Format: Hardcover, 432 pages
Release Date: September 20, 2022
Publisher: ACE
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Historical
In this stunning historical fantasy debut, an isolated witch will
risk all that she has to save her country and her people from dangerous
gods and the twisted hearts of men.
In this stunning
debut novel, the maligned and immortal witch of legend known as Baba
Yaga will risk all to her country and her people from Tsar Ivan the
Terrible—and the dangerous gods who seek to drive the twisted hearts of
men.
As a half goddess possessing magic, Yaga is used to living
on her own, her prior entanglements with mortals having led to
heartbreak. She mostly keeps to her hut in the woods, where those in
need of healing seek her out, even as they spread rumors about her
supposed cruelty and wicked spells. But when her old friend
Anastasia—now the wife of the tsar, and suffering from a mysterious
illness—arrives in her forest desperate for her protection, Yaga
realizes the fate of all of Russia is tied to Anastasia’s. Yaga must
step out of the shadows to protect the land she loves.
As she
travels to Moscow, Yaga witnesses a sixteenth-century Russia on the
brink of chaos. Tsar Ivan—soon to become Ivan the Terrible—grows more
volatile and tyrannical by the day, and Yaga believes the tsaritsa is
being poisoned by an unknown enemy. But what Yaga cannot know is that
Ivan is being manipulated by powers far older and more fearsome than
anyone can imagine.
The Witch and The Tsar, by author Olesya Salnikova Gilmore, is the authors debut novel. The story itself takes place in 16th Century Russia from 1560 until 1581. The story weaves a rich
tapestry of mythology and Russian history, reclaiming and reinventing
the infamous Baba Yaga, and bringing to life a vibrant and tumultuous
Russia, where old gods and new tyrants vie for power. This fierce and
compelling novel draws from the timeless lore to create a heroine for
the modern day, fighting to save her country and those she loves from
oppression while also finding her true purpose as a goddess, a witch, a woman, and later a mother.
As a half-goddess possessing magic, Yaga, along with her companions Noch (meaning night) is an owl. Noch specializes in reconnaissance and intel-gathering. Dyen (meaning day) is how Yaga ends up getting around from place to place. Yaga is used
to living on her own, her prior entanglements with mortals having led
to heartbreak. She mostly keeps to her chicken legged hut (Little Hen) built in the woods, where those in
need of healing seek her out, even as they spread rumors about her
supposed cruelty and wicked spells.
to living on her own, her prior entanglements with mortals having led
to heartbreak. She mostly keeps to her chicken legged hut (Little Hen) built in the woods, where those in
need of healing seek her out, even as they spread rumors about her
supposed cruelty and wicked spells.
But when her old friend
Anastasia—now the wife of the Tsar Ivan IV, and suffering from a mysterious
illness—arrives in her forest desperate for her protection, Yaga
realizes the fate of all of Russia is tied to Anastasia’s. Yaga must
step out of the shadows to protect the land she loves. It was Anastasia who was, according to historians, was likely poisoned that ended up pushing Ivan over the edge to become Ivan the Terrible. Yaga witnesses a sixteenth century Russia on the
brink of chaos and destruction of it's people and it's culture.
Anastasia—now the wife of the Tsar Ivan IV, and suffering from a mysterious
illness—arrives in her forest desperate for her protection, Yaga
realizes the fate of all of Russia is tied to Anastasia’s. Yaga must
step out of the shadows to protect the land she loves. It was Anastasia who was, according to historians, was likely poisoned that ended up pushing Ivan over the edge to become Ivan the Terrible. Yaga witnesses a sixteenth century Russia on the
brink of chaos and destruction of it's people and it's culture.
Tsar Ivan—soon to become Ivan the Terrible—grows more
volatile and tyrannical by the day, and Yaga believes the tsaritsa is
being poisoned by an unknown enemy. The tsar has fallen under the influence of a dark-hearted ageless sort, someone Yaga knows. And the game is afoot. But what Yaga cannot know is that
Ivan is also being manipulated by powers far older and more fearsome than
anyone can imagine. Yaga loves her Mother Russia and considers it
her duty to defend her against enemies foreign and domestic.
volatile and tyrannical by the day, and Yaga believes the tsaritsa is
being poisoned by an unknown enemy. The tsar has fallen under the influence of a dark-hearted ageless sort, someone Yaga knows. And the game is afoot. But what Yaga cannot know is that
Ivan is also being manipulated by powers far older and more fearsome than
anyone can imagine. Yaga loves her Mother Russia and considers it
her duty to defend her against enemies foreign and domestic.
