To my relief, we appeared right at Baba Yaga’s front gate. Also to my relief, my stomach had not revolted much during the last two trips. Maybe it was just too tired for its normal nausea; I didn’t dare to believe that it was developing a tolerance for teleporting.
Wearily hefting the sword, I set down the vodyanoy, and cracked open the gate. Then, from above and behind me, a voice called, “Tristan?”
It doesn’t sound like she’s gotten older...but you can’t be too careful about these things. It doesn’t prove anything anyway, since she ages so slowly. She could be any age, she could-
A mortar flew over our heads, landing in the yard. And out climbed Calla, looking fresh as a daisy-if a bit dark around the eyes, which were moistening as I looked. She stumbled forward, and wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her head in my chest. With my free claw I rubbed her head.
“How...long?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“Two days left,” she murmured. “You’re ahead of schedule; usually the hero shows up at the very last moment.”
“Well, you know me. I’m no hero. I don’t believe in following conventions.”
Calla snorted.
Baba Yaga looked extremely disappointed when Calla and I showed up with the sword.* However, a bargain was a bargain, so she sighed and took Kladenets from me.
“Very good, Chernobyl,” she said begrudgingly.
“Thanks. We’ll be going now,” I said, also returning the pack of supplies. She barely noticed, instead smugly running her long hands over the blade. I had a feeling she was trying to find out what it did. And something told me when that happened, she would be most displeased. So it was probably best to get going now.
On one of the shelves by the fireplace, I noticed a blue towel and fancy wooden comb laying side by side. Remembering an aspect of one of the tales of Baba Yaga, I inched my way over and picked them up, tucking them into my shirt. Since I’d foolishly forgotten to ask Koschei to heal my broken wing, and Calla’s healing skills were erratic at best, we were probably going to have to run soon.
The witch turned to stare at Calla.
“Remember what I told you, myshka. I mean it.”
“Yes ma’am,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
I was curious, but now wasn’t really the time to ask. I caught Calla’s arm, and quickly pulled her out of the house as the witch went back to the sword.
“What’s the rush?” she asked, tapping the door frame; as she did, the house lowered itself, and we jumped out onto the lawn-much better than my previous experience with the place.
“She’s probably about to find out that the sword does nothing but make good borscht,” I explained. “We need to get away before that happens.”
Her little jaw dropped, and she covered her mouth after a second with a slightly hysterical giggle. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s not our fault, but she might try to take it out on us regardless. Go faster.”
We had barely made it into the woods when I heard a horrible, ungodly screech, followed by the thuds of giant clawed feet thumping across the ground.
Shoot. The whole house is coming after us.
Calla gasped.
I risked a glance; if you’ve never seen a house on giant chicken legs chasing after you, it’s hard to imagine.** A little wobbly at first, probably from not having to move so much in such a long time, it thudded after us, giant claws scraping the ground and leaving ditches in their wake. Baba Yaga stood in the doorway, hair blowing back, eyes of fire burning even from this far away. And I could see that her pale face was twisted in a fury that gave me an adrenaline rush.
*The vodyanoy had been returned to the lake, and his true form-though he still disliked the rusalki, he figured it was safer than being somewhere closer to Koschei’s influence. Calla promised to keep in touch somehow, and has even been considering introducing him to the world of the Internet, if she can create a spell to make a computer waterproof.
I asked her later why on earth she made him a duck, of all things. She explained that she’d been trying to make a firebird, for dramatic effect, but his watery nature kept struggling against it, and finally it seemed easier to just make him something actually connected with water. Besides, they were on a tight schedule.
** Unless you have a very creative imagination, or have seen it happen in a movie with very convincing CGI or something.
Showing posts with label Pavel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pavel. Show all posts
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Tuesday, December 6, 2016
Season of the Witch part 21
Koschei was bored. He’d been waiting for almost a full day, and there was no sign of “Mr. Tolstoy.” Not that he expected him to actually find the right tree. He just hoped he’d come back and concede defeat, so he could find something more fun to do with him. The hot blood of gargoyles was said to give them a high tolerance for cold temperatures; it would be interesting to find out just how cold. Or see how strong their tough skin was when faced with the opposite extreme of intense heat.
