SMOLENSK, RUSSIA

This is a tale of the first days, when witches believed the word of gods and dreamt of the divine. The goddess of midnight organized a trial, releasing chaos onto the world and offering the mantle of the moon as a prize to one able to bring back order. She did this out of boredom, in need to see herself rid of enemies, thinking no mortal might rise up to the task. Ježibaba, a young, powerful sorceress bent on becoming a goddess, answered the call and unleashed bloodshed upon the lands of Rus, like none had seen...

The witch was covered in blood. It pooled between the mounds of her breasts, beneath the plates of her armor, finding a way down her thighs. Carmine kissed the alabaster of her skin, soothing old wounds. She had been damaged and killed in return. Now the reward was so close, the woman relished on it.

Ježibaba crouched near the bank of the Dniéper river. It was night time, which meant the black rider that protected her from the first star until before daybreak stood beside her. The rider, though wounded and thirsty would not move or drink until her mistress had cleansed herself and claimed her crown.

It had been a gory conflict, with heavy casualties among mortals and lesser deities. The witch didn't care for enemies. Yet, the wails of the fallen never left her. They were a responsibility, a promise to deliver. She had given them her word that they were to rise again the moment of her apotheosis.

Cleansed in the flowing waters, Ježibaba claimed her boon.

She waited for the last vestiges of her mortal life to burn, but nothing happened. The moon and its mantle was not placed at her feet. If anything, the night grew colder, darker. The sound of laughter carried in the wind was the only thing to warn the witch of the presence of a goddess.

"Ježibaba, you have succeeded. I'm impressed!" It was Zorya of midnight, flanked by her trusty hound, an enormous beast of velvety blue pelt. The deity looked upon the witch and the woman could not tell if her eyes as dark as ink and her smile, sharp as a blade entailed a blessing or a curse. As soon as she spoke, Ježibaba found mockery stabbed deeper than benedictions or tribulations. "On a second thought, I gather that it's not wise to grant witches too much power. Look around you... the last one standing on a killing ground. What would you do, if I were to grant you a pathway through the stars?"

"What are you implying?" Frustration mounted on the young one. "After all this strife, I didn't earn my place?" The soft green of her eyes dimmed with the dawn of understanding. "You... just wanted a pawn. The tip of a spear, an arrow head. You used me to dispose of your enemies while keeping a clean slate before the gods."

"Ah! She reasons..." Zorya had a face that reflected wisdom of ages and a peaceful disposition. But her true nature, revealed in the sharpness of her tongue, cut deeply. "It's true. I had many enemies. I don't know what it is about the dark, that draws men and spirits to try to possess it. Now I have only but one, and not worthy to call an equal." The goddess' dark eyes danced, imagining all possibilities. "You can take your plea to the gods and they will see nothing but the blood you have shed and believe not a word over my story. Or...you can bow and place your name at my disposal and your riders at my command. Now that I think about it, is not even an option. Yield! And be glad to be at my service."

The witch of Rus had her pride, but the treacherous goddess struck her heart with such might that it left no other option but submission. She took her time to reach Zorya. As Ježibaba walked towards the goddess, she lifted the wind, allowing for trees to wail frantically, echoing the pain of her defeat. Yet when she touched knee to ground, everything was encompassed by silence and not even the night birds screeched. The goddess smiled satisfied; it didn't bother her that the witch made a spectacle of her submission.

"You play your cards well," Ježibaba conceded. "And this night I worship you Zorya, goddess of midnight upon the lands of Rus. Yours is the moon, until the ends of time and no mortal or their ilke will dare claim it. I have no power over this land. Whatever stake I claimed is nothing more than a foolish dream... The children born in winter will whisper your name in prayer, the hunters and those who find themselves lost in the shadows will call for you at the crossroads. Forever goddess."

Zorya couldn't be more pleased. "What about your ilke, witch? Will you hand me your riders?"

"Never!" The black rider, who had kept silent, took it upon herself to answer for her mistress. She stood between the witch and the goddess, her hand shaky, but still holding on to the hilt of her sickle. Sluggish, charcoal colored life-force bled into blade. Zorya's dog, ready to attack, stifled a growl at its owner's command. Ježibaba steadied her rider's hand.

"They're not just my familiars." Through it all, the witch's voice had broken, but her defiant stare shone with evergreen. Now those eyes were downcast, hopeless. The riders were created out of her essence. More than daughters, sisters or vessels of her power, they stood for her last shred of dignity.

"And yet, to create the black you stole the colors of midnight. Even the white has traces of night. You spun her out of the first ray of golden sunshine, unbeknownst to the god of the sun... It's for your own good, dear. There are toys not meant to be played with."

