WHAT DEATH CANNOT TOUCH
xii. sing, little swallow, of midwinter in flames

❆            ❆           ❆

"Fear it was that drove your people into Karachun's claws. Hope will guide them back to Svet. We have to show them a victory to celebrate," the priest had told Khaya at the cemetery when she asked if he would tell the others.

He was true to his words.

This day, on the brink of midwinter, he called the people to gather and feast after service, and as before the people clung to this promised happiness like a man lost in the darkness to the slightest hint of light on the horizon. All too willing to leave the terror of the past days behind, their wounded, hungry hearts allowed themselves to get lost in the sweet madness of pure pleasure.

The house smelled of dainties Khaya forced down her throat. She hadn't eaten properly for days and could not go on like this if she did not wish for death to take her with him this winter. Although her stomach hurt, she kept taking more bites. Tomorrow, she had to be ready to finally face Karachun.

"It's good to see everyone lighthearted," Abram said to the priest sitting next to him. For an instant, he looked at Khaya as she was dragged away by a laughing Majda, and his lips twitched. Nearly everyone, he seemed to add, silently.

"And yet, I hear sorrow in your voice, my son."

"I am concerned about my daughter," he confessed, only for the blind man to hear, still watching Khaya who danced with Majda and the other youths of Lasow.

"Do you want to sit here all alone?" his niece teased Mladen, who had not joined them, yet.
With flushing cheeks and ears, the boy sprang to his feet. His mouth opened, but he found himself speechless until he managed a gawky "O-Of course not, I—"

"Because of Karachun day?", the priest asked.

"No—Yes. I do not know. Ever since my mother died, she changed. Now there is something in her I have not seen before." And it scares me, he thought but did not dare to say, and with a sip of honey wine, he washed it down.

"I fear for her, too," the priest answered and made Abram look up from his cup quickly to face him. "She turned the Dark God's advocate more than once. You see, she is in that dangerous age when the whole world becomes tempting—especially its darkness that appears dressed in light. I will pray for Svet to keep watch over her."

Khaya could not hear their words but feel their gazes on her—dark and grim among the others—while Majda swirled with her across the room more gracefully than ever. Even while she danced with Mladen, Khaya saw her look right through him. Instead, her honey eyes flew across the room to the tall soldier who quietly watched them from the priest's side like a guard dog at his master's feet.

All of Malden's fragile hope was wasted on a game he was not even a player in but, if anything, a mere means to an end and it crumbled with every second and turned into sheer hatred for the fair-haired soldier. Khaya shot Majda a confused glance, suppressing the urge to step between her and Kazminov's stare, for she felt it was not her place to interfere.

"I will save them," she whispered, an adamant determination sharpening her expression for just an instance.

Midwinter turned midsummer when skirts and braids flew in the dim firelight, and mead-dewy lips filled the house with laughter and singing. They were drunk on this surreal bliss.

It felt like madness and all of Lasow was watching them. No, not them but Majda. Her alone. In front of them, she turned into a rusalka, luring young folk into death. They were captivated by her every move and enchanted by her voice, adorned with the most heart-wrenching sadness as if the old folk song told of her own fate.

"Sing, little swallow
The flowers bloom on the heaths
The sun is gilding the fields
Fly, little swallow
O, snow already covers the lands
Take my love to where the oak tree stands
Fly, little swallow
Let his soul travel along
And sing to him, sing to him, my song."

Not once did Davor's cold eyes leave Majda. They bore into her like icy fire. A wolf watching its prey. And he soothed it with suavity and softly whispered lastochkas in the dark to sink its teeth into flesh when least expected.

But this prey had sharp claws, too. When Majda fell asleep next to Khaya late at night, it was with the smile of a predator tasting fresh blood on its lips.

Only one pair of eyes, among all of these, Khaya felt resting on herself for all of the evening. From the thick shadows in the corner of the room, it glowed.

❆

After the priest's words, the people of Lasow might have expected the world to end on Karachun Day. To mock their fear and eager preparations—symbols of Svet, herbs, and prayers to cast out evil spirits, and blessed weapons and a pyre to destroy the creatures of darkness—dawn was peaceful, and so was dusk. Night came on soft wings.

Khaya could but wonder if the wood they had gathered and staked was for her. But though he most definitely thought her a witch, Davor Kazminov kept quiet about it, and so he did about their conversation at the cemetery.

