Into the Deep Wood

“Go wait for me in the barn. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t let them see you unless you want to explain why you are drenched in blood and caked in dirt.” He instructed her.

“And you?” Val asked, scanning across him - blood had stained his neck, arm, chest, and back –the still-fresh wounds opening again.

“I’ll grab a bucket by the pig pens; no one will be there this early - not after the festival. We can wash up in it and go from there.” He answered, sizing up the shriveled remains of the beast hanging from the tree. “I see no reason to take her down. Another hour and her bones will wilt away.”

Marat half walked, half ran, as much as his leg allowed him.

He was not well versed in medicines and, hardly knowing what belladonna was, had eaten the whole dried bunch at once - hoping his heart did not stop before he could get to the lake. He also ate another herb but hoped that whatever its effects were, it would not come back to haunt him. He had no wish to spend the day pained in the outhouse - nor did he wish to develop a rash or suddenly go blind.

Although come to think of it, it did look a lot like parsley.

All he’d known was either he would kill or hinder the Rusalka. Well, or perish upon trying. He could only pray to the All-Father that she would take enough of it and that the dose would not kill him as well.

What he did not count on was the boy. Wasn’t he the leather-smith? The scrawny lad had hardly ever worked in the fields - Marat would only really see him at the table. He’d known the girl had been infatuated with him, like children running through the orchards, giggling and thinking no one knew.

And then Aimak had reined in the romance, and she cried staying in bed for days. Marat had felt for the girl. He did. She was naive and likely had no chance at love and loss before she had been imprisoned. She deserved to know what it was like.

However, the loss was harder than she deserved. He never thought of what the self-inflicted injury would mean for her. He knew that it made it pointless for her to be a Golden. But what life did she have now? What opportunity?

In the East and South, the women who could not bear children often became beggars or low servants. They could not nurse the children of the wealthy. They weren’t trusted with the children as the All-Father had deemed them unfit to do so. He’d seen many of these women live and die in poverty. So many of them leveraged their useless womb as whores, but no man would be seen with them outside a brothel.

Marat knew that fate was not for her, not if he could do anything about it.

He’d gotten distracted, thinking about the girl. So much so that when he reached for the buckets stacked next to the pig pens, he did not notice that he was not alone. From inside the butchery, Amir stepped forward. He held the crossbow at his shoulder, ready to fire.

“Marat!” Amir called out to him.

Marat had no intention of running as he faced the stirrup. He stood a full head over Amir, the young man having to aim upward. This child did not know how to line up a shot even so nearby.

Amir held the crossbow with white knuckles. So much rage had flooded and overwhelmed him when he saw the older man walk onto the farm grounds. She made a promise to Amir- and then let Marat go. She lied; they all lied eventually. But he had a chance to right the wrong. He had a chance now to carry out what he had wanted from the beginning.

Marat looked tired and weak. His shoulders slumped, eyelids heavy. He was bloody all over. Amir knew that he had not walked away from the maiden completely intact - regardless of why she had allowed him to live.

“You’d better put that down, boy,” Marat told him, visibly tensing. Amir had taken that for fear.

“You won’t walk away, old man.” He replied, taking a step forward. “ Not that you can hardly walk - I’d taken your leg already! I hope that you enjoyed the festivities, the tea.”

He could not resist it. He wanted Marat to know. He wanted him to know that Amir had been more clever, more tactful and bested him. He wanted Marat to know that it was he. Every misfortune that Marat had suffered here, every lesson taught - it was he.

Marat saw that the boy had held the weapon too high, and the weight of it was too much - his arms already trembled when he spoke. But, he had stood close. And even with the boy’s inexperience, he had a chance to hit. It would not be lethal, but even then, it would take less than a minute to reload. Thankfully, Marat did not need a minute.

But, his words had surprised Marat. He did not take the young leathermaker for a competent schemer. He did not think that it was he who introduced the blue iris into the tea. Had those words not been spoken, Marat would have thought it was a simple mistake - the farmer’s wife picking herbs by the lake, the aromatic flavors of the iris drawing her in.

“You don’t know what you speak of or what you’ve been led to do.” He told Amir. Rusalka would prey on young men often and without discrimination. There was no fight, no chase. No enjoyment for the beast. Just empty heads full of dreams, ready to be filled with thoughts of flesh and inflated senses of their self-importance.

This seemed to get to the boy because his face had reddened, and his eyebrows rose.

“I do know! I’m tired of your prideful words. It’s you that does not know!”

