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“Tell me about that one.”
They sat in the young grass in front of the half circle of homes. It was fairly late and no one else was outside by then. They’d spent more time outdoors in the evenings as the barn had grown too warm and stuffy.
“All-Father’s tears, that one over there - where he lamented the first life that the Nothing took.” He pointed to a section of the sky. “The one next to it, it is for the next ten thousand. The stars, they’re clustered there, one tear for each.”
“And that one?”
“The phoenix, Bird of Fire. If you look there - above it - that’s its wing. And to the left, those three, its long neck.”
“They were real; you have a feather, right?” She traced the stars with her eyes, still not quite seeing the shape.
“Yes, girl, they were real. They’d died off long ago. It was early on that people learned that the Nothing-touched creature’s body was worth far more than its weight in gold. The first king’s crown had been adorned with firestarter feathers.”
“No blessing comes without a curse.” She repeated what he taught her.
“No blessing comes without a curse, girl. It was at his coronation that the crown placed across his brow had dripped liquid fire into his eyes - and so the king went blind.”
“Like the Nothing-touched…” She pointed to one of the brightest in the sky. She thought she recalled it from her youth. ”What’s that one there?”
“It’s called ‘Arachne’; it is a web woven through the sky - a map to the whole of existence.” He answered, adjusting the arm beneath his head. “The folktale is that in its web, it catches every fragment of the Shattered God. When the last of the golden suns fall, he will be whole again.”
“What is the Shattered God?” She asked. Speaking freely was a rarity with him. He must have truly loved the stars because he did not cut it short and leave like he always had.
“A Western interpretation of the All-Father.” His tone allowed a hint of exasperation, “Their sect believes that he is restricted to the fragments upon the earth, and only them. That there is no god watching over the people.”
“And that?”
“Last one.” He warned. “It is Lada’s Mirror. It is not large, that big star there and the two below it are it.”
“How do you know so much about these things? Is it because you are a hunter?”
“Yes, and no.” He sighed, shifting around to relieve the arm that had fallen asleep beneath him. “You must go through a lot of schooling to be a hunter. It’s a noble’s sport. They want trinkets from all around the Wounds; it’s prestigious. You have to know things to survive in those places. You have to know things to survive the trinkets themselves. I know more than the average, I grew up both in the court and the church. They teach two very different narratives of the Nothing.”
“A sport?” Val laughed, “What you do is a sport?”
“It’s a young man’s game. Most grow out of it. We… I didn’t.”
“Why did you not do anything else?”
“Necessity, girl.”
“Why do you call me girl?” Again, she asked. Again, it had been so long since he’d given her the answer. Perhaps it has changed.
But, again, he was silent.
“Alright. Can you tell me? About her?”
He did not tense at the subject as he had done before.
“No.”
“She’s out there still, Marat. We cannot just leave her out there.” Val propped herself up on an elbow. She’d thought every day of the moment this conversation would happen. Every single day or night had been a danger to Marat. It loomed just over the trees. Whispered to him. She still saw him tremble in his sleep.
“What do you think she is, girl? What secret do you think I keep from you?” His tone held no edge—just weariness.
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“I think you know how to deal with her, what to do.”
“You’re wrong,” He sighed, “I do not. I’ve met a man who, by some chance of luck, walked away. His ship, the anchor, broke, and it had drifted off to sea. She could not follow, and so he was free. He spoke of her whispers long into his old age. He’d never found any peace, and he was just a boy when she had gripped him in her clutches.”
“Is she one of those, like the Hag and the Legho?”
“Daughter of the Nothing. Yes.”
“How many are there?”
“You ask so many questions. I’m so tired of you.” He rubbed his temples, “As if a single one will ever be useful to you. Go to sleep.”
“You know I cannot leave you alone.”
Val got up, waiting for him. His rudeness no longer bothered her; it was just his way. When she met him, she took it as contempt, and maybe that at the time it was. But now it felt as if he was a grouchy old man complaining about the sunny and the rainy days alike.
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Amir hung the last of his cured cow hides on the line to dry. The crossbow was tucked far away under his bed. There was no need for it anymore. The blood would not be on his hands.