Free him—of what? There was a sneaking suspicion getting a hold of her mind. However, Khaya chased it away like all the other ones. It was impossible, after all. Just as much, she allowed herself to think: If Davor and this shadow—Karachun himself, maybe—were right, and she was a witch, then she would not hesitate to turn these chains into a weapon, the curse into a blessing when it came to facing the Death God.

The silence inside the izba, into which desperate voices weaved breathed prayers, was nearly suffocating. Dorka had been talking to Svet ever since the day started. Her shock seemed to have volatized in last night's frenzy to some extent, but it gave panic room to breathe once more.

"Khaya, can you tell me the tale of Vasilisa again?" Ulya asked, softly pulling at her skirt.

Khaya looked at Davor's grim face. "It's not the right moment for that, zayka."

"When, if not now on this night?" the girl protested. "Who will take her place this year?"

Playing the part of Vasilisa was a prestigious task. Granted most often to the members of the family with the highest status, every girl of Lasow would have loved to be the first one to go out in the night, paying homage to the brave maiden in the tale. Their ancestor. And at Khaya and Majda some of them had looked with envy in their eyes because as daughters of the starosta's family, they would perform these rites more than once.

However, not so today.

On this night, being chosen would have felt like a punishment, not an honor.

Her lips parted to answer. I will, she already felt the words on her tongue.

"No one," the priest answered faster than her, "for we do not bow to the King of Winter."

Khaya carefully placed the white embroidered shawl over her braided hair. It was still bloody but that did not matter now.

"I will go," she said while dipping her fingers in the oven's ashes and coal.

"Bend before Karachun?" the priest asked.

Khaya gave him a glance that burned with the embers inside the oven. "No, honor our ancestors. They should not freeze outside in their graves as we shall not in our homes. No one, not even Karachun can stop me from doing that."

"No, Khaya. Please stay here," Ulya begged, trying to stop her from driving her fingers over her throat to mark herself with the sign of death. But she had already smeared it onto her pale skin.

"What on earth are you doing?" Dorka asked, pausing her prayers for the first time. As if this little symbol could summon the God of Death, then and there, she stared at it with disgust and fear.

"Follow the tradition."

"I won't allow you to go," Ilya said.

Khaya turned to the children with a soft smile. "Promise me to behave well. Both of you."

"I will. If he comes here, I'll protect Ulyasha." Ilya lifted his head in determination and this time, Khaya did believe him that he would not shy away to help his little sister.

She kissed both of them on her forehead and grabbed the juniper berries, a bowl of food, and the unlit torch. However, Ulya was not willing to let her go just like that. Tears shining in her eyes, she threw herself in Khaya's arms and buried her face in her dress.

„I wish I were as brave as Vasilisa ..."

Majda rose from her place. "Khaya, that's insane! Do you want to get yourself killed? I don't recognize you anymore. What became of the level-headed girl I used to know?"

Majda's hands grabbed her own ash-smudged one. And when she realized there would be no proper answer, she said thinly, "At least let me go with you."

The corners of Khaya's lips twitched. We swore never to let anything separate us. "In the tale, Vasilisa does it alone."

"You promised me to stay safe, Khayka. You promised." Her honey eyes shone with helpless desperation.

"And I will try to keep it." For a second, Khaya squeezed Majda's hands before freeing herself from the grip.

"Madness! This is madness!" Abram bellowed and rose from his seat. "You will end like poor Daniil."

Or like a witch burning at the stake.

"I made a promise to babushka years ago to go to the cemetery on the longest night every year. I promised her not to forget," Khaya said, her tone surprisingly calm. I did not forget—and I did not forgive either. Karachun had stolen her grandmother's breath just on the brink of his night.

Disbelief darkened Abram's brown eyes. "I don't understand what's happening to you, Khaya."

"To me? What is happening to you? Did you all lose your sense and heart blindly following this priest? How can we know that he is not our enemy? All horrors started when he appeared."

The old man turned to her with mild reproval. "Do not forget your place, little preacher girl. Your education might be exceptionally well, and your prayers might be beautiful. I read them all. But to search, understand, and teach the wisdom of Svet is not a woman's task. It is that of scholars."