Ivan definitely counts among the latter with his later day idea to create an entire new country under his rule with boyars loyal to him along with his son Ivanovich who more or less stands by his father even when he is destroying town after town and killing what is said to be upwards of 60,000. You think Stalin, and Lenin were bad men? Add Ivan the Terrible to that list. Through Baba's eyes, readers discover the brutally of Ivan. Ivan's Oprichnina (the kingdom he carved out
from Russian territory for his own totalitarian use), his oprichniki
(the brutal soldiers who razed countless Russian villages and
oppressed/murdered their inhabitants at Ivan's command)
from Russian territory for his own totalitarian use), his oprichniki
(the brutal soldiers who razed countless Russian villages and
oppressed/murdered their inhabitants at Ivan's command)
The one difference that the authors makes is the introduction of Vasily Alekseyevich Adashev as a love interest. Vasily is written as a warrior, but mortal, which is a problem. It gets complicated since Yaga is allegedly the immortal daughter of a Goddess of Earth. Gilmore, who was born in Russia before coming to the US, has succeeded in making Yaga,
and her companions appealing. The devastation wrought by Ivan and those
driving him provide all the motive force anyone might require to do
everything possible to stop it, which gives us a lot to root for.
and her companions appealing. The devastation wrought by Ivan and those
driving him provide all the motive force anyone might require to do
everything possible to stop it, which gives us a lot to root for.
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1
Late May 1560
When my owl landed on my shoulder, I knew heartbreak was not far behind.
It
was not that twilight tasted different, though on my tongue, the humid
spring air had the bitterness of snowfall. It was that, even this deep
in the Russian forest, dusk bled into the light with infuriating
leisure. The clouds had smothered the last of the sun's rays in scarlet.
Yet day clung on, delaying what mortals intended to find their way to
my izbushka.
The log hut stood on chicken legs, not swaying or
spinning or even pacing, as unnaturally still as me. I usually fidgeted
with impatience, eager for my first client to appear, for my work to
begin. Now, unease wrapped around my throat, silent as a viper.
My
owl could only be here to deliver bad tidings. Like her namesake,
night, Noch came in the company of darkness and shadows. It was then the
mortals arrived with their fevers, skin infections, and stomach
poisons; with the burns from the fires that spread too quickly in their
cramped wooden villages. They did not approach me in the light of day,
even if it was waning. Not unless they brought disaster.
Noch's
bright yellow gaze fixed on me pointedly. She let out a screech loud
enough to reanimate the skulls on the fence encircling my izbushka.
They are here, Ya. Her voice, in the language she spoke, reverberated through my mind, becoming words I could understand.
"Already?" I asked in Russian. Someone was coming. Someone desperate enough to risk being seen. "Who is it?"
What
am I, your servant? You will see. A downy wing brushed against my cheek
teasingly as Noch ascended into the air. But instead of hurling herself
back into the sky, she flew into my hut through the open door, shedding
several dove-gray feathers in her wake.
I picked up a feather,
considering it. My owl never went inside of her own volition, valuing
open sky and freedom above all. I strained my ears and waited for the
first footfall. All I heard was the song of the crickets and the leaves,
rippling in the breeze that had rushed toward me, insistent and oddly
cold. Fluff drifted from the ancient cottonwood trees, settling onto the
wooden steps of my hut like tufts of snow. And I had just cleaned them.
"Come
down, Little Hen," I said to my izbushka, and she obeyed, folding the
chicken legs beneath her so she looked almost like a regular house.
I
tightened my hold on the broom and swept at the steps with renewed
vigor. The hut jerked away, being unbelievably ticklish. The two
shuttered windows, one on either side of the door, glowered at me. Their
red and blue carvings brightened in indignation.
"Hold still, Little Hen," I said, and swept on. But I kept a close eye on the wood beyond the skulls.
