Witch of the Lake

Chapter 4-2

It landed square on the painter’s jaw, sending him to the ground, where a pendant of dark amber spilled from his shirt onto the foot-worn grass.

He spat blood, then rolled away before his attacker could land another punch. “You’re drunk, Dariusz Baran. Go home and sleep it off,” he shouted, the boom of his voice deep but composed.

Dariusz lunged for him again, but the painter evaded, sending Dariusz face first into a table of gorzałka.

“Tata, stop, please!” Nina called to him, tears welling in her dark eyes. She extended a hand toward the men with whom he’d been drinking. “Take him home, won’t you? Mama will take care of him.”

They nodded and agreed amongst themselves, trudging drunkenly to their comrade, who hadn’t moved from his bed of cups, bottles, and spilled gorzałka. Hefting his arms around each of their shoulders, they bore him away from the square.

When Brygida looked back to the painter, his gaze was upon her, wide, and that breath-taking blue—it was just like the cornflower.

A stillness settled among the people, and he cleared his throat, glancing at the cups and bottles spilled upon the ground. “Our friend’s already wasted enough gorzałka tonight, no?” he shouted to everyone, meeting a few faces with smiles. “Whoever doesn’t partake tonight meets Perun’s bolt, so drink your fill!”

Cheers bloomed, as well as a few replies of “Hear, hear!”

The painter nodded to the gęśla player and the singers. “Music,” he requested.

The gęśla player struck up another tune, and the singers joined in.

The painter’s cornflower gaze locked with hers, if only for a moment, before he turned to the woman wearing the crown of rue. The young woman stared after Dariusz, wringing her hands nervously in her skirts.

“Roksana,” he said. The woman blinked, some of her brightness renewed.

“Do you think he’ll return?” Roksana asked shakily, her voice light as the dreaming whispers of the trees.

“He might. Let me walk you home,” he said gently, holding out his arm to the trembling Roksana.

She wove her arm with his. “I’ll need my rest for tomorrow after all, won’t I? Our wedding will be grand.”

Wedding? Brygida stiffened, every muscle brittle like deadwood. The painter was getting married? Her mouth stretched in a close-lipped smile, who knew why. She’d met him once, only once, and there had been a curious spirit there, one enamored of nature, carefree even. He’d invited her to the feast himself… and hadn’t struck her as a man soon to be married.

But he was.

She lifted her eyebrows. No matter.

The painter mimicked Roksana’s expression thinly and escorted her away with one last, bleak look over his shoulder.

A hand gently closed around Brygida’s. “Don’t let him ruin your evening,” Nina said warmly, barely audible over the singing and the gęśla. “I promise our village isn’t always like this.”

Mama had warned her about the violence of men, something she’d never before seen. It had arisen from seemingly nothing, a punch thrown where a question would have served.

“You’re one of the witches, aren’t you?” she whispered. “I only saw two when I was there—”

Nina knew, and she could tell everyone. Every inch of Brygida’s body went still as death.

“—but I’ve heard tell that there were three, and you have the same violet eyes as the weaver.”

The weaver—she meant Mamusia.

With shallow breaths, Brygida dipped her chin and swallowed, a loud courting song fading behind her thoughts. Th-this… This could be it, the very moment her theory would be tested. She’d either be accepted as she’d hoped or… she would learn more about the violence of men firsthand, and they about the Mrok wrath of the blood.

“Don’t worry,” Nina said softly, conspiratorially. “I won’t tell anyone. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.”

Nina had been to the cottage, then. Mama sold medicine, so it wasn’t wildly unusual, but very few braved the wood, the lake, and the witches unless in dire need. What had Nina’s dire need been?

And how many others here could say the same? How many might have recognized a Mrok witch tonight but had said nothing and simply accepted her?

With a wistful smile, Nina c****d her head toward the dancers. “Come on. It’s still the Feast of the Mother. Let’s dance for Mokosza’s pleasure, shall we?”

Humming a village song, Brygida picked her way through the rain-soaked fields in the dark, no luminance but the moon and the scattered lights from inside nearby farmhouses to guide her steps. The black silhouette of the forest loomed up ahead as the dark flat expanse wrapped her up in anonymity.

The evening had unfurled in a happy blur, with not a single incident. It was a pity she hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to the painter. But Nina had distracted her and had been eager to explain every detail of the celebration, and had equally inundated her with questions—about living the path, about the lake, the wood. They’d laughed and danced, and despite Nina’s boundless energy, not all feet could last the night.

What would she have to say to Mama and Mamusia for them to let her see Nina again? No matter how well the evening had gone, neither Mama nor Mamusia would be pleased. The village had always been forbidden, and even though the villagers had seemed to accept her, proof of that point wouldn’t turn an impending lecture into a celebration.

