Season of the Witch part 17

Author's Note
Just a few things: first, I have decided to change gargoyle physiology somewhat.  Gargoyles no longer turn to stone while sleeping.  Now it's only when they die.
Second, this upcoming month is Nanowrimo, and I am planning on participating.  This involves writing a 50,000-word novel in just thirty days.  To help me keep working on this, I intend to post it here, as soon as I'm done with this one.  So keep your eyes peeled, and if possible, please help me feel motivated to keep writing.

Morgan Hartford was walking down the street, on the way to pick up her daughters* from nursery school, when she saw Xen Wormwood sitting at a table outside of a cafe.
Even though her head was buried in her claws, that red hair was recognizable anywhere.
“Xen? Are you okay?”
She jumped a foot when she heard her voice, and quickly glanced up.
“Wha-?  Oh.  Hi.”
Her face looked normal, not blotchy at all, but her voice had cracked the tiniest bit.
“Tristan isn't back yet?” Morgan sat down across from her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She sighed, running a claw through her hair.  “My mom’s here, helping look after Phil.  I just-feel very helpless right now.  I don’t even know how he’s doing.  Or if he’s even alive.  I’d like to think he is, since he’s a survivor, but-you know.”
“I think I understand. What if we try to do something to help you feel less useless? Calla could tell us what he's trying to do, and maybe we can find something useful and Calla can think of a way to get the information to him.”
“I know what he’s trying to do.  He’s trying to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless.”  But she sat up straighter, and pulled out her phone.  “Maybe Calla can create a scrying glass or something that can help her find him.”


A few minutes later, the reply came back, and she held it out to let Morgan see.
Baba Yaga let me use her glass.  I haven’t told her everything, because she might try to stop me from helping, even though that wasn’t strictly speaking in the rules.  He’s alive, but looks awful.
Xen sagged against the table in relief.
“There’s one less thing to worry about,” she whispered.  Then she typed furiously, Where?
In a forest, it looks like. He’s paying a lot of attention to the hollow trees.


Xen frowned, and rubbed her forehead.
“That sounds familiar…”
“Koschei the Deathless... Hollow trees... He's looking for the soul!”
“Yes!”  The frown intensified.  “That doesn’t bode well.  Maybe he’s planning on using it to bargain for the sword.  Anyone who gets the soul could control him with it.  Or even kill him.”  She tapped her claws agitatedly.  “Things are getting serious over there if he’s going that far.”
“It must be. Can you think of any way we could help him?”
“We need to check the library.”  And before she could protest, Morgan found herself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the library.  It wasn’t until they were there and halfway through their research that she remembered, in horror, that her children were still at the nursery school waiting for her.
“I'll be right back, Xen!”
“What-”
Morgan didn’t stop to explain, just running out as quickly as she could.


Poppy and Rebecca’s teacher, Mrs. Flaversham, was waiting anxiously outside the building.
“There ye are, Mrs. Hartford!  The girls have been worried to death!  Rebecca’s been thinking ye’ve abandoned them!”
A familiar tearstained face peeked out from the door behind the caorthannach, looking somewhat relieved to see Morgan there.
“Oh, Rebecca, I'm sorry!”
Poppy looked out next.  “Momma!”  She glanced at Rebecca.  “I told you she’d come for us.” But she looked equally relieved that Morgan had finally showed up, skipping out into her arms.
“I was about to take them home myself, but I’m glad you came,” said Mrs. Flaversham, mollified.
“I'm so sorry!” Morgan hugged her children to her, trying to console them.  At least Friedrich had an extra hour of school left, so she didn’t have to worry that she’d forgotten him too.


Xen looked very shamefaced when Morgan returned with her little girls.
“Sorry.  I forgot that you probably needed to pick them up.”
“It's all right, I forgot too.”
Xen showed her the pile of books she’d picked out.  Many of them were old Russian fairy tale books, or just completely in Russian.  A few were very ancient-looking, leather texts.
“There’s a lot of contradictory tales about where Koschei’s soul is.  In some stories, it’s already been found and destroyed.  But we know that’s not true.”
“What’s a koschei?” asked Poppy.
“It’s not a what.  It’s a who.  Koschei the Deathless is a very bad man who has hidden his soul, and Tristan’s trying to find it,” Xen explained.
Rebecca looked a little perplexed.  “If he doesn’t have a soul...then isn’t he dead?”
“I wish.”