"Yours is the moon, Zorya. To many, a wonder that grows in full and then diminishes herself to start again is the symbol of a mother..." the witch didn't meet the goddess' eyes. On her knees and with arms stretched in reverence, Ježibaba pleaded. "I beg you, allow me another night, and a day with my daughters. When people sing songs of this day, you'll always be remembered as merciful."

What was it to Zorya, but another way to show off her power while climbing the steps of a higher pantheon. She gave her word, masking her condescension and disdain with generosity.

***

"What is left to us, Mother? Will I die here, in the warmth of your arms, dreaming of a sister I have never seen?" The black rider asked of her maker. Her dedication to the witch was a s fierce as that of her counterpart, the white rider, though they had never seen each other, but in a glimpse, since dark and light cannot coexist.

"Everything is written, my beautiful black tourmaline. I have been defeated. I gave my word to a goddess." Ježibaba's mouth was a thin line, her trembling lips barely containing her hatred. Her fingers combed the dark rider's hair. To comfort her familiar meant bringing solace to herself.

"You are not to blame Mother. After all, you gave us the freedom to think on our own." The rider turned to meet her maker's face with a triumphant smirk. She embodied everything wild and unbent about the witch and a downfall didn't come so easy for her. "I know of a spirit..."

"A spirit!" The witch's laughter was unsettling. "Haven't you learned? And besides... Who will stand for me, after I struck down both mortal and demigod alike?"

"This one is different from others. It abstained of the fight. I saw it more than once, dancing in the edge of chaos. I can't tell whether or not is on our side, but at least it might understand that you were set up. For what I've seen this spirit doesn't favor gods, or humans. It thrives in opportunity."

"How do we summon a spirit without a name?" Ježibaba didn't see the silver lining yet, but she trusted the rider.

"With whatever we have left."

They rushed to a clear in the woods and both women torn the few greens left by the winds of autumn, making a circle of stone and ash mixed with the blood of their fallen. The summoning needed no words. They conjured with a dance, contorting their bodies, furthering the pain, exposing their souls, grief-laden.

The spirit showed itself as soothing breeze and the echo of flowing waters. It accepted the witch's offerings, creating the illusion of a body for itself from what was gathered. The sandy heart of the river stone gave a golden shade to its skin, the copper of dried blood embedded in its hair and eyes and the grey of ash covered its naked skin. As a woman she was stunning and her smile carried an eerie edge that rivaled the goddess.

"Who are you?" Ježibaba narrowed her eyes.

"You tell me. You summoned me after all. I'm the fire in your breast, the bile building in your throat, sleepless nights lost drawing new patterns. Though many call me second to victory, I can assure you, I'm twice as satisfying."

"Vengeance," witch and rider answered.

"You can call me that." Eyes like embers focused beyond the women. "I saw what perspired. And where gods might see the aftermath and allow your pleas to fall in deaf ears, I see the beginning. There were promises broken, breaches of trust, travesty and insult."

"You saw the same as I did," Ježibaba spat on the ground. "Now, what can you do, that I can't?"

"I can put choices before you and buy you precious time." Vengeance touched both rider and witch, her hands were warmer than any bonfire. "You will do for yourself... the consequences will be solely yours. You denied your most precious possessions to Zorya; what will you give witch, for delivering the last blow?"

"My looks." Ježibaba was praised through all the land, not only for her skills in the craft, but for her beauty. Some said the power of her presence was as bewitching as that of her words.

"That is something meant to be lost to time. You need to go deeper. And don't you offer your soul witch. I am no demon; my appetites are different." Ježibaba knew that the spirit didn't mean to possess her, but it had latched onto her, like a thirst demanding to be quenched. What wouldn't she give...

"It's alright, mother." The black rider understood what Vengeance required. "You didn't surrender us to the goddess. But in the end, we are the price to be paid."

"Will you ever forgive me?" The witch's eyes veiled with tears.

"I brought you here, mother... even if dead, I'll have the satisfaction."

"Then it's done, and Vengeance is my witness. Give me your blade."

Ježibaba swore by her riders that she'd see the end of Zorya. With a steady hand, she carved the flesh off her leg, slowly shredding away dermis and muscle, until it scraped against bone. Her voice drowned in pain and shock, until she found enough hatred to scream.

"My flesh, my blood, I place upon this altar. And now the ones I love the most will wither and die, so I can have my revenge."

Agony engulfed the black rider. She had never been so close to her sister the white. It was unnatural. Ježibaba was consumed trying to bring them both to stand together in one plane. The witch's bones burned and hollowed, like a bird's. Her hair, once silken threads of gold weaved in heavy tresses, turned gray and fell off, leaving but patches adhered to a wrinkled scalp. Her body, which had been admired and desired by many, turned into sagging skin spotted by time. The steep payment for revenge etched forever in her skin.

