Bitter and Dark

Her hair was on fire.

Her entire scalp burned and itched, and Emily kept throwing her head back and forth, trying to make it stop. Her father had plastered something on her hair, something thick and rust-brown that smelled like the strange powders he kept in his workshop. At first it had tingled, then it had itched, and now … now it burned. It burned like swarming stinging bees, like fire. They were in the barn, and Emily sat on a wooden chair, tilted back over a tub of foul-smelling water. Emily shrieked and squirmed in her chair, but her father held her shoulders hard against the wood. She kicked against him, screaming, crying.

“It burns, Da! Oh, Da … it burns!”

“Oh, Emilichka. Shush, devuchka. I’m so sorry.”

Emily screamed angrily, tears of pain and rage streaming from her eyes. Her father reached up to brush them away.

“It must stay on for a few minutes yet,” her father murmured, gentle but implacable. “Only a few minutes, Emilichka. Shush now, shush. And I will tell you a story. Do you want to hear a story?”

Emily gritted her teeth and stared at her father, hating him. She snuffled, and tears continued to streak down her cheeks. She began kicking her heel rhythmically against the leg of the chair, and the feeling of the back of her ankle connecting with the hard wood was comforting. It didn’t hurt as much as the burning, but it hurt enough. Thump, thump, thump.

“I will tell you a story about a Witch,” her father said, his voice rich and slow. “You know Witches are distasteful creatures, ugly and hideous. But they can be very powerful.”

Thump, thump, thump. Emily did not want to hear about Witches. She wanted this horrible stuff off of her head. She wanted to reach up and stomp out the fire with her hands. She whimpered as her father held her hands down tight against her sides.

“Now, listen. Listen. Once upon a time, long ago, the God of Oaths was being chased by demons who wished to steal the heart of his one true love. He kept her heart locked in a box made of gold and silver, and he kept it with him always—”

“Didn’t she need it?” Emily said. Her father smiled, reached up to rub another tear that was trickling down the side of her nose.

“He was keeping it safe for her,” her father said. “He had sworn to do this. It was his greatest oath, his greatest promise. That he would keep it safe for her and that he would never let it be broken. So he kept it locked in a box made of gold and silver. But the demons wanted to steal it. They wanted to tear it into a million pieces and make the God of Oaths break the greatest oath he had ever made, so he would not be the God of Oaths anymore. He would just be a man, pathetic and forsworn.”

Thump, thump, thump. Emily didn’t know what forsworn meant, but she figured it meant something bad. Bad like the full moon, bad like the five days, bad like the fire that was sizzling her skin …

“Da, how much longer?” she wailed. “Two minutes?”

“Two minutes, kapusta.” Little cabbage.

Emily wrinkled her nose. “I hate cabbage,” she snuffled.

“Listen. The God of Oaths. He was wandering in a wood, and the demons were hard on his trail. They were closing in around him, foul creatures with black teeth like razors and claws like the sharpest knives. He came to a cabin in the woods, a queer little cabin that sat right up on four chicken legs.”

Emily tried to imagine it. “Chicken legs?”

“In this cabin lived a Witch named Baba-Yaga. She was a nasty, wrinkled old creature who always cooked cabbage, and sometimes cooked little girls, too. But she was powerful, and the God of Oaths had no choice but to ask for her help. The demons were coming to tear the heart of his true love into a million pieces. Even gods need help sometimes.”

“What did she do?”

“She let down her hair,” Emily’s father said simply. “Her long hair tumbled all around her body, and in it she hid the box made of gold and silver that contained the heart of the God of Oaths’ one true love. When the demons came, they could not find it.”

Emily wrinkled her nose at her father.

“How could she hide a whole box in her hair?” Emily demanded angrily. It was the stupidest story she’d ever heard. She wanted to hear how the God of Oaths had battled the demons, sent them running away, made them go and never bother him again. She would have liked that story. “You can’t hide a whole box in your hair. Even Mama’s hair, and her hair is so long!”

“Things can be hidden in strange places,” her father said softly, as he lifted a jug of clean water. He laid her back over the tub, poured the water over her head. “There we are, kapusta. All done. It will feel better soon.”

The cool water played over her scalp, washing away the fire, washing away the pain.

Wagons.

It was autumn, and the leaves were orange and yellow. It was cold, and they were riding in wagons with men Emily did not know, across mountains that glowed blue with snow.

Father was not there.

She wanted him. She wanted him so badly, to hold her in his warm arms and smile at her and talk to her in Russian. But she knew she could not ask for him. She knew that she could never ask for her father ever again.

Mama was there, swaying with the rocking of the wagon, her eyes dead and flat. She was so tired all the time, so tired and heavy and slow. She kept drinking something, something that made her eyes like plates. Emily sometimes snuck looks at the bottle her mother drank from. She would look at the bottle and try to sound out the word written on its brown paper label.