"Then you above all should see your own fault. What scholar presumes to be a true mouthpiece of Svet? What—"

A harsh grip around her wrist silenced her. Surprised, Khaya turned her head to her right, meeting eye-to-eye with Davor.
"You stay here," each of his hissed words was as sharp as his blade. "You must not go."

Too perplexed to answer or fight him off, Khaya stared at him.

"Let her go. We have to prepare our own battle to fight," the priest said, not allowing anger to crawl into his voice. Instantly, Kazminov's grip loosened.
"Svet protects those whose heart is bright and those filled with darkness he burns with his light."

A smile crossed Khaya's face, so tender it cut through flesh and bone. "Then, better start praying for your soul, master."

"Khaya!" Dorka squealed.

But she was beyond caring. Enough of this sanctimonious blasphemy in the name of piety! She lit the torch and stepped outside into the longest and darkest night she had ever seen. As the sun of the last year, the moon had died as well, leaving the world in thick, unforgiving blackness.

However, she did not let that stop her from placing the food on the wooden steps of the house. "Take this so you won't have to starve. Feast with us."

Then Khaya let her coat slip off her shoulders. "Take it, so you won't have to freeze."

She swallowed. "And I present to you a life as well."

Almost, Khaya expected something to happen—a cold hand to touch her throat or the dark rider to appear from the woods and take her soul with him.

But the night stayed quiet as if the world had ended.

Guiding her path with juniper berries to keep her safe from evil spirits that redden the white snow, Khaya made her way to the cemetery. With every step, the fire of her torch seemed to dim. From her lips sprung the songs she knew since she could remember; the only sound to kill the silence.

Khaya was the only one to visit the cemetery today to honor their dead, to light the fires to keep them warm. Svet, a god of light himself, could not have approved to let their ancestors shiver in that darkest night the world had seen. Though Khaya was no scholar she felt like understanding his word better than the man who shared it with Lasow the past days.

Beneath her hands, the cemetery lit up—bright beneath the starless sky. At Yovanka Raskina's grave, she finally came to a halt.

"Karachun..." Khaya whispered.

Nothing happened.

"I offered you everything. My meal, my coat, my life. Now I beg you to demand another soul. Let this winter pass peacefully. Be mild with us people of Lasow."

No wind. No whispers. As if disapproving of her, the pines kept quiet.

"I am here, Karachun. Do you hear me? See me?" she yelled into the forest that edged the cemetery. "What do you want more? Haven't you taken enough already?"

He had haunted them, broken Dorka, taken Daniil, and disturbed the sleep of the dead—little Vanya's— but when she stood here, freezing in the dark, alone, and offering him everything she possessed, he chose to keep quiet? Quiet as he had been back then when Khaya had called his name in rage.

"Are you mocking me, king of winter and death? Can't you answer those who offer their hospitality? Those whose loved ones you have stolen?" Slowly, Khaya's voice rose with anger. "Why so craven? I am here and ready to fight for the lives you want!"

Tears stung in her eyes. She would have expected him to be so vicious to take her with him, except following the rites, to raid Lasow—but not the cruelty of an indifferent silence. At least punish her, threaten her, laugh at her. However, Karachun did not even care to spare her taunt for this foolishness.

He did not care for mortals.

And he did not care what their deaths meant to others.

Khaya fell to her knees, where beneath Yovanka Raskina's mortal remains lay. For the first time after three years, she was able to cry at her grave for another one had been laid open slowly the past days. Somewhere deep inside her, where Khaya had buried all her grief.

"Why did you all betray me like this? Why did you have to do this? Why take mother? Vanya? ...Babushka? Why never me?" she sobbed, coiling up on the snow-clad grave.

Karachun broke her life and then left her alone unarmed. There is no fighting death. Thus, he was the most atrocious enemy. Silent and invisible his sword came down, and no weapon was a match to it.

❆

It was the wind and the faint touch of a cold hand that woke her. Instantly, her head moved up. Her eyes met with those of burning frost she had seen in the shadows, glowing from a face that could have been a skull.

Khaya gasped for air, struggling backward until her spine met with the wooden shrine of the grave. A nightmare. It must be a nightmare.

"You have called for me. Here I am."

yes, here he is! ;)

finally, i'm back with a new chapter—and a new mean cliffhanger. again it took some time since i added in a new scene, that in the beginning. i packed so much meaning into it that i'm not sure if it works the way it is.

as always i'm so curious to hear your opinion! <3