"Invoke your sister and do what's needed." For the first time, Ježibaba didn't look at the rider in the eye. Her twisted, hardened fingers sculpted the lumps she had torn from her flesh in one last act of creation, an attempt to justify beauty born of madness and thirst for retaliation. Soon enough she held a child in her arms, an empty shell without a breath.

The black rider summoned her sister, wresting her from the breast of the witch and forcing day upon dark. It was a heavy commotion that made the stars run and hide, showering earth with frightful tears.

White stood in front of black. Eyes the color of wheat met onyx.

"Mother. Sister." The white declared. "How can I help with your grief now that you have given up the sword? And who is this child at your feet?"

Ježibaba kept silent, her frail body almost incapable to handle her own familiar presences. It was the black who spoke. "This old husk is what's left of our mother. That child weaved from magic and the flesh of her youth is our revenge incarnate. I love you, sister and if there's a consolation know that we will always meet in the red of dawn."

Black brought the sickle down upon white with brutal, precise force. Blood sprayed, diamond dusted upon soil. Seconds later, the black rider sacrificed herself. All that they were dispelled, leaving but a spark of life that the witch captured and forced upon the child. A girl with deep blue eyes traced with silver cried a promise, her skin flushed with each gasp for air until it looked as red as the hair upon her head.

For a whole day, Ježibaba was a mother once more, singing cradle songs of vengeance. Nothing disturbed her, not even the spirit that took away her youth... Revenge was satisfied.

Night found Zorya haunting her again. The goddess was livid. Coming back to claim her prize she found an old woman cradling a child among corpses.

"What have you done to yourself?" The witch was a wretch, old and maimed.

"They died through the night. I tried to keep them alive, but couldn't. Still, in good faith... I offer you what I have left. Flesh of my flesh. My one true daughter."

The goddess got closer and her hound sniffed the baby girl, recognizing it as blood of the witch's blood. Zorya picked up the red headed child. "This will do, woman. This will do."

***

Twenty years later, Katya of Smolensk was the most powerful of the witches of Zorya. She danced naked upon the open fields at midnight, where moonlight bestowed upon her grace, wisdom and beauty. She had banished and vanquished other witches, including a pesky old hag, once powerful and now nameless and forgotten. That one in particular brought the goddess unparalleled pleasure.

Zorya loved Katya. So complete was her trust in the young woman that she placed her hound Simargl in her care, allowing her to take it for walks among the stars.

One of those evenings in which the goddess felt old, she called upon her witch, longing to grant a reward meant for a daughter.

"Do you see it? Up there, in the sky, round and silvery... It's yours. All you need to do Katya, is call me mother. It's not much of a request. I know your heart, and you adore me."

"I do." The witch's voice was a lulling whisper. "Mother. What a beautiful word. For years I thought myself motherless until you found me." Katya reminisced while braiding Zorya's hair. Your love comforted, filled me... I don't want to sound ungrateful, but I rather not have the moon. I wonder if, as a gift, you'd rather rid me of my troubles."

"What has been troubling you, child?"

"Dreams of mischief and foul play. The echo of hooves and swords clashing in battle. The deep pain of a woman... the only one that is worth the name of Mother." Katya carried within herself years of skill. With a steady hand she grasped the silver plated prongs meant to weave the dark curls of the goddess' hair and stabbed the delicate skin of Zorya's neck. When gods let their guard down, they prove as easy to dispatch as mortals, but Katya didn't want her to die, even as she thrusted and twisted savagely skewering flesh and ripping veins.

The goddess called for Simargl and the hound burst through the doors, but didn't lash out, confused by its divided loyalty. Katya fed the hound flesh of a goddess and the dog acquired taste for immortal blood. It attacked, tearing Zorya to pieces.

"You wanted them? You'll have them. You'll be them in the flesh! Black and white." The red headed witch showed her true fealty. The fierceness of her sisters guiding her hands, echoing through her words. Zorya of midnight and Zorya of sunrise, torn in two. You won't even have the solace of the moon. I will chain a hound that thirsts for your blood upon it. How does it feel to be rendered in pieces ? Forever goddess..."

Katya scattered the goddess to the winds, and Zorya was no longer one, but two, becoming a lesser goddess, easily defeated.

Before magic came undone and Katya claimed her true form as the red rider, she called upon a mother she never knew and yet loved with the devotion of black and white that lived within her.

"Baba Yaga, old lady of the woods. You lost your name, your beauty, your daughters. You'll never have the moon... but does it matter? You'll be first among witches, for you were granted revenge upon a goddess."

An old witch and the spirit that kept her company a score of years looked upon a promised fulfilled.

There was nothing left to say but "thank you" and bask in the red of dawn.