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.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Saturday, October 8, 2016
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.”
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Season of the Witch part 14
I awoke with a jolt. A second of confusion, and then everything flooded back to me: Baba Yaga, Calla, Mr. the Deathless, the sword, capture, bleeding-how long had I been asleep?!
I jumped up, feeling an adrenaline rush-and nearly fell over as my vision became covered with colored spots. I used my left hand to grip the chair, but finally had to slump to the floor and lie down for a few minutes until I could see straight again.
Right; let’s try this again. First of all, better check my hand.
I pulled it up from my chest, where somehow I’d been able to keep it for all this time, and took a look. Thank goodness, the bleeding had stopped. Now it was just clotted with a lot of dried blood.
I miss Xen.
I tried to make some sort of noise; the spell, however, had not worn off, making it impossible even to croak. Not that I really needed my voice at the moment. It would just be nice to have it back eventually, you know? I decided to focus on getting out of here.
Now that I was actually free, and wearing the shaded glasses, I could see that my prison was made out of some kind of stained glass. It was actually quite pretty, now that it wasn’t searing my retinas and I wasn’t tied to a chair. The voices were back, too; to my surprise, their conversation made me suspect they were the voices of tourists.
“Come look at this!”
“How long do you think it took them to make that?”
“Derek! Come back here!”
“I’m bored…”
“Do you know if we can take pictures? All the signs are in Russian.”
And those were just in the languages I could understand.
My sense of smell was cut off by the glass, so I couldn’t tell if it was all an illusion or not. So I began looking around the room, trying to find any other potential spells or curses that might be set up. Eventually, in the far corner I found what looked like an alarm spell-probably set to go off if I broke the glass, since it hadn’t been triggered by my freeing myself from the chair.
Unless I just didn’t notice it went off, and he’s now watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do…
I’ve got to take that chance.
Quickly I found the loophole in the spell, and unraveled it. A very big risk, but it might buy me some time. Then I crouched down, and smashed a hole in the floor with my uninjured claw.
It turned out that I was forced to break a few more holes before it was big enough for me to squeeze out. But once I did so, I leaned my head and shoulders out, bracing my arms against the sides. Beneath me there appeared to be an entire horde of giant people walking around, examining Russian artwork. This startled me, before I realized: They aren’t giants. I’ve been shrunk!
One of the people had noticed the little shards of broken glass that had fallen, and had gone to a security guard; he was pointing at where I was, and I could make out the words, “...think the bulb burst...might want to get that fixed…”
I’m in a lightbulb? Must be something like that-those fancy stained glass light fixtures up top would do the trick, if Mr. the Deathless kept a tiny dimension or something inside one, like a genie bottle...Well, better get out of here before they come to investigate.
I jumped out of the hole I’d made in the glass, and glided down to the ground, ignoring the wave of dizziness that overcame me as a result. I landed in a corner of the room, by the doorway; a good thing, too, because a few seconds later I found myself growing back to normal size (thankfully along with my clothes).
That makes things a bit easier. Now, question: am I still in the right place?
I suddenly heard a voice call, “Stop that man!” and saw two frog-headed men* in Russian guardsman’s uniforms running toward me.
Yup, I’m in the right place.
Barely taking time to look at my surroundings, I turned into the first corridor I could find and ran.
*Disguised to any humans, of course.
I jumped up, feeling an adrenaline rush-and nearly fell over as my vision became covered with colored spots. I used my left hand to grip the chair, but finally had to slump to the floor and lie down for a few minutes until I could see straight again.
Right; let’s try this again. First of all, better check my hand.
I pulled it up from my chest, where somehow I’d been able to keep it for all this time, and took a look. Thank goodness, the bleeding had stopped. Now it was just clotted with a lot of dried blood.
I miss Xen.
I tried to make some sort of noise; the spell, however, had not worn off, making it impossible even to croak. Not that I really needed my voice at the moment. It would just be nice to have it back eventually, you know? I decided to focus on getting out of here.
Now that I was actually free, and wearing the shaded glasses, I could see that my prison was made out of some kind of stained glass. It was actually quite pretty, now that it wasn’t searing my retinas and I wasn’t tied to a chair. The voices were back, too; to my surprise, their conversation made me suspect they were the voices of tourists.
“Come look at this!”
“How long do you think it took them to make that?”
“Derek! Come back here!”
“I’m bored…”
“Do you know if we can take pictures? All the signs are in Russian.”
And those were just in the languages I could understand.
My sense of smell was cut off by the glass, so I couldn’t tell if it was all an illusion or not. So I began looking around the room, trying to find any other potential spells or curses that might be set up. Eventually, in the far corner I found what looked like an alarm spell-probably set to go off if I broke the glass, since it hadn’t been triggered by my freeing myself from the chair.
Unless I just didn’t notice it went off, and he’s now watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do…
I’ve got to take that chance.
Quickly I found the loophole in the spell, and unraveled it. A very big risk, but it might buy me some time. Then I crouched down, and smashed a hole in the floor with my uninjured claw.
It turned out that I was forced to break a few more holes before it was big enough for me to squeeze out. But once I did so, I leaned my head and shoulders out, bracing my arms against the sides. Beneath me there appeared to be an entire horde of giant people walking around, examining Russian artwork. This startled me, before I realized: They aren’t giants. I’ve been shrunk!