“Poppy, how about you take Rebecca to the children's section?”
“Kay.”
Rebecca started to protest, “But-”  But Poppy pulled her off.
Xen gave her an unapologetic stare.  “It would solve a lot of problems right now if he was dead.”  Then she looked horrified.  “Did I just say that?”
“You're under stress. It makes sense.”
With a sigh, she went back to looking at the works.  “Generally in the stories, if someone is looking for his soul, they need to get the help of some obscure bird or something which somehow knows its location.  Two people who actually managed to beat him once, according to this-” she passed over a book- “are Ivan and Marya, centuries ago.  Marya used to be a guard over Koschei, until Ivan accidentally set him free, but eventually they beat him together by finding his soul and commanding him never to harm either of them again.”  Xen pulled out her phone, sending a text to Calla.  “And, of course, the details are hazy on how they actually found his soul.  D____t.”  Then she glanced at Morgan.  “Sorry.”
Morgan put a hand on her shoulder.  “It might be in another book somewhere.  Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

*Besides Poppy, Morgan and Nathan had adopted a troll named Friedrich, and a little golden-haired girl named Rebecca who was half-mage, half-demon.  Rebecca’s story is a very interesting one indeed...but it will have to wait for later.

Season of the Witch part 16

Unfortunately, I didn’t get that far.  Probably that had something to do with my being both outnumbered and woozy from blood loss; whatever the reason, I found myself being frog-marched (pun totally intended) into one of the blocked-off-from-tourists rooms in the Kremlin.
It was like entering a totally different place.  Like a palace.
The floor was paved with shiny gold tiles, in different shades, in some kind of diamond design.  Elegant tapestries depicting events long past covered the walls.  Old-fashioned electric lamps shone here and there, making my eyes hurt even with the shaded glasses.  And sitting at the other end of the ridiculously long room was Mr. the Deathless, sitting on a gilded throne.  He was wearing another suit, still old-fashioned, and a heavy-looking diamond-covered crown.
“You heroes are so stubborn and reckless,” he said with a sigh as I was dragged close.  “I was almost done deciding what to do with you.”
I wasn’t going to wait around for you to make up your mind, you dried-up bag of bones! I snarled internally.  But since I was still cursed with silence, I could only give him the message by glaring venomously.
“You’re that anxious to steal this sword?”  Mr. the Deathless produced Kladenets and waved it around, taunting me with it.
I gave him a look, and with a sigh he removed the spell from my throat, allowing me to croak, “If I thought I could get it from you any other way, I would.”
“Really?”  He leaned forward on his throne.  “What’s Baba Yaga going to do to your assistant if you don’t get it?”
“That’s none of your business!”*


Koschei gave me a knowing smile which I figured must have taken him centuries to perfect.  Whether or not he actually had figured out my reasons was irrelevant; as long as he acted like he did, he had the satisfaction of feeling superior and trying to make me squirm.  I knew that trick, however, being very much the connoisseur of it myself, so I kept my face blank.
“This is most entertaining, Mr…?”
He left the phrase hovering, waiting patiently for me to complete it.  I finally said, “Tolstoy.”
One bushy eyebrow rose in a skeptical arch, but I didn’t change the pseudonym.
Unless you plan on feeding me phoenix blood again, I’m not volunteering raz”yem.**
Mr. the Deathless finally sighed.  “Very well, Mr. Tolstoy.  If you insist on using that name.  How about we make this interesting?”
Not another one.
“How?”
He stood up, tossing his robes back from his shoulders and twirling the sword again.
“I’ve been waiting for Baba Yaga to entertain me by trying to get this sword back.  You appear to have been a godsend, Mr. Tolstoy; being immortal can be so boring sometimes.  You might not have noticed, but people of my age like to play games with people like you.”  Ignoring my snort, he continued, “So, I will give you this sword freely-if you can find my soul.”


For those of you with more sensitive eyes, I will refrain from writing the string of curses that ran through my mind at this news.
As best I remembered, Koschei’s soul was kept inside a duck that was inside a rabbit inside a giant egg in an obscure tree, or something like that.  This was next to impossible.
But I conjured up an image of Calla, of her big brown eyes and her kind spirit and all the hell she’d gone through already, and asked, “How long have you kept me here?”
The old sorcerer looked down at me and said, “Ten years.”
My legs buckled, and I almost didn’t hear his laughter as he said, “Just kidding.  Around two days, I believe.”
That means I have about three days left.
“Give me two more days to find it,” I said, hating how pleading I sounded, since it would probably give him an edge over me if he knew I had a time limit.
“You’re not asking for three?”
“Everyone asks for three.  I need two.”
Hopefully I can find it before then, but let’s not trust to miracles.