Koschei had won yet another game of chess played against his oldest and most loyal manservant, Igor. The man had some talent, yes, but he was only a hundred and fifty years old, and his opponent had centuries of experience ahead of him. If he did say so himself, Koschei viewed himself as a chess master.
Sometimes he wondered if he could ever persuade Baba Yaga to play with him again. The crone so hated to lose at anything, and hated even more to admit how talented he was, but they had enjoyed a few games together in their lifetime. Maybe if he gave her the sword willingly, she’d be willing to join him for a few rounds…
The Deathless One sipped thoughtfully at his vodka. There was another day and a half yet; he had plenty of time before-
His body jerked violently, spilling vodka all over himself, staining the fur of his robe. Koschei leaped up, spluttering and cleaning himself off. He’d felt something strange in that moment-something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time…
“Sir?” Igor asked. “Are you all right?”
Before Koschei could answer, his arm moved on its own, and he found himself casting a spell. A spell that opened a portal.
Before he could try to close it, a gargoyle-bedraggled, pale, with one wing dragging broken at his side, covered in mud and blood, and carrying a very ugly duck under one arm-stepped through. In one claw he clutched a golden egg.
Oh, sorry, were you actually interested in reading about that part? About the big, dramatic action scene? So you like reading about me getting beat up by some eldritch abomination and having to scramble frantically to a position where I can dig my claws into its belly and rip it open and pull out its wiring, getting myself splattered with oil and grime and being generally crushed and tossed about the whole time? What kind of monster are you?!
Hefting the egg, I said, “Found it.”
Koschei glared at me. “So you did.”
“Now give me the sword, before I smash it.”
With a world-weary sigh, the sorcerer handed it over. Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, how did you find it?”
I nearly said A little bird told me, but I didn’t want him exacting retribution on the innocent creature, so I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
His eyes strayed to the duck anyway. And he realized, as I did, that it was under a spell of some kind, and his face twisted with a kind of dark hatred. “You!”
Whatever connection he had with it escaped me, but I quickly stepped back and brandished the egg. “You’re not allowed to do anything to hurt this creature, in duck form or whatever its original form is. Or come after me, or my family or friends. Promise you won’t do any of those things, and you can have this back.”
Koschei blinked. Then he said, “Then why bother returning it at all? It’s nothing short of foolish. And you could have all you want and more if you just keep my soul.”
Meaning he’d be my servant, like the Dark One’s dagger.* But I just said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to bear that kind of responsibility.” Then, more firmly, “Deal?”
He sighed. “Deal. I will not do anything to harm you, those you care for, or this-” his lip curled- “vodyanoy.”
So that’s what it is.
“You also need to promise not to entice anything to harm any of us, or act in any way, shape or form that will do so.”
Maybe I should have created a contract.
Looking exasperated, Mr. the Deathless agreed to all my terms. Once I was sure that the bases were covered, I started to place the egg in his hands. But then I hesitated.
“One more thing. What’s Kladenets do?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “It gives the bearer the gift of making very excellent borscht. Nothing else.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“Is that the truth?” I jiggled the egg a bit.
Koschei flinched, but told me, “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”
Dramatic, but I decided to believe him. I placed the egg in his arms. And for a split second, I saw a bit of a change in him. The washed-out-ness faded a bit, and I saw something more...human** in him. Then he glared, and opened a new portal, which swept me and the vodyanoy-duck away.
*From Once Upon a Time, a human TV show that was good, but sucked after season 3.
** For lack of a better word
Koschei had won yet another game of chess played against his oldest and most loyal manservant, Igor. The man had some talent, yes, but he was only a hundred and fifty years old, and his opponent had centuries of experience ahead of him. If he did say so himself, Koschei viewed himself as a chess master.