One of the people had noticed the little shards of broken glass that had fallen, and had gone to a security guard; he was pointing at where I was, and I could make out the words, “...think the bulb burst...might want to get that fixed…”
I’m in a lightbulb? Must be something like that-those fancy stained glass light fixtures up top would do the trick, if Mr. the Deathless kept a tiny dimension or something inside one, like a genie bottle...Well, better get out of here before they come to investigate.
I jumped out of the hole I’d made in the glass, and glided down to the ground, ignoring the wave of dizziness that overcame me as a result. I landed in a corner of the room, by the doorway; a good thing, too, because a few seconds later I found myself growing back to normal size (thankfully along with my clothes).
That makes things a bit easier. Now, question: am I still in the right place?
I suddenly heard a voice call, “Stop that man!” and saw two frog-headed men* in Russian guardsman’s uniforms running toward me.
Yup, I’m in the right place.
Barely taking time to look at my surroundings, I turned into the first corridor I could find and ran.
*Disguised to any humans, of course.
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.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Season of the Witch part 12
Meanwhile, back in my prison, my luck had started to change for the better. Not that I had gotten free, or anything as serendipitous as that. That was too much to hope for. It also appeared to be too much to hope for that Koschei would ever think to feed me. And even though I started hearing voices (from down below my prison, somehow-maybe I was on the upper floor of wherever I was), I was unable to call out to them due to the spell on my voice, or in any way make noise that would attract their attention. And even if I could, who was to say that they weren’t minions of Mr. the Deathless, or something like that?
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.
When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated. However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage. And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds. But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me. And it was my secret weapon.
See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot. It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured. What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils. That is to say, it gets hotter. It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else. And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.
Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours. But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used). Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out. The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one. Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah. And Morty, who was more or less family. I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising. I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them. Getting out was far more important.
The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced. However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head. Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand. It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on. Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost? I’ll die if I lose more than six pints. Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit. Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could. If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble. As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached. And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet. But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away. Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.
I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding. It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting). I was still trapped in this hellish place of light. I still had no voice. I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia. But at least now I was partially free. I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…
*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.
However, I had at least gotten started on getting free from this chair.
When I’d been captured, my pack and all the contents therein, along with a few odds and ends hidden on my person, had been confiscated. However, Mr. the Deathless had not checked my insides for anything, a fact I was now using to my advantage. And yes, I am aware of how weird that sounds. But it makes sense if you understand that before I left, Baba Yaga brewed a special potion that I then drank, and therefore it was now inside of me. And it was my secret weapon.
See, something people mostly already know about gargoyle blood is that it’s really, really hot. It makes it difficult for non-gargoyles to treat us when we’re injured. What many people don’t know, and which is mostly a deeply-kept secret,* is that when we’re under extreme physical and/or mental stress, it sort of boils. That is to say, it gets hotter. It doesn’t hurt us, but it goes from burning to scorching for almost anyone or anything else. And Baba Yaga had given me a potion that would amplify that in such a way that I could use it to my advantage now.
Most doctors would probably advise against purposely making yourself bleed, especially when your blood sugar is low because you haven’t eaten or drank anything for what is probably more than twenty-four hours. But this was an emergency, so I dug one of the claws of my right hand into my palm (because I am ambidextrous, it didn’t matter which one I used). Soon enough I felt the sting of pain as I pierced my own skin, and after pressing a little harder, I felt the blood start to leak out. The pain caused a bit of an adrenaline rush, and I augmented it by thinking about all the consequences of failure: losing Calla forever, dying here, leaving Xen and Phil alone, never getting to see my family again-well, maybe not that one. Except my mother. And my little brother Elijah. And Morty, who was more or less family. I encouraged all my anger and fear and worry to rise to a fever pitch, and could actually feel my blood temperature rising. I heard more voices somewhere outside my prison now, but ignored them. Getting out was far more important.
The chair I was sitting in was solid steel, magically reinforced. However, my bleeding palm began to burn through it like the third eye of Shiva through Ganesha’s head. Eagerly, I wiggled it back and forth, feeling the metal dissolving under my hand. It took longer to eat through than I would have liked, but I doggedly continued on. Even when I started to see black spots before my eyes, and my ears started ringing, and I started having that light-headed feeling like I’d been out in the sun for far too long.
Wonder how much I’ve lost? I’ll die if I lose more than six pints. Let’s see, if one drop can dissolve up to two centimeters of metal, and the arm of this chair is about three inches thick, and if it takes .38 seconds to dissolve the steel-
I was distracted from my inane calculations by the fact that that part of the chair was starting to wobble and bend a bit. Deciding I didn’t want to waste anymore time waiting, I pushed down as hard as I could. If I’d been at full strength, I could have done it with much less trouble. As it was, I had to shove and strain and push several times, before finally, with a satisfying snap! the part of the chair broke, giving me a chance to slide my arm free, albeit with the spell attached. And as I’d feared, it then shrank to fit snugly around my wrist, like the world’s worst bracelet. But when I dripped a bit of my blood on it, it actually dissolved the part it touched, allowing me to peel it off and toss it away. Baba Yaga’s magic is pretty potent stuff.
I dissolved my other bonds, and then pressed my now-numb claw to my chest, in an effort to stop the bleeding. It ate right through my shirt, so I had to press it against my bare fur and flesh (which, luckily, it didn’t appear to be hurting). I was still trapped in this hellish place of light. I still had no voice. I was also starving, thirsty, and possibly suffering from self-inflicted anemia. But at least now I was partially free. I just needed to take a rest, just close my eyes for a moment, and then I could find a method of getting out of here…
*So be grateful that I trust you enough to tell you about it.
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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