My
hut sat in a lush glade surrounded by towering, age-old trees.
Overgrown pines and spruces jostled against starved yet stubbornly
resilient birches. The oaks stood gravely, expansively, ready to pass on
their energy to anyone who asked politely. The wispy grass had grown
knee-high and tangled, the forest floor ripe with mushrooms, wild
strawberries, and violet petals fallen from geraniums in bloom. Out of
this chaos of living things a large man stepped out, all in black, face
obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.
I stilled. "Who goes there?"
The
man halted at the fence, no doubt trying to decide if the skulls there
were human. "Is this the izbushka of Baba Yaga the Bony Leg?"
With
my unease temporarily forgotten, my cheeks flushed with familiar
indignation. Not many dared to say that name to my face. "It is the
izbushka of Yaga."
Fool, I almost added. Do I look like a baba? I
was not a babushka, lying on my stove in the throes of advanced age and
infirmity. Nor was I a hag, a demon, or an illness. Nothing about me
was ill or demonic or old, except the occasional thread of silver in my
wild black hair. My father may have been mortal, but Mother had been a
goddess since before the Christian god had come to Russia. Because of
her immortality, my body had not aged past thirty after centuries on
Earth. I sent a little prayer of thanks up to her.
The man stood
motionless. His features were weathered and very plain, most covered in
coarse black hair, as was the fashion. No outward ailment spelled
disaster. His illness, though, could be of the internal or spiritual
variety, even of a romantic one.
Either way, it was best to put
him at ease, as was my practice with new clients. Those who came for
succor found it in my hut. Healing filled the empty hours of my days,
kept my hands occupied and my mind busy, gave me a sense of purpose. If I
could live among mortals, healing and advising them, I would.
But the legend that clung to me-the legend of Baba Yaga, built on lies and ill will-prevented it.
Afraid
now that he would flee, I reverted back to politeness. "The skulls are
not human," I said softly. This part of me labored tirelessly to
convince the mortals that I was not the Baba Yaga they had heard of,
that I was no human-eater. "Animal bones ward off evil," I added. Near
the skulls, thistle and juniper grew thickly to protect against demons.
His dark eyes narrowed as he drew closer. "Where is she, this Yaga?"
"I am Yaga." Who else could I be?
"Pah!
A fine trick this is, woman!" he blustered. "I have traveled all the
way from Moscow to see the vedma, and I will not be trifled with."
I
had not flinched at the word witch. I had made my peace with it long
ago. But I shuddered at the man's mention of the capital. Though I had
never been there, I knew Moscow was at least a day's ride on horseback.
Whoever came from there did so when their prayers had gone unanswered,
when the mortal healers had thrown up their hands. They came in the
depths of their despair. But this man was not despairing. Quite the
opposite.
"By all accounts," he went on, "Baba Yaga is
practically at death's door, she is so old. Deformed, too, with an iron
nose and a bony leg, fangs for teeth, barely any hair. Yet here you
stand, young enough to be my daughter, claiming to be the crone
herself!"
My cheeks burned. It had not occurred to this
thick-headed muzhik, this idiot of a man, that what he had heard was
nothing more than a rumor. One that was viciously invented and flung out
into the world to reduce any unmarried, reclusive woman to a hag or a
witch.
"You go too far, sir," I said in a hard voice, forgetting
the fear and any attempt at politeness. "You who are in such need that
you seek me out in broad daylight only to ridicule me. Well, good
riddance." I gripped the broom and spun on my heel toward my hut, about
to tell her to stand and take me with her.
"Wait," said the man.
Desperation had crept into his tone. "If I am indeed speaking to the one
whom I seek, then I meant no offense-"
"Even so, you had best be
on your way-" I couldn't help turning to look at him. Now he was
despairing; his face had paled beneath his beard.
"Please-" He raised a hand as if to physically pull me back. "Do not punish my illustrious mistress for my ignorance."
My brow furrowed. "Your mistress?"
The
man gave a solemn nod. He glanced toward the wood and let out a whistle
that shook the very cottonwoods above us. Fluff fell in clumps onto the
hut's steps.