There had to be a way to convince them this was a good thing. It had been safe, but…

She’d already tried to tell Mama and Mamusia how badly she’d wanted friends, someone to talk to and laugh with. Mama always told her she could talk and laugh with them. And any mention of love brought on lectures about the dangers of men, Mamusia’s nightmare of her horrific end, and how she was too young to think about love… when many village girls were already married.

And when she mentioned loneliness, it was always Just be patient and We’re here for you. Mama and Mamusia had been fortunate to find one another, but not everyone could count on good fortune. And someday when she’d be eighty, would they be there for her? Or would she be a wistful old woman, left alone with her curated regrets and wasted years?

No, the truth had gotten her nowhere. Mama and Mamusia wouldn’t listen. It would have to be something else, something they’d hear out.

Well... Nina had come to the cottage for medicine. Perhaps if the other villagers saw them more, Mama would barter more of it? No doubt there were many stories of how outlandish the Mrok witches were, but seeing them often would lessen that distance, wouldn’t it? And if they bartered away more medicine, they’d have more of the things they needed at home. Some new hens and another dairy goat, and maybe some good stone to fortify the hearth.

That’s what she’d tell Mama and Mamusia. Perfect.

Among the barren fields, a rare wildflower bloomed, or a myrtle shrub. A small, gnome-like polewik found himself out of sorts hiding behind one; he should have gone into the barn with the last sheaf, but perhaps he’d lingered to guard the fields a little longer.

The Perun-struck oak loomed ahead, its divine crown of leaves swaying before the starkness of the moon, the dark of its silhouette shadowing the brightness more and more and more until she was almost beneath its canopy.

Glass clinked against glass.

Brygida grabbed for her vial of lake water, squinting into the dark.

Beneath the Perun-struck oak, among the offerings of honey and bread, sat a blond man. The painter.

Her heart raced. What—what was he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be walking Roksana home? Who had he been expecting to find here? Not her, certainly?

From his seat on the ground, he bowed playfully before taking a drink.

To whom was he bowing? She looked over her shoulder, but there was no one else here.

His face already bore lacerations from the punch he’d taken—Dariusz had worn many rings—and mud staked a greedy claim to his boots. In the ensuing silence, she had to say something, didn’t she? Staying quiet in the wood wasn’t unusual at all, but the village had been full of chatter. The last thing she wanted was to appear even stranger than she was.

“Offering yourself to Perun?” She crossed her arms.

“If He’ll have me.” The painter gulped down the remnants of his bottle before reaching for another. He’d come… prepared, to be sure.

“As you can see”—she indicated the ground with her arm—“he prefers bread and honey, of which you are neither.”

“Kaspian.” He said it slowly, quietly, like the whispering hum of a distant waterfall, but… deeper. For a moment, he didn’t move, and neither did she, two stone totems in the night. She swallowed past the dryness in her mouth, the spell broken, and he cleared his throat, sweeping offerings away from a place next to him.

Reckless, lest Perun’s eye gazed elsewhere. And brazen, to be sure, after she’d heard all about his wedding. She crossed her arms once more and raised her chin.

“Brygida.” She peered at the empty spot and raised an eyebrow. “Expecting your betrothed to arrive?”

Closing his eyes, he huffed and looked away, resting his elbows on his knees. “I walked her home and came here. If it’s my last night as a free man, I’ll at least drink my sorrows.”

“If you do it here, the polewik might see fit to teach you a lesson. And I won’t stand in his way.”

“Let him come,” Kaspian replied in a raw croak, his voice breaking. “It’s better than facing tomorrow.”

His betrothed had been the most brilliant star at the feast, a shine no one—man nor woman—could bear to look away from. That, and she’d seemed a genuinely amiable young woman.

Compared to her own elder years to be spent in solitude, all over some nightmare, his fate seemed like divine good fortune. “Count your blessings. You could do worse.”

Kaspian shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand… I’ve known her my entire life. She’s like a little sister to me.” He leaned his back against the massive tree trunk and thumped his head against it, closing his eyes. “Neither her parents nor mine will hear a word of protest—because of the alliance it will seal.”

Oh, marrying someone who felt like family? That was another matter entirely. Being together with someone he cared for would be a happy future, if not for the expectations that seemed to come with a wedding and marriage. If that was true, then he had to be drowning in anguish.

He took another gulp from the bottle. What could she do, what could she say to him? With Mama and Mamusia, the air was free, clear, and nothing held her back from hugging them and comforting them. But with others, with… him, there was something thick in the air between them, a charge, a boundary. One she could not easily cross, no matter how familiar the villagers seemed with one another.

“At this rate, you’ll drink yourself to death,” she said at last, kneeling down with him on the border between his world and hers.

“From your lips to Mokosza’s ears,” he murmured darkly.

At this rate, he really would drink himself to death.

No. She snatched the bottle from him and threw it into the field. Far away, glass shattered.