Sometimes he wondered if he could ever persuade Baba Yaga to play with him again. The crone so hated to lose at anything, and hated even more to admit how talented he was, but they had enjoyed a few games together in their lifetime. Maybe if he gave her the sword willingly, she’d be willing to join him for a few rounds…
The Deathless One sipped thoughtfully at his vodka. There was another day and a half yet; he had plenty of time before-
His body jerked violently, spilling vodka all over himself, staining the fur of his robe. Koschei leaped up, spluttering and cleaning himself off. He’d felt something strange in that moment-something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time…
“Sir?” Igor asked. “Are you all right?”
Before Koschei could answer, his arm moved on its own, and he found himself casting a spell. A spell that opened a portal.
Before he could try to close it, a gargoyle-bedraggled, pale, with one wing dragging broken at his side, covered in mud and blood, and carrying a very ugly duck under one arm-stepped through. In one claw he clutched a golden egg.
***
Believe it or not, getting ahold of the soul was the easiest part of my trip. Because yeah, I broke my wing and lost some blood I couldn’t afford to lose fighting a giant rabbit-duck automaton that sprang out of the chest when I opened it, but the solution for that was simple: destroy it before it could destroy me, then remove the egg from its innards.Oh, sorry, were you actually interested in reading about that part? About the big, dramatic action scene? So you like reading about me getting beat up by some eldritch abomination and having to scramble frantically to a position where I can dig my claws into its belly and rip it open and pull out its wiring, getting myself splattered with oil and grime and being generally crushed and tossed about the whole time? What kind of monster are you?!
Hefting the egg, I said, “Found it.”
Koschei glared at me. “So you did.”
“Now give me the sword, before I smash it.”
With a world-weary sigh, the sorcerer handed it over. Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, how did you find it?”
I nearly said A little bird told me, but I didn’t want him exacting retribution on the innocent creature, so I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
His eyes strayed to the duck anyway. And he realized, as I did, that it was under a spell of some kind, and his face twisted with a kind of dark hatred. “You!”
Whatever connection he had with it escaped me, but I quickly stepped back and brandished the egg. “You’re not allowed to do anything to hurt this creature, in duck form or whatever its original form is. Or come after me, or my family or friends. Promise you won’t do any of those things, and you can have this back.”
Koschei blinked. Then he said, “Then why bother returning it at all? It’s nothing short of foolish. And you could have all you want and more if you just keep my soul.”
Meaning he’d be my servant, like the Dark One’s dagger.* But I just said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to bear that kind of responsibility.” Then, more firmly, “Deal?”
He sighed. “Deal. I will not do anything to harm you, those you care for, or this-” his lip curled- “vodyanoy.”
So that’s what it is.
“You also need to promise not to entice anything to harm any of us, or act in any way, shape or form that will do so.”
Maybe I should have created a contract.
Looking exasperated, Mr. the Deathless agreed to all my terms. Once I was sure that the bases were covered, I started to place the egg in his hands. But then I hesitated.
“One more thing. What’s Kladenets do?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “It gives the bearer the gift of making very excellent borscht. Nothing else.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“Is that the truth?” I jiggled the egg a bit.
Koschei flinched, but told me, “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”
Dramatic, but I decided to believe him. I placed the egg in his arms. And for a split second, I saw a bit of a change in him. The washed-out-ness faded a bit, and I saw something more...human** in him. Then he glared, and opened a new portal, which swept me and the vodyanoy-duck away.
*From Once Upon a Time, a human TV show that was good, but sucked after season 3.
** For lack of a better word
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Season of the Witch part 20
There seemed to be a million trees in this forest. I knew it was a fool’s errand trying to find the right one in so little time; Koschei covered his tracks so well. It wasn’t like he made frequent visits here, either, so any traces would have been washed away by the elements centuries ago. If I had more time to research, then maybe I would be able to find it more easily, but so far I was on a tight schedule, and so far I was getting nowhere.