I hardly noticed. On the well-bred white mare
emerging from the trees sat a hooded figure, elegant as only a highborn
woman knew how to be. My eyes caught on the rich velvet of her cream
cloak; the fur trim, odd given the warm weather; the little bejeweled
fingers gripping the reins. A pull on the hood revealed a headdress
encrusted in bloodred rubies, then the face beneath, thin and drawn,
cold as marble.
Though it had been years since we had last seen
each other, I would have recognized her anywhere. It was Anastasia
Romanovna Zakharyina-Yurieva-the tsaritsa and wife of Tsar Ivan IV of
Russia. But what was Anastasia doing here? Nothing short of disaster
could have compelled the tsaritsa to risk her reputation by seeking out a
reclusive witch.
Indeed, she was a shadow of the rosy-cheeked
maiden who had come to my izbushka more than a decade ago, on the cusp
of greatness, days away from the bridal show that would catapult her
into royalty. The viper of unease tightened around my throat. That girl
was gone. Here was a wraith at death's door. This day had brought
heartbreak. I could see the tsaritsa's situation was not just
disastrous; it threatened her very life.
2
Leaving the
guard to keep watch outside, I ushered the tsaritsa into the darkened
innards of my hut. Little Hen was used to clients coming and going and
usually behaved herself enough by staying low to the ground so as not to
frighten anyone. I hastily lit a few stubby beeswax candles. The scent
of burning honey filled the air as I turned back to my royal visitor,
swallowing hard.
Her tears had dried, her dull brown eyes taking
on a chillingly distant look. Where were the flecks of gold, the quick
wit, the uncharacteristic warmth of someone of her social standing? Her
vibrancy was gone. Her skirts rustled like dried-up leaves as she sank
onto the stool I offered her with the tired, defeated air of one who
wishes never to rise again.
A few wandering chickens clucked at
my feet. Noch hooted from a shadowy corner. The tsaritsa probably found
this-me-uncivilized, disgustingly rustic, even.
But she only said, "It has been months. The doctors do not know what it is. I do." She struggled out of her cloak. "I am dying."
The
bell-sleeved, flower-patterned letnik gown dragged her down as if
bloated with seawater. A little shiver darted up my spine, almost
prompting me to ask the tsaritsa how many dresses she wore. For wealthy
women, it was customarily a minimum of three. But it was clear it was
not the dresses plaguing her.
There was sweat on her brow, a
redness at her mouth and eyes, though her skin was missing the telltale
blotches and swellings of pestilence. An internal imbalance was
possible, but those were the hardest to heal. An illness of the mind or
spirit? Stooping under the dry herbs and flowers hanging from the
slanted ceiling, I crossed the room to an iron cauldron bubbling over a
fire that never went out. Iron possessed mystical and protective powers.
"It has been some time since you visited me," I said slowly, brushing aside a purple lavender blossom. "Thirteen years?"
"With the wedding, I . . ."
"I
have heard weddings eat into time like moths. What about after? I
tended to your family for years. To be forgotten so quickly by you and
your mother was quite the revelation." I bent over the cauldron and
ladled out hot water into a bowl fashioned from bone. Steam billowed
into my face as I flushed with resentment. Or maybe disappointment.
How
would the great Earth Goddess Mokosh feel about such neglect? I thought
about my beloved mother, the protector of women-of their work and
destiny, the birth of their children. I glanced up at her symbol, the
wooden horse's head hanging above the cauldron.
We provide succor
regardless of wounded pride, she had once told me. Pride is an illusion
and the path to conceit. Gods may be guilty of it, Yaga, but not you.
But
our gods, the ancient ones born of the Universe, had been worshipped
then. While Mokosh had not spoken of it, tales say she helped to create
the Earth with Perun, the Supreme God and Lord of the Heavens, and many
other gods besides. Perun forged the sky with his thunderbolts; Mokosh
gave birth to the land. Her spindle spun the cloth of humanity, thread
by thread, woman by woman, life to death, generation after generation.
She was Moist Earth, mother of all living things and my actual mother.
Eventually,
mortals began to worship the Christian god. While some believed in the
old gods as well as him, I doubted the tsaritsa was of their number,
living as she did in the center of the Orthodox Christian faith in
Russia. Yet before her ascent to the court, she had gladly partaken of
what infuriatingly limited talents I had inherited from Mokosh.