She told him. She told him that the man had felt threatened by his physical prowess and the opportunities his youth had offered. Marat was jealous. He could not even walk without a limp. He used his power over Val to intimidate her into bed with him - with threats and force. He bewitched her with curses from foreign lands - and as it was in stories - Amir would have to save her from the clutches of the wicked fiend.
The water maiden told him that he was not a boy. He earned his life by working by the sweat of his brow. He overcame the grief of his parent’s passing. He rejected the handouts his family had offered him. He built his own life from nothing.
He had immediately known that Val would have to be saved from the first time he laid eyes on her; he knew somewhere at the back of his mind that she was in trouble and had to be freed.
The mistress of the lake told him that it was Marat who took her by threats and coercion and, when she’d become pregnant, slashed her through the gut - so that his wrongdoing would not be found. It was his fault.
She told him that she took pity on the girl and wished that she could help. But alas, she could not leave the lake, so he must bring the man there. At night, when none would see. When none would be in the fields to hear.
Oh! But how grateful the girl would be to him when he would tell her that Marat had run off in the night - abandoning her all on her own, and Amir would hold her and tell her everything was well and would be okay from then on.
All he must do is bring him to the dock.
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It neared summer solstice. As with the winter celebration, there was a certain feeling about it, and it seemed everyone's moods had greatly improved. The preparations were done days ahead. The pure goodness hung in the air with the smell of baked goods and roasted pig.
Each person was entrusted with a task for the big night.
The farmer’s wife was to brew the teas and compotes, each man would slaughter and roast an animal in oils and herbs, and Val bake the honeyed buns and goat cheese pancakes.
The decorations of the common feast area outside were given to the farmhand’s wife - she adorned the heavy makeshift table and chairs with flowers, wicker baskets full of fruit, and pure white linen cloths.
The pig pens and sheep stalls were near each other, a designated area for preparing the animals between them. A large table stood with a metal basin where the blood would drain. To the side was a wide stone stove where metal barrels of water would be heated for removal of hair and bristles, and a little further off, the metal hooks so the carcasses could be gutted and drained of the remaining blood overnight.
The sheep and pigs needed a day’s time at the very least. And so, Aimak had chosen the best ones not fit for breeding, and the farmhand had put them down. Marat carried the animals into the slaughter room, slitting their throats. Aimak had started the fires in the stoves, and Amir had gone to bring water to fill the barrels.
Amir remained behind a broom in hand when the farmer had gone. His eyes kept on Marat, who was cleaning the blades. Momentarily, he glanced at the butcher's knife stored on the wall. He could not help that some of him felt jealous that the maiden was to deliver his justice.
“They look to be good. Grab the other end.” Marat ordered, picking up the hog. Amir paused momentarily, the commanding tone settling over him and further fueling his rage.
They lifted the pig and set it in one of the boiling barrels - carefully so as not to splash any water around. Next, they grabbed the sheep, but upon lifting it, Amir had let go too early, and boiling water came splashing out between them, fizzing on the floor.
“Pay attention, boy,” Marat muttered, uninterested in Amir’s reaction.
But there was none to speak of, his face was stone-still, and his eyes never left the man as he limped out of the room. Hate smoldered inside him. He did not have a chance to lure the man to the lake, not yet. But he could wait no longer. Each day that passed ate at Amir, and each night’s rest was shorter and shorter. She whispered to him, even now, he could hear it in the boiling water, red with the animals’ blood.
“He taunts you, my love. Why do you let a crippled old fool laugh at you so? Do you not deserve respect? You make such beautiful things - of leather and furs. What has he done? What had he given in return for food and shelter here, my love?”
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The day of, to Val’s surprise, carriages and wagons began arriving. The neighboring farm communities had traveled since the early hours to meet here. As they stopped, they unloaded goods, women, and children. Val marveled as she had not seen this many people in one place in a long, long time. She felt her heart squeeze and tears well up as she watched families and grandparents laughing and hugging, having not seen each other for the majority of the year.
The kids had started with white shirts adorned with red designs - but quickly developed mysterious stains in the colors of the jams and stuffed pastries.
Before the sun even began to set, the bathhouse was heated up and filled with steam.
All were to bathe before the sunset; this was one of the most sacred traditions. First, the women would go in together. Then, the men. In the yard were set barrels full of ice-cold water from the well, and they would baptize themselves in the freezing makeshift barrel baths after the sauna's heat.
Only then could the feast begin.
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