Well, what a great hero I’ve been. I made it into the lair and got my claws on the sword, only to get captured, tortured, and lose any connection to anyone who might help me. And now I’m blundering around in a forest, without much hope of finding what I seek in time.
I wasn’t giving up...but I sent out a silent plea to anyone who might listen.
Help me. Please. For the sake of my family. That includes Calla.
As if on cue, a few minutes later my ears picked up the sound of wings flapping. Ungainly-sounding wings, accompanied by a squawk, then a crash up in the branches above me. I looked up...just in time for a duck to land on my head.
This is not a typical occurrence in my life. It was messy and feathery. And smelled like pond scum. I hurriedly clawed it off (without actually harming it), and held it at arm’s length.
Something was odd about this duck, as I took a good look at it. It was an unusual shade of green all over, and something about its feathers seemed more like they should be scales. The bill was all flattened out, making it look like a frog masquerading as a duck, and its webbed feet a murky green. In some ways, this was the ugliest duck I had ever seen.
It looked at me out of big golden eyes (also unusual for a duck), and quacked at me.
“...What’s up, duck?”
It quacked again, and squirmed indignantly until I set it down on the forest floor. Taking a second to get its feathers back in order, it then waddled up and grabbed my pant leg in its bill, tugging. I tried to shake it off, but it tugged more insistently.
Hmm…
“If this were a fairy tale,” I said aloud,* “following you would help me to find the tree where Mr. the Deathless keeps his soul.”
The duck nodded its head excitedly, and continued pulling.
This could be a trick by Mr. the Deathless. But really, what have I got to lose?
“Okay. I’ll come. But if you’re here to lead me astray, I’m having duck a l’orange for dinner. Got it?”
It nodded again, and began waddling away. This time, I followed.
After a while, I realized that it would be faster to carry the duck, and have it nudge me whenever we needed to make a turn or something. It did seem to appreciate not having to waddle across the forest floor, and even nestled itself into my side.
And finally, we found the tree, next to a rushing stream.
*In Russian, just in case.
Well, what a great hero I’ve been. I made it into the lair and got my claws on the sword, only to get captured, tortured, and lose any connection to anyone who might help me. And now I’m blundering around in a forest, without much hope of finding what I seek in time.
I wasn’t giving up...but I sent out a silent plea to anyone who might listen.
Help me. Please. For the sake of my family. That includes Calla.
As if on cue, a few minutes later my ears picked up the sound of wings flapping. Ungainly-sounding wings, accompanied by a squawk, then a crash up in the branches above me. I looked up...just in time for a duck to land on my head.
This is not a typical occurrence in my life. It was messy and feathery. And smelled like pond scum. I hurriedly clawed it off (without actually harming it), and held it at arm’s length.
Something was odd about this duck, as I took a good look at it. It was an unusual shade of green all over, and something about its feathers seemed more like they should be scales. The bill was all flattened out, making it look like a frog masquerading as a duck, and its webbed feet a murky green. In some ways, this was the ugliest duck I had ever seen.
It looked at me out of big golden eyes (also unusual for a duck), and quacked at me.
“...What’s up, duck?”
It quacked again, and squirmed indignantly until I set it down on the forest floor. Taking a second to get its feathers back in order, it then waddled up and grabbed my pant leg in its bill, tugging. I tried to shake it off, but it tugged more insistently.
Hmm…
“If this were a fairy tale,” I said aloud,* “following you would help me to find the tree where Mr. the Deathless keeps his soul.”
The duck nodded its head excitedly, and continued pulling.
This could be a trick by Mr. the Deathless. But really, what have I got to lose?
“Okay. I’ll come. But if you’re here to lead me astray, I’m having duck a l’orange for dinner. Got it?”
It nodded again, and began waddling away. This time, I followed.
After a while, I realized that it would be faster to carry the duck, and have it nudge me whenever we needed to make a turn or something. It did seem to appreciate not having to waddle across the forest floor, and even nestled itself into my side.
And finally, we found the tree, next to a rushing stream.