"I
made you a tsaritsa," I said. "I provided your mother with the herbs
and charms that got the court to take notice of a dead aristocrat's
daughter. Or have you forgotten?"
The tsaritsa stared into my
too-light blue eyes, at my unbraided hair and exposed browned arms. They
were covered in pictures inked into my skin-of suns and moons and
stars, of living things. Perhaps she assumed the nails and teeth
studding the belt on my tunic were human.
To my surprise, she
said, "Of course I remember." Then she swept off her stool and knelt at
my feet. "Yagusynka, I do not fear death. I fear what would happen to
the tsar and to my sons, especially to our heir, Tsarevich Ivanushka, if
I were to die. I am desperate for your counsel." Her voice was soft,
charged with emotion.
The heat left my face. It was so like her
to fear not for herself but for others. Rumor had it that marriage had
tamed the tsar's naturally violent ways, that his tsaritsa restrained
his worst impulses. Her intelligence and faith guided him. If something
were to happen to her, it would not just be her sons who suffered. It
would be Russia and her people.
"I am providing you counsel, am I
not?" This was said tartly but with a twinkle of good humor. I did not
hold on to anger for very long. And I was remembering not Anastasia's
neglect but her. Mother had been right. This was not about my pride,
wounded though it may have been. This was about Russia's tsaritsa, about
Anastasia herself, the girl I had known.
In the hut's only room,
an oak table was wedged against the window adjacent to the brick,
flat-topped pech oven where I prepared my potions and salves, performed
my rituals, cooked my meals, even slept.
I beckoned the tsaritsa
over to the table and bade her to hold a wire dowsing rod over a bowl of
water. But when she did, it did not stir. This meant there was no
illness of mind or spirit.
Late May 1560
When my owl landed on my shoulder, I knew heartbreak was not far behind.
It
was not that twilight tasted different, though on my tongue, the humid
spring air had the bitterness of snowfall. It was that, even this deep
in the Russian forest, dusk bled into the light with infuriating
leisure. The clouds had smothered the last of the sun's rays in scarlet.
Yet day clung on, delaying what mortals intended to find their way to
my izbushka.
The log hut stood on chicken legs, not swaying or
spinning or even pacing, as unnaturally still as me. I usually fidgeted
with impatience, eager for my first client to appear, for my work to
begin. Now, unease wrapped around my throat, silent as a viper.
My
owl could only be here to deliver bad tidings. Like her namesake,
night, Noch came in the company of darkness and shadows. It was then the
mortals arrived with their fevers, skin infections, and stomach
poisons; with the burns from the fires that spread too quickly in their
cramped wooden villages. They did not approach me in the light of day,
even if it was waning. Not unless they brought disaster.
Noch's
bright yellow gaze fixed on me pointedly. She let out a screech loud
enough to reanimate the skulls on the fence encircling my izbushka.
They are here, Ya. Her voice, in the language she spoke, reverberated through my mind, becoming words I could understand.
"Already?" I asked in Russian. Someone was coming. Someone desperate enough to risk being seen. "Who is it?"
What
am I, your servant? You will see. A downy wing brushed against my cheek
teasingly as Noch ascended into the air. But instead of hurling herself
back into the sky, she flew into my hut through the open door, shedding
several dove-gray feathers in her wake.
I picked up a feather,
considering it. My owl never went inside of her own volition, valuing
open sky and freedom above all. I strained my ears and waited for the
first footfall. All I heard was the song of the crickets and the leaves,
rippling in the breeze that had rushed toward me, insistent and oddly
cold. Fluff drifted from the ancient cottonwood trees, settling onto the
wooden steps of my hut like tufts of snow. And I had just cleaned them.
"Come
down, Little Hen," I said to my izbushka, and she obeyed, folding the
chicken legs beneath her so she looked almost like a regular house.
I
tightened my hold on the broom and swept at the steps with renewed
vigor. The hut jerked away, being unbelievably ticklish. The two
shuttered windows, one on either side of the door, glowered at me. Their
red and blue carvings brightened in indignation.
"Hold still, Little Hen," I said, and swept on. But I kept a close eye on the wood beyond the skulls.
