Into the Deep Wood

Neither one had brought up the Night of the Drowned to the townspeople.

Marat had warned Val early that this was not something they should mention, and despite her immediate furious reaction, she saw the wisdom in those words. However, neither denied that the event had soured the River Cities. But they had nowhere else to go.

He told her that many people around the kingdoms had practiced strange rituals. Some tried to use fragments of the Nothing to cast curses and hexes, with some success.

But, much of that had been eradicated throughout the centuries by the king-backed Order of Templars that it had become incredibly rare to stumble on a community that still practiced the barbaric sacrifices.

When they returned from their walk, Val insisted that he tell her what it was in the clearing. What had followed them? Why had he been so worried? But he only shrugged.

“We are very close to the Wound. Any number of things can be out there. Many of them are poorly documented because Chelkalka is not a friendly place to hunters.” He told her.

“How did you know to walk slowly? Why had we not run?” She asked insistently. She knew his tone, his mannerisms. He protected her because he did not trust her to handle the truth.

“It was curious, not hostile. Running would have only triggered its predatory instincts.” He replied casually.

“Marat.” She looked at him with all the intent. “You’re lying to me.”

He held her eyes briefly, then his face relaxed, defeated.

“It’s something for which there are many names. I know of it because its notoriety is exceptional. It has no prey that occurs naturally in the woods. It cannot feed if it does not feed on people.” He stood and produced the journal from under Val’s papers on the table. “Every place it plagues has its own name for it. Those in the East call it a ‘changeling.’ In the South and West, it is a ‘doppelganger'. The North calls them ‘auf.’”

“Why could we not run?” She repeated, her tone dropping to that of curiosity.

“They have a hard time getting near people. They establish a pull, a channel that grows stronger with emotion - fear, anger, devastation. If they see you, they will smell your heart’s deepest hurts, regrets, and frights. They lure you to them.” He stopped on a page. “Here. It may not be clear from the entry what it is because it is difficult to say, really.”

Val took the journal and scanned over it, then frowned.

“It has no form?”

“Of its own, no.”

“What did you see, then?” She asked, the feeling that he was not being entirely truthful with her still nagging at her mind.

“Erlan.” Marat lied.

But Val seemed satisfied with this answer.

As Val returned to the apothecary full-time, she found that the All-Mother had begun spending more time there. Sometimes, Avgusta would take Val on walks that progressively got longer. The more questions the girl asked, the more detail the old woman gave.

One day in the spring, after a particularly heavy rainfall, Avgusta showed up to the apothecary early in the morning - before the midwife had even opened their doors.

“Valeria,” The All-Mother called to the back, “come, we are going elsewhere today.”

The midwife frowned; there was a lot of work to do, and she had grown accustomed to not having to do it all herself - especially the mundane tasks she always delegated to Val. She was about to protest when the old woman got ahead of her.

“Don’t fuss.” She shut it down. “You’ll have someone to mop the floors tomorrow.”

The way she spoke, Val realized that she meant to have her gone all day.

Unceremoniously, Val followed the All-Mother, who hobbled along, leaning heavily on her cane. They left the apothecary and went far down the street, past Avgusta’s home, past the cottage, and down to the large building where Val had first met the All-Mother—the empty building with the red sun painted on the floor.

Avgusta opened the doors with great effort, but when Val tried to help, she shooed her away. They made their way to the cellar door, which opened with a great angry creak. The All-Mother looked very seriously at Val.

“You’ve been here for some time, my dear. And it is no secret that the people are still weary of your hunter. I want to show you this: the heart of your heritage. But, you must promise me that not a word will be spilled to him about it - not a hint or mention of the cellar’s existence. Promise me this.”

Feeling a cold sweep her skin, Val looked at her with apprehension. All she could do was nod. But, the woman shook her head.

“It is not you, my dear; it is the law. Ancient as the earth. I cannot take your word. Give me your name as collateral for what I am to show you.

Images of the Hag washed across Val’s mind. How freely she had given her name, how dreadful the consequences. To be enslaved, kept at another’s whim.

“I cannot, Mother.” She shook her head regretfully. “It is not that I mean to break my promise, but I cannot give you my name.”

The old woman’s face darkened.

“Very well, I am not a thief in the night to take it from you.” She said, “But I sense your hesitation is not at my feet. Tell me, my dear.”

“I spent a long time imprisoned by my name, Mother,” Val told her. “I gave it, not knowing, to a Daughter of the Nothing.”

The old woman nodded, understanding.

“You have much to learn, Valeria.” She said. The heavy door of the cellar remained open. “Come, sit, and I will tell you about names.”

They sat down on the wooden benches, swallowed up by the shadows beyond the beam of light from the skylight above.

“What do you think it means to give your name?” Avgusta said, both her arms resting on her cane. Her hunched back gave the impression that she was ever leaning forward.

“I reveal it?” Val guessed, immediately understanding that it was a silly answer. The All-Mother knew her name and had for a long, long time. But, the woman did not make it a point to make her feel stupid.

“Maybe to a creature of the Nothing.” She said. “They wield and manipulate the world in a way we could not possibly begin to know. The same they can do with your name. But they cannot overhear it. They cannot read it. They have to receive it from its origin, willing and intentionally. Do you know what we can do with a name and why?”