Amir fired. And when it struck Marat’s already bloody shoulder, he fumbled, stepping back to reload. The older man lunged, seemingly unbothered by the wound where the bolt had struck and passed through. Amir jumped back, ending up against the cold stoves inside.

“You’ve made a mistake, boy!” Marat took hold of Amir’s shirt, slamming him, the back of Amir’s head bouncing off the metal. Fear had replaced confidence on his face, and the crossbow dropped. “Had you ended it there, had you let me believe she’d scrambled your brains, I would have seen it fit to let you eat my shit in atonement.”

Marat’s words came in a held-back, hushed tone.

Amir squirmed, and received another shake into the metal barrels.

“You end this, but you let Val go!” He screamed in Marat’s face, “She’s not your property anymore!”

The girl? Was that what it was about for the boy?

Amir howled, kicking, hitting anything he could, but Marat’s grip was too tight.

He threw him to the ground, and the leather maker clawed at the floor until he was on his feet, grabbing the butcher knife off the table. Once, he had envisioned driving it into Marat’s skull, here, on this spot. It was only two days ago. He should have done it then.

He swung, and the swing landed. But it only grazed Marat’s good arm. Amir went forward again, losing his balance but slashing as he stumbled - the butcher’s knife lodging with force into Marat’s leg.

Into his wooden leg.

Marat grabbed the boy by the back of the neck, sending him head first into the sturdy wooden table, the basin laid out for draining animal blood going flying into the corner.

The impact crushed his nose, sending blood spewing across Amir’s face. He tried to save himself from another blow with his outstretched arms.

“Val will never forgive you!” Amir managed to squeeze out a bargain for his life.

“I’d given you a chance, boy, and you fired,” Marat answered, his breaths hard, blood that was either his own or Amir’s, splattered all around them both.

Amir screamed again in anger and exasperation, trying unsuccessfully to twist around and bring the crippled man down. But as he reached, he felt the powerful push upward that landed on the meat hook through his shoulder.

First, the bone-crunching and the connective tissue snap - then his wail tore the air. Marat stood eye to eye with him. The boy suspended a foot above the ground. There was something about the look on the man’s face.

“An eye for an eye,” Marat said quietly, “and if I were a worse man, I’d take your leg as well.”

“Wash, get your stuff, let’s go.” Marat burst into the barn, three times as much blood on him as the last time she saw him, and dropped the bucket of water on the floor with a thud.

“What?” Val could not keep up; his movements hurried. Go where? “Wait….”

He crouched, splashing water into his face, “Get your things, pack them into Erlan’s bag. Let’s go.”

“Marat!” She held her hands up. He had not told her a thing about the Rusalka; he knew how to kill her, and he did not say a word. It was hard to trust what he had to tell her now. “I am not doing a thing more without you telling me what is happening. I am not your dog for you to command! What do you mean ‘let’s go’??”

Water dripped off him, coloring the floor red; he turned to her. His hair was soaked, and his eyes wild. He could not tell her that he’d skewered her boyfriend as a roasted pig on a spit. But they could also not spare a minute. The boy’s screams would get someone’s attention soon if they hadn’t already. He left him hanging unconscious, and the lad would likely die soon. But he’d put up enough of a fight, screeched enough for even the neighboring farms to hear. He would be discovered, and to the outsider’s eye, it would not look so good for Marat.

He stood.

“We’re leaving, girl. Get your things. Get Erlan’s pack. Let’s go.” He repeated himself, the two of them momentarily staring off before she dropped her eyes. He returned to rapidly shoving things into his leather bag.

Val stood with her hands clasped, nervous.

“I don’t want to leave, Marat.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to leave.” She repeated, quieter and not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know why suddenly you do, but I do not wish to. I’m sorry.”

Quiet. She looked up at Marat’s face. He was visibly taken aback, and something else…

Despite his efforts to mask his emotion, there was an unmistakable moment of vulnerability in his expression - he truly did not expect her to say no. And just as fast as it had come, it had disappeared.

“Then, bring me marigold from the main house. And copper rust. Quickly.” His tone was rough but softened slightly as if he caught himself, “Please, girl.”

He pressed on the bloody mess on his shoulder carefully, wincing in pain. He dislodged the remaining splinter of the crossbow bolt with three fingers, seemingly forgotten in there until this moment.

She could not take her eyes off of it, something looming right on the edge of her mind. Suddenly, understanding. Not the details, but something horrible had happened.

She nodded, grabbed a shawl to cover her still-bloody clothing, and slipped out the door.

As she did, he paused, listening to the hinges creak and the sudden silence in the room.

He truly, truly did not expect her to say no.