That smirk was back; he probably at least suspected why I was so anxious.  I hurriedly added in, “And give me back the pack of Baba Yaga’s things.”
Leaning on the throne, Koschei asked, “Why should I give anything to the thief who invaded my home?”
“Because there are rules to this sort of thing.  And I’ll be far more entertaining if I have supplies that I can try to fight with.”
He didn’t look quite convinced, but at least my attitude seemed to amuse him again.  “Deal.”

***

Koschei didn’t bother with a contract.  He just had some of his henchfrogs give me the pack, and then I was booted out of the Kremlin.  That at first made me wonder if maybe the soul was inside the place, but that seemed a little obvious.  So, I went to a nearby restaurant, got a bowl of borscht and some bread, and sat outside eating (wolfing, really, since it was my first time eating in days) while I thought about where to look.
In the stories I’d heard, it was on an island somewhere.  And was the rabbit inside the duck, or the duck inside the rabbit-?
Eventually I gave up and bought a book that talked about Russian fairy tales from a convenient store.  According to it, there were different stories about where the soul actually was (Igor Stravinsky’s “Firebird” being just one example), but the general theme persisted of it being kept inside an egg, in a casket, inside a tree.  And in some versions, the egg was inside a duck which was inside a rabbit.***
Leaning back in my chair, I thought about this.  Since whoever could get hold of the soul could control Mr. the Deathless, odds were that he would want to keep it close by, just in case some fool would be lucky enough to stumble across it.  So, since he seemed to have such a tree fetish when it came to his soul,**** the best place to start looking was the nearby forest.
Better get started.

*Hopefully none of you are surprised by my tendency to mouth off in tight situations by now.  If so, then you really haven’t been paying attention if you’ve read my previous books.
**Jack
***Either it had to be the world’s largest rabbit, or the world’s smallest duck.  And how would he get the rabbit to swallow the duck either way?  Wait, stupid question: magic.
****I idly wondered if he’d liked to climb trees when he was younger, before he pulled out his soul and hid it, and that was why he kept it in one.  Assuming that it was actually there.

Season of the Witch part 15

Using the well that was in the nearby woods, a few heat spells, and lots of soap, Calla was able to take a nice warm bath, as well as wash her filthy clothes.  Then, with her hair still wet and unbrushed, she hurried to make dinner, as it was almost the hour when Baba Yaga would announce that she was hungry.  Calla had not yet done anything to make the witch cross, and she was afraid of what would happen.
Luckily, there was no complaint from Baba Yaga, who (as usual) devoured the roast chicken and potatoes and rolls, eating whatever Calla did not get hold of first.  Mentally the girl was resigning herself to another quiet night, perhaps with a phone call to someone back home, when Baba Yaga suddenly said, “You did not kill the vodyanoy.”


Calla jumped, and after composing herself, admitted, “I did not.”
“Why not?  He could have drowned you.”
“I’m not a killer,” she said quietly.  “Once was enough; I don’t need more blood on my conscience.”
Even without looking up from her plate, she could feel those red eyes staring at her.  She just scooped up a piece of chicken with her fork, and bit into it hungrily.  It really was good chicken; soft and chewy, without that horrid dryness that white meat tends to get.  Calla would not dare to call herself the best cook in the world, but she at least knew how to handle meat.


After another silence, the witch asked, “You enjoy talking with him?”
“Well enough.  He doesn’t know about much besides the pond, but he’s a good enough soul.  Just very lonely.”
Baba Yaga made a bit of a sniff, and continued masticating her own enormous piece of chicken.  Then she swallowed, and spoke again.
“How about that young man whom you talk to sometimes when I’m asleep?  You enjoy talking with him?”
Calla felt her cheeks grow warm.
Of course she knows about him.
“Y-yes.”
The witch smiled widely.
“He’s a very precious young man, then.  Even if you haven’t told him about the blood bond.”
Calla’s shoulders and neck felt warm this time.
“How do you know that?”
Baba Yaga shrugged, and stabbed her fork into a potato.  “I can see into people’s hearts, myshka.  It’s something you will learn too, if Chernobyl does not get the sword and you’re around long enough.”