Morphia.

She could not imagine how it sounded. But whatever was in the little bottle made the five days better. It dulled the edge of the full moon like a knife rubbed against a rock. When they were with the men in the wagons, Emily could hide when the moon made the sky glow, when Mama started to yell and break things. Emily could hide, and the men would hide her, let her sleep curled under canvas blankets and feed sacks.

But after a while they did not ride with the men in the wagons anymore. They went their own way, and they came to a cold, wild place, and the round moon stared down at them, and Emily was all alone.

“What did he tell you?” Mama’s eyes were like marbles, glassy and hard. She shook Emily, and Emily thought that she would rattle to pieces. She closed her eyes, letting herself be shaken, because there was nothing else she could do. “He wanted to destroy magic. He wanted to destroy us. He wanted to destroy me!”

Her mother threw her down, fell on her with fists. Emily whimpered, putting her arms up. “Tell me, you stupid little brat! Tell me or I’ll kill you, I swear, I will kill you like—”

The fists stopped. Something came across Mama’s face, something like tears and fury seen in a mirror. She staggered back, holding her own hands. Holding them down hard.

“Run, Emily!” her mother whispered. “Run and hide, Emily. Run and hide! Stay quiet! Stay quiet!”

Emily ran, her small legs shaking and weak. Her face ached where her mother’s fists had hit her. She ran, not knowing where to go. She remembered Volos, the God of Oaths, running through the woods with demons chasing him. Demons with black teeth like razors and claws like the sharpest knives. She did not find a cabin with chicken legs. But she found a thicket of blackberry bushes that scratched her, tore at her skin and her dress, and she climbed deep within them, curling her arms around her knees, staying quiet, hoping that trembling did not make a noise, hoping that her wildly beating heart wasn’t too loud.

Quiet. She had to be quiet.

Mama did not come looking for her for a while, but finally her voice called on the beams of moonlight:

“Emily …”

Emily tightened her arms around herself, quaking. She hid her eyes behind her knees, squeezing them tight. She heard her mother shuffling through the underbrush, cracking twigs, her footsteps heavy and slow.

“Emily …” Mama’s voice, sweet and honeyed and poisonous. “Come out now, Emily.”

Emily did not move. Five days. Five whole days, the sun had to rise and set.

“Come out, you miserable little brat. Come out or I’ll leave you here. I’ll leave you out here all alone. All alone with the wild animals. They’ll tear your guts out with their sharp teeth. They’ll eat your bones, and there’ll be nothing left of you. Come out, Emily. Come out and tell me. Tell me what you know, and I won’t hurt you. I promise you, sweetling, I won’t hurt you …”

But Emily knew that Mama would hurt her. She would hurt her if she ever told what her father had told her. She would kill her. She would kill her like …

Kill her like …

The light of the full moon streamed through the windows of the kitchen.

Mama with the knife in her hand, gleaming. The big knife, the butcher’s knife she used to hack bones to make soup.

“Stop it, Catherine! Fight him. For God’s sake, fight him—”

Father’s arms around her, holding her close. Father watching Mama, watching the knife in her hand.

“I read your papers, Lyakhov.” Mama’s voice, flat and old. Her eyes like scratched glass. “You think you can keep the woman drugged up on morphia all the time? I control her more than you know. What she knows, I know. I read your papers. I know what you’re going to do. And I’m not going to let you.”

“I swear to you, I won’t let her die.” Father’s voice, desperate. “I swear to you, Cowdray. You don’t understand … there’s another way!”

“Lies!”

Mama struck out with the knife; Father pulled back, wrapping himself tightly around Emily. Mama took another step forward, but Father reached for the large table—the table on which Emily had watched her mother’s hands kneading bread. He pulled it to the floor with a crash, crouching behind it.

“Catherine.” Father’s voice was low, pleading. “Please. I beg you. Don’t let him.”

Mama stopped her approach. She put her hands up to her face, swaying slightly. She moaned—a tight miserable sound. Father threw Emily out of his arms, sending her tumbling toward the door. He jumped to his feet, jumped toward Mama, his hands coming up to grab her wrists. He wrestled her backward against the dry sink, using the weight of his body to hold her. She fought against him wildly, screaming, the knife still clenched in her hand.

“I won’t let you, Lyakhov! I won’t let you give them the poison. I won’t let you kill me—” The knife flashed down, sinking into Father’s shoulder. He grunted, staggered; the knife flashed down again, finding his throat. Blood gushed over Mama’s hands, over her wrists, over the white apron that covered her dress.

The knife came down again and again. Father slumped forward, falling to the floor, his hands scrabbling for something. He made a terrible sound deep in his chest, and blood came out of his mouth, spilling across the floor, flooding the entire world …