Mokosza’s loom, had she really done that?

She sucked in a deep breath, but didn’t give in to her urge to crumple. This was her chance to make friends, and she wouldn’t shrink away from it. It had been the right thing to do, besides.

Frowning at her, Kaspian jerked his head back. “And the polewik—?”

“Let him come,” she replied airily and loosened her shoulders.

Kaspian laughed under his breath and ran his hand through his golden hair. “Are all witches like you?”

“Are all men like you?” she teased back.

Another laugh.

She c****d her head. “What? You mean you don’t know all of them personally?” she joked.

That charge, the boundary, it… it didn’t feel as thick anymore.

“All right, all right.” Chuckling under his breath, he waved her off, letting his gaze linger into the darkness of the wood. “Tell me, are there any words of wisdom to bear my fate?”

She took a deep breath. Mama had warned her many a time, and she would do well to pass it on. “Rue your fate enough, and Mokosza’s golden spider may twist it to a curse.”

Kaspian met her eyes in the moonlight, searching for something there, and what he was searching for, what he had come here for, was a way other than forward, or not at all. And that didn’t exist but for curses.

“What could be worse than this?” he whispered to her, and the sheen of his eyes deepened, saddened.

She rested a palm on his shoulder, only for a moment, and the tenseness melted like snow at the first blush of spring. “I will ask Mokosza to bless you, and Roksana, and your union. Your fate may yet surprise you pleasantly, Kaspian. Do not try to hate it away before it can.”

Rising, she offered him a reassuring nod, and he blinked to himself, then stood to meet her.

“I—thank you,” he said, holding out an arm. “Come, I’ll walk you home. It’s not safe.”

She placed her hand on the warm firmness of his arm, over the finely woven wool of his sleeve. Her skin pebbled, tickling up her arm, and it was as though every inch of it had electrified, struck with a tingle of Perun’s lightning itself. An invisible finger whispered a shiver up her spine, and she quivered.

Never had she touched a man before, but the feeling was one she’d always remember.

With a smile, she shook her head slightly. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll find my own way. Goodnight to you, Kaspian. May Dziewanna, Star of the Moon, guide your steps and watch your path.”

“Wait,” he called, as she turned toward the wood.

Glancing over her shoulder, she paused, but he only looked, standing among the offerings, rooted between two worlds.

It was time she returned to hers.

A final nod, and she flowed into the sea of oaks that was her witchlands, breathing in the green and the musk of home, listening to Perun’s whispers among the leaves and the quiet chimes of the fairies.

The wood’s dreams were sparse tonight, only the apparition of a nocnica, a female demon of the night, dancing through the trunks with her shawl, bathed in her silvery-blue glow, her ethereal white gown gliding behind her as she brushed her long hair with a pine cone. The Mrok grimoire said she could be dangerous, sapping the life from slumbering adults, but while the forest was at peace in its sleep, so was the nocnica.

The ferns and the quatrefoil of the undergrowth here brushed against Brygida’s legs, kin drawing her into a loving embrace, and she let the wood wrap her tight in the utter darkness. There wasn’t a leaf or a twig here she didn’t know. The wood, and the craft, were as familiar as breath to her. If only she were as capable in dealing with strangers.

Mama and Mamusia would be angry with her, but these last moments on her way to the cottage would be the welcome home she needed. Despite her difficulties, Czarnobrzeg’s celebration and its people had been inviting, enchanting, and memorable, but this was where she belonged, and surrounded by the green and the bark and the thorns as she was, near her lake water, always near, that belonging permeated to the marrow of her bones.

An otherworldly scream echoed among the trees. The nocnica? Had the wood’s peaceful slumber turned to chaos?

Brygida spun, scanning the darkness for that silvery-blue glow.

The massive antlers of a red-eyed lejiń appeared among the oaks, a wisp of the wood’s nightmares. It clouded the air with its ethereal breath before treading toward the lake and disappearing. She frowned. The wood did, indeed, sleep fitfully tonight.

At the edge of Mroczne Lake, she crouched, submerging her fingers, her hands in the water. The moon, half-hidden behind the clouds, reflected on its smooth surface before ripples warped the image. Power flowed into her like breath, filling her up, stilling the noise of the evening and her thoughts until only the lake whispered.

It ever had a serenity to it, as it had for years, but tonight—

The quiet was eerie. The lake’s silence deepened, like a hole in a well, shadow falling through walls of stone down, down, down to a pit, a gaping abyss, and as she listened, the low hum of the world dissipated to the edges, a waiting circle surrounding, watching, waiting, surrounding, watching…

There, at the center of the silence, pure darkness lay like a shroud over the water, rippling shadow against the low hum of the world.

Brygida turned toward it, wading through the water, trudging deeper and deeper until it reached her navel, her clavicle, reaching out for that pure darkness…

Her fingers closed around a hand.