*In Russian, just in case.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Season of the Witch part 19
Morgan and Xen had been digging for half an hour through ancient transcripts and texts. When the little ones complained of hunger, Morgan gave them packets of fruit snacks and told them to go play again. But she knew that sooner or later they would have to go home.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat. She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose. Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes! Look down there!” Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless. But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.
“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden. But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was. They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple. They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” After a pause, Xen became perturbed. “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…” She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy.
She nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.” Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table. “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”
Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga. But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once. Sort of. She’d pushed him into a cage. Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power. Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga. Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it. Useless.
I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed. New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.* Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case. He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.
Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water. The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.
Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked. Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.
But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time. She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong. It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water. Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere! Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.” After a second, Calla added, “Please.”
She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished. Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of. But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help. Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?
Pavel froze. He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear. But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells. Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there. It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use. She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still. She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief. Yes. Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was. He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree. He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant. If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.
*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat. She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose. Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes! Look down there!” Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless. But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.
“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden. But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was. They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple. They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” After a pause, Xen became perturbed. “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…” She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy.
She nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.” Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table. “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”
***
It was quiet up here. Nothing but the wind, and the occasional bird, and the repetitive motion of paddling the mortar through the air (Calla’s arms had finally stopped aching after every trip she took in it), and wisps of clouds overhead. No need to think. Just row, and stare out at the vast Russian landscape. Focus on what you can control, not on the fact that you’re a useless weakling who can’t even stand up to the most powerful witch in Russia.Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga. But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once. Sort of. She’d pushed him into a cage. Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power. Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga. Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it. Useless.
I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed. New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.* Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case. He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.
Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water. The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.
Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked. Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.
But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time. She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong. It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water. Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere! Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.” After a second, Calla added, “Please.”
She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished. Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of. But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help. Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?
Pavel froze. He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear. But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells. Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there. It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use. She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still. She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief. Yes. Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was. He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree. He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant. If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.
*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Season of the Witch part 13
Even though she was afraid, and remembering that even though she could swim a little, she was not very adept at it yet, Calla was not willing to give up that easily. Before the creature could go very far from the surface, she kicked out; even though the water forced her to move more slowly, she felt her shoe connect hard with something. There was a bellow of pain in her ear, and one of the hands started to release her. She took advantage of it, and wiggled her left arm free of the lasso, sending a concentrated blast of power over her shoulder at whatever had ahold of her. Much to her relief, despite it not being a lethal or even hurtful blast, it enabled her to break free, clawing her way to the surface.
She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up. However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again. Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place. In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*
Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky. And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was. Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.
It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man. He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands. Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair. And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.
After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes. And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions. They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now. And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy. It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive. When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.
Drown her! He had no such intention! The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship. He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy. She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail. Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked. He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…
She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel. He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it. And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.
Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now. Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them. But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.
Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.
*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better. It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions. A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs. Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something. A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.
She barely took a moment to gratefully breathe before grabbing the plants on the shore, and starting to pull herself up. However, she had not gotten far before she was being seized again. Frantically, Calla kicked out, writhing and wrapping some roots around her hands in an attempt to anchor herself in place. In desperation, and almost instinctively, she raised her head and called out for help-in Ghoulish.*
Calla didn’t even know if there were any Ghuls in the immediate vicinity-it just came out, probably an instinctive result of her connection to Sharky. And it seemed to startle her captor; the grip faltered enough for her to scramble all the way out of the water, turn around, and come face to face with whatever it was. Which, if you hadn’t guessed already, is what she did.
It looked, more than anything, like a giant frog masquerading as a man. He had a wide, sagging mouth, bulbous, fiery gold-green eyes, a large flat nose that sunk into his face, slimy green and brown skin, and long, webbed hands. Long, green, weedy stuff drooped from his chin and the top of his head; it took Calla a second to realize that it was actually hair, albeit very lank and greasy hair. And she could see that he was dripping with algae all over.