The heat burned more fiercely; she’d thought she was growing numb to the idea, but hearing it spoken aloud in the witch’s pronounced Russian voice somehow brought all the pain back with a vengeance.  Calla tried to hold it in, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut and take a gulp of water so that she would try not to cry in front of this woman.
Baba Yaga continued, relentless.  “Even if he does win, if you go home and are no longer in my service, what are you planning to do about your young man?  Will you want to bond him with a vurdalak as well?  Or another of the Folk?  Because otherwise, he is going to grow old and die long before you even start to taste old age.”
Calla stared at the old woman’s plate, unable to look at her face.  “I haven’t really found a solution-”
“That is because you’re young and inexperienced!” she snapped.  Then she used a bony finger to reach over and raise the girl’s chin, forcing her to look at her face.  Though not at her eyes; Calla resisted that urge.


Baba Yaga smiled at her, teeth glinting in the light.  “I might be able to help you.”
Internal alarms went off in Calla’s mind.  But she forced her face to go blank, and asked softly, “How?”
Baba Yaga nodded over to the black sunflower.  “Do you know why I keep this?”
Calla said, “I know it possesses some sort of powerful magic.”
She nodded eagerly.  “Yes, yes!  The sort that kings have quested for, and alchemists wasted their lives trying to find!  Each of those seeds grants the one who eats it one hundred more years to live!”
So, sort of a plant version of the Holy Grail.
Calla managed to keep a straight face and not giggle at her internal commentary.
The witch went on, “If your young man were to eat these, there would be no fuss over age difference.  You could be happy with him.”
“What would your price be?” Calla countered.
The reply was succinct: “Become my apprentice.”


While Calla was still trying to digest that, she said, “You would not have to live here.  You could go back to your home in America, and solve your little problems with Chernobyl, assuming he gets back.  But you would come here every so often, and I would teach you what I know.  And every month, if you had learned well and been a good pupil, I would give you one of these seeds to give to your love.”
Slowly the mage sat back in her chair, blinking and searching for the words she wanted.  Finally she settled on, “Why?”
Baba Yaga said, “Be specific.”
“Why do you want an apprentice all of a sudden?  And why me, of all the people in the world?”
The witch shrugged.  “Call it a whim.”  Then she stood up, cramming the last of the chicken into her mouth and gnashing it to shreds with her iron teeth.  “At least consider it, myshka.”


Morgan, if Baba Yaga wanted to make you her apprentice in exchange for a way to make Nathan live longer, what would you say?
Calla tapped out the text message after cleaning up the remains of dinner, and sent it before thinking, Wait.  That might have been a very stupid idea.  I think she is going to freak.
She was right. Morgan’s first text was a question mark, followed by one comprised only of exclamation points. 
What are you doing with Baba Yaga? was the third.
...It’s for a case, Calla replied.
You and Tristan get the strangest cases.
I know.
Let me think about it a minute.


Calla waited anxiously, curled up by the fire, which she had built up a little bit.  It wasn’t necessarily that cold, but it made her feel a bit more secure.
Finally the response came. I don't know that I would now, but that's because of the blood bond. If you had asked a year ago, the answer would have been yes.
Even if it meant he’d have to watch his parents grow old and die while he stayed young for longer than he was supposed to?
That would be his decision to make, not mine.
She nodded slowly, even knowing that her friend couldn’t see her.  Then she leaned her chin in her hand, staring at the fire.
Her phone vibrated.
Are you okay?
Calla typed back, It’s kind of a long story.
I'm listening.
This is a text message.
You know what I mean…
After a hesitant second, she texted back, Tristan has to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless or I’m going to be Baba Yaga’s prisoner.
Wow.
Yeah.
Any way I can help?
I doubt it.  But thanks anyway.


Had she been more secure regarding her emotions, Calla might have jumped to Baba Yaga’s offer with a lot less hesitation.  But she wasn’t.
To the best of her understanding, she loved Lars.  But was it enough to make her want to make him immortal?  After all, they were still in the process of getting to know each other.  And frankly, sometimes she was afraid that he felt more passionately for her than she did for him.  Or, to put it a bit more positively, he depended on her more than she did him.  Probably because she was one of the first people he’d cared about outside his group of homeless children.
Is that really a healthy relationship, then?  Maybe we’ve jumped into this whole thing too quickly...so is it really worth preserving his life for longer, especially because it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie?
Relationships are hard.
I wish Tristan was here, so I could talk to him about this.  He’d know what to do.