Val shook her head no.

“It is an oath. A promise, one that should not be taken lightly. If broken, with it is carried bad luck - loss of things dear - and you cannot outrun it. As long as you intend to keep your promise, no ill tides will come to your house.”

Val hesitated, looking down at her hands - idly winding her fingers together.

“Alright.” She said, not quite sure that she had meant it. She was to keep something from Marat… that did not feel right. But, so long as it was not harmful to him… “But I must know. Will this hurt Marat in any way?”

“It is not a thing for an outsider to see. It does not concern him. It is but an important part of your heritage, dear girl.” The All-Mother assured her. “I swear to that, by my name.”

“Then, I swear to it by my name that I will not reveal what I see here.” Val agreed, although still feeling uneasy.

“Come.” The old woman picked up a lamp.

When he returned, the home was quiet and still. The windows had been opened, spring pouring in with a fragrant perfume of early blooms and light sprinkles that rolled across the hills.

He had not spent much time at the cottage alone, if at all. And now, it felt he did not know what to do with himself without her there.

Shuffling the cold coals, Marat frowned. It would need to be warmed before night, but only a few pieces of firewood remained in the alcove by the oven. So like Val, to use it until it was gone and not bring more.

A cord of wood was shared among the neighbors, two or three houses in all.

Although it had still stood tall, Marat found a bit of contentment in wielding the ax. And, one by one, he began adding to the pile behind him - thuds and thwack of the blade followed by the cracking and splintering of the oak and birch. The freshly cut wood scent rose, making the air smell even more of spring.

The late afternoon sun and the intensive labor of the work had drenched him in sweat. Beads of it poured from his forehead, and his shirt quickly became soaked, sticking to his back.

He tossed it off just in time to hear a stirring and giggle from the far fence.

On the other side, he could see someone moving toward the gate. Marat already knew who it would be.

Asha lifted the latch and carefully came into the yard. She wore a sarafan embroidered with yellow horses, her hair braided but pulled to the front where her hand was already on it - nervously playing with the red ribbon that tied it together.

“What do you need, girl?” He asked after a moment passed and she had not said a word. Nothing good could come of her childish infatuation.

“I thought, maybe I could fetch you a drink of water?” She said sheepishly, but she held no skin or carafe.

“I’m fine.” He said dryly. This needed to be shut down, but in a way Khaleel would not suspect foul play if she were to go telling him stories that were not true.

“Then, maybe I could watch you?” She offered, reddening. “Keep you company?”

“Asha, it is best you go home.” He cut her off.

“Father and mother are with Nadia and the First Matrons.” She said matter-of-factly, sitting herself down on an uncut log. “It is so lonely in the house all by myself.”

“Suit yourself.” He hoped that she would just get bored and leave, entirely uncomfortable. He turned away, swinging at the next log, but the task had lost all appeal.

“You do that so well.” She said, curiously peeking around. “Perhaps I could try?”

“No.”

She quieted again, but her eyes did not lose their shine.

“My father had been teaching me how to work in his shop before you came along.” She said, persistent. “I know a thing or two.”

“No.”

“I saw you when you first came into town months ago.” She said after a minute, her confidence waning. “Where did you come from? I’ve been to places far from here with father; perhaps I know of it?”

“We came from far away.” He muttered, completely at a loss at the girl’s inability to take a hint, but she ignored this.

“I’d like to travel far away. It is so boring in the River Cities. Same thing, day in, day out. Of course, aside from the Drowned Night and Fauna’s Day in the summer.” She absent-mindedly drew a circle in the dirt with her foot.

This would be an opportunity to learn…

“I saw you on the Drowned’s Night.” He said. Although his back was turned, he felt her excitement in her voice - an opportunity she would not miss.

“I’d seen you too!” She said enthusiastically.

“You knew that girl; was she your friend?”

Her answer did not come as fast as he expected and a worry ran through him that he had gone for the question too soon.

“She was.” She said after a moment, as if unsure if she should. “My best friend.”

“What was her name?”

“Marisha. She had been kind.” She spoke a bit quieter now, clearly afraid of being overheard. But she would not give up a topic he was interested in.

“Were you sad?”

“She did not deserve what had happened. It was too soon. They didn’t know yet if she could bear a son.”

Got you.

“Why did they rush it?” He asked, trying to sound as casual as he could, his arms still coming down with the ax onto the wood.

“It was the Drowned Night.” She said. “The Vodinik picked her; the All-Mother said so.”

And then, she quieted. He realized that her words trailed off with suspicion.

“Did you dance that night?” He steered his questions in another direction.

“I did.” She said shyly. “I’m quite good at dancing. Better than the other girls. I have a knack for it, I think.”

“Hm.” He set the ax down, gathered the wood in his arms, and turned toward her. “Go home, girl.”

She seemed a bit taken aback by the abrupt ending to the conversation, but when he turned toward her, her face reddened, and her eyes fixed on his tanned arms. She nodded, sliding off the stump. As she exited the gate, she gave him another glance over her shoulder, smiling.