After her brief examination, Calla, hating to do it but thinking it was the fastest way of communicating with the creature if he didn’t speak English, stared into his eyes. And was promptly overwhelmed by a flood of strange thoughts and emotions. They mostly seemed to consist of shock at the moment-shock that she spoke the tongue of the vurdalaki, and shock at how efficiently she had gotten out of his grasp, and shock at what was happening now. And with a quick scan of his thoughts, Calla learned that the creature was known as a vodyanoy. It was a Russian water spirit, like the nymphs back home, except this one seemed far more aggressive. When she probed around to figure out why he had tried to drown her, his thoughts became somewhat indignant.
Drown her! He had no such intention! The truth was, he was lonely and seeking companionship. He had been here for hundreds of years, and the only other sentient creatures in this lake were some silly rusalki** who called him fat and giggled at him behind their webs when they thought he wasn’t looking.
That doesn’t give you the right to just kidnap me! Calla retorted.
However, as she looked at his thoughts, she felt a pang of sympathy for the vodyanoy. She knew how it felt to be lonely.
Could you try going to another lake?
He twisted around in the water a bit, until he was able to hold up a fat tail. Calla began to see the problem, since this lake was completely land-locked. He was stuck here, with nowhere else to go, and despite the other creatures there, he was completely alone.
But there are other ways besides kidnapping…
She spent maybe an hour sitting by the side of the lake, talking mentally to the vodyanoy, whose name she learned was Pavel. He was overjoyed at finally being able to talk to someone, and determined to make the most of it. And the mental connection was beneficial for Calla, too; not only was she helping someone and being distracted from her worry about what was happening to Tristan, but it enabled her, after a time, to start figuring out the basics of the Russian language; in a way, killing multiple birds with one stone.
Finally, though, she had to say, I need to go back now. Baba Yaga needs me to bring these plants to her.
She couldn’t help questioning the veracity of that statement a little bit; both that the witch actually needed the plants, and that she needed Calla to be the one to go and get them. But Pavel understood; nobody around here ever wanted to cross Baba Yaga.
She would come back, wouldn't she?
...I’ll try.
Calla looked away, rubbing her throbbing temples, and cut some fresh plants to add to the bag, before going back to where she had left the mortar.
Baba Yaga barely bit back a cackle when Calla stepped into the cottage: damp, muddy, a little bloody around the hands, and windblown.
“Have a good time?” she asked innocently.
*Ghoulish had become her word for the Ghul language, if you could call it that, which her blood bond with a Ghul had kind of helped her to understand better. It’s based on a series of screeches, growls, snarls, and inflections based on current emotions. A call for help is a sort of long, high banshee-like wail, that if done right, can reach an octave usually saved for dog whistles.
**Russian water nymphs. Often purported to be the spirits of women who drowned themselves, and well-known for luring young men to their deaths by drowning or something. A lot like mermaids and other types of woman monsters in mythology, really.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Season of the Witch part 11
Three days.
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
Tristan had been gone for nearly three days.
It was fortunate that he had bargained for an entire week, or else the deal would already be over.
On the bright side, Calla was no longer in a constant state of fear; it had worn itself out, replaced by a sort of tired numbness and resignation. She did whatever chores Baba Yaga asked of her (which weren’t as many or often as you might think, since Calla’s magic had covered the big ones right away), ate when she got the chance, fell asleep as soon as she went to bed, and in her spare time, she talked to Lars, or Xen. She thought about calling Morgan, but wasn’t sure she wanted to distress her too, and besides, she’d probably want to attempt a rescue somehow, and then she’d be in danger. Calla supposed she should be worried about how complacent she had become, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to care.
That day, after she’d made Baba Yaga’s breakfast (porridge, with milk and a drop of honey inside) and watered the black sunflower, the witch surprised her by saying, “Today I need you to go to the lake nearby and pick some of the plants that grow along the edge.”
“To add to your cabinet?” Calla asked, feeling genuine curiosity.
