them toward the bonfire. The crowd—even Dariusz—gathered around the old man, who lured in every last caroler, his black billowing sleeves raven’s wings against the tower of flame. “Come, come, gather around the bonfire and let Weles tell you what the future holds,” he bade, his thick voice carrying like a tendril of smoke. “What will come after the snow?”

“Longer days!” someone offered.

“Plentiful crops!” called another.

“Yes, yes,” the old man said, drawling theatrically. “The sparks will tell all.”

How would the sparks divine the future? She’d never seen such a custom, and now found herself standing straighter, peeking over and between the heads of villagers.

“Willow sparks,” Stefan whispered, leaning in toward her ear. “If they burn long and bright, it’ll be a merry fire.”

And a merry fire would bode well for the future, with enduring sparks for all to see.

At home, Mama served the good tea and Mamusia would read the leaves. Maybe that was what they were doing now. She shifted from foot to foot, and Stefan rested his hand on her arm, only for a moment. She took a deep, calming breath.

The old man grasped his willow-wrapped staff and approached the fire, where the large logs at its foundation burned molten. He plunged the charred base of the staff into the fire, striking the log at the bottom.

Once, twice, multiple times, and everyone’s hands came together to clap to the staff’s thudding strikes. Sparks plumed from the glowing wood, myriad fireflies taking flight on the wintry air, soaring into darkness.

And then the thudding stopped.

In the quiet crackling of the bonfire, not a word was spoken nor sung as the crowd held a collective breath, gazes locked on the fiery sparks against the night. Around the bonfire, men carrying torches stepped forward and dipped the ends into the flames. They stepped back together, illuminating the faces of the crowd. The villagers wearing goat masks covered their faces, retreating from the light.

“You’re supposed to fear the light, demon,” Stefan teased.

And so it was with her family, too. At the lighting of the solar beacons, they would always retreat and remove their masks before returning to the fire as humans.

She nodded and played along, joining the fleeing goat-demons to the fringes of the gathered villagers. Everyone here knew their part without being told. It all came so naturally to them.

The torch-bearers weaved through the crowd, illuminating dormant stacks of firewood with carved sun-discs at their pinnacles. The towers of flame burned bright and high, and other villagers lit their own torches with its flames. As each one caught fire, the night’s darkness gave way to their combined dawn-bright glow.

One by one, the villagers removed their masks, until no demons remained, only human faces. She pulled off her own as well, but among the woolen coats and unfamiliar faces, she retreated deeper into her bear fur, keeping to the fringes of the celebration. If Mamusia had interpreted her dream accurately, then perhaps Dariusz wasn’t the only malcontented presence here. She wouldn’t step into the light unless she had to.

Stefan took up a torch as well, shining the light upon her face, and she squinted against its brightness. It seemed he wouldn’t let her hide.

“Now we go inside and feast.” He grinned and gestured toward the crowd filing into the manor house.

“But—”

His grin widening, he shook his head. “But nothing. Even out in the woods, you know that whoever doesn’t drink with us should meet Perun’s bright lightning.”

That she did know. When invoking the gods’ blessings, it was communion that reached Them, the combined strength of many hearts, many voices, many spirits praying as one. The more gathered together, the likelier the gods were to listen, and she wasn’t about to withhold her strength from the communal prayer.

They melded with the crowd, and she craned her neck over their heads, trying to take it all in—the countless blushing faces, the laughs, the widening space from the oaken doorway into what appeared to be an enormous hall.

The ceiling rose high above her, supported by arches made of massive oak trunks, enshrined by walls of carved stone. Vibrant tapestries and a blazing hearth taller than her head made the room feel cozy despite its grand size. Branches of evergreen adorned the eaves and over doorways, and carts of entire hams, sausages, and the most mouth-watering smalec bacon spread and boules of rye bread awaited.

The house was much larger on the inside than she had anticipated, and it hummed with voices as the crowd took its place at long tables clothed in white, topped with pitchers of beer and wine, bread and butter, and plates awaiting the household’s service of hot food.

As large as the crowd was, there were many more place settings than there were people. So it was the same here as it was at home, where Mama and Mamusia set an extra place at their table in case of a wanderer arriving as a surprise guest. It was said Weles walked the mortal world on this night alone, disguised as a human. Refusing anyone hospitality on the night of Kolęda was to tempt the fury of His demons. No one turned away strangers on this night, nor mistreated them, for they were all Holy Weles.