The witch nodded and smiled. “Feel free to use the mortar to get there. And I’d recommend taking this is well.” She held out an enormous, bone-handled knife. Seeing Calla’s startled expression, she quickly added, “To cut the plants free more easily, of course.”
Which probably means that there’s something dangerous there.
Hesitantly Calla took the knife. “Any plants in particular?”
“Oh, just whatever you can find. But I’m particularly fond of the little white flowers.”
“Okay.” Calla retrieved the bag which she kept for gathering vegetables, and slung it over her shoulders.
“Thank you, myshka.* Try not to get wet.”
After Calla managed to move the mortar out onto the porch, she climbed inside, picking up the pestle in her left hand. How was she to do this? With the carpet, you just had to tell it where you wanted to go, and it went; but maybe this contraption only understood Russian or something. The best way to find out, she decided, was to try it.
“Up, please,” she commanded.
Nothing happened.
Experimentally, she waved the pestle back and forth against the outside, as if paddling a canoe. Much to her delight, the mortar wobbled, and then, as she paddled more vigorously, rose slowly (but with a steady increase of speed) into the air.
Once the mortar got going, Calla no longer needed to paddle quite so often. However, she occasionally had to use the pestle to steer, or to gain more altitude. Finally, when she was at maybe a mile above the ground, she back-paddled a little bit, struggling because the mortar didn’t want to cooperate, until it was hovering stationary in the air, and began to search for the lake Baba Yaga had talked about. Most of the area seemed to be either trees or meadows, but finally over eastward she saw a glimmering on the horizon which probably meant water. Turning so she was facing that direction, she steered the mortar that direction.
As it turned out, getting the mortar into the air was a lot easier than getting it down. The blasted contraption wanted to stay up, and she finally had to lean on the side until it tilted, pray that she wouldn’t fall out, and dig the pestle into the air to make it head for earth. If she stopped paddling for long, the mortar would start to tilt upward again. Every time she pushed it back toward earth, it almost seemed to be sulking.
I wonder if Baba Yaga has this much trouble with it? Seeing as it’s her, probably not.
Calla managed to maneuver the mortar until it was a foot above the ground; try as she might, it stubbornly refused to land. And, examining the dirty wet muck below, she couldn’t quite blame it. So she just climbed out, carrying the pestle and the bag, and told the mortar firmly, “Stay.”
The mortar bobbed up and down in the air, and she worried it wouldn’t heed her command (assuming it even understood it). Improvising, she conjured up a rope, and tied one end to a ring on the side of the mortar, and the other to a sturdy-looking tree. Ignoring the outraged way that she was being not-looked-at by her transportation, she moved down the bank until she was right by the lake, and began to cut as many different plants as she could.
She didn’t know most of the names, just what things looked like-the white flowers Baba Yaga had mentioned, a few types of weeds, some grasses and mosses, and a plant covered in thorns that made her fingers bleed, but that she thought the old witch might especially like. Slowly, the bag started to become full. Calla was just about to finish up and climb back into the mortar-when there was a splash out in the middle of the lake. A big splash.
Naturally, the noise piqued the girl’s curiosity. She jerked her head up, and peered out at the water. All she could see were large ripples, so she finally dismissed it as just a fish of some kind, and went back to sawing through a particularly stubborn specimen of bladderwort. And of course, about thirty seconds later there was another splash, closer this time. In fact, it was about four feet away from the bank. Calla felt in her bones that something was there now, watching her.
In most stories, someone in this situation would walk right up to the side of the lake and peer in the water, trying to ascertain what was making the splash, and offering a perfect opportunity for the creature lurking just under the surface to leap up and pull them in. Calla, not being one of those people, instead tried to do the sensible thing, which was to turn away and start walking back to where she had left the mortar. So it was just bad luck that the creature happened to have a lasso, and so Calla had not gone two feet away when her arms were suddenly pinned to her sides, causing her to drop the bag, and she was being pulled off balance, seized in a pair of slimy webbed hands, and dragged into the lake by an unseen force.
*Little mouse; a term of endearment in Russian culture
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