My
hut sat in a lush glade surrounded by towering, age-old trees.
Overgrown pines and spruces jostled against starved yet stubbornly
resilient birches. The oaks stood gravely, expansively, ready to pass on
their energy to anyone who asked politely. The wispy grass had grown
knee-high and tangled, the forest floor ripe with mushrooms, wild
strawberries, and violet petals fallen from geraniums in bloom. Out of
this chaos of living things a large man stepped out, all in black, face
obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.
I stilled. "Who goes there?"
The
man halted at the fence, no doubt trying to decide if the skulls there
were human. "Is this the izbushka of Baba Yaga the Bony Leg?"
With
my unease temporarily forgotten, my cheeks flushed with familiar
indignation. Not many dared to say that name to my face. "It is the
izbushka of Yaga."
Fool, I almost added. Do I look like a baba? I
was not a babushka, lying on my stove in the throes of advanced age and
infirmity. Nor was I a hag, a demon, or an illness. Nothing about me
was ill or demonic or old, except the occasional thread of silver in my
wild black hair. My father may have been mortal, but Mother had been a
goddess since before the Christian god had come to Russia. Because of
her immortality, my body had not aged past thirty after centuries on
Earth. I sent a little prayer of thanks up to her.
The man stood
motionless. His features were weathered and very plain, most covered in
coarse black hair, as was the fashion. No outward ailment spelled
disaster. His illness, though, could be of the internal or spiritual
variety, even of a romantic one.
Either way, it was best to put
him at ease, as was my practice with new clients. Those who came for
succor found it in my hut. Healing filled the empty hours of my days,
kept my hands occupied and my mind busy, gave me a sense of purpose. If I
could live among mortals, healing and advising them, I would.
But the legend that clung to me-the legend of Baba Yaga, built on lies and ill will-prevented it.
Afraid
now that he would flee, I reverted back to politeness. "The skulls are
not human," I said softly. This part of me labored tirelessly to
convince the mortals that I was not the Baba Yaga they had heard of,
that I was no human-eater. "Animal bones ward off evil," I added. Near
the skulls, thistle and juniper grew thickly to protect against demons.
His dark eyes narrowed as he drew closer. "Where is she, this Yaga?"
"I am Yaga." Who else could I be?
"Pah!
A fine trick this is, woman!" he blustered. "I have traveled all the
way from Moscow to see the vedma, and I will not be trifled with."
I
had not flinched at the word witch. I had made my peace with it long
ago. But I shuddered at the man's mention of the capital. Though I had
never been there, I knew Moscow was at least a day's ride on horseback.
Whoever came from there did so when their prayers had gone unanswered,
when the mortal healers had thrown up their hands. They came in the
depths of their despair. But this man was not despairing. Quite the
opposite.
"By all accounts," he went on, "Baba Yaga is
practically at death's door, she is so old. Deformed, too, with an iron
nose and a bony leg, fangs for teeth, barely any hair. Yet here you
stand, young enough to be my daughter, claiming to be the crone
herself!"
My cheeks burned. It had not occurred to this
thick-headed muzhik, this idiot of a man, that what he had heard was
nothing more than a rumor. One that was viciously invented and flung out
into the world to reduce any unmarried, reclusive woman to a hag or a
witch.
"You go too far, sir," I said in a hard voice, forgetting
the fear and any attempt at politeness. "You who are in such need that
you seek me out in broad daylight only to ridicule me. Well, good
riddance." I gripped the broom and spun on my heel toward my hut, about
to tell her to stand and take me with her.
"Wait," said the man.
Desperation had crept into his tone. "If I am indeed speaking to the one
whom I seek, then I meant no offense-"
"Even so, you had best be
on your way-" I couldn't help turning to look at him. Now he was
despairing; his face had paled beneath his beard.
"Please-" He raised a hand as if to physically pull me back. "Do not punish my illustrious mistress for my ignorance."
My brow furrowed. "Your mistress?"
The
man gave a solemn nod. He glanced toward the wood and let out a whistle
that shook the very cottonwoods above us. Fluff fell in clumps onto the
hut's steps.
I hardly noticed. On the well-bred white mare
emerging from the trees sat a hooded figure, elegant as only a highborn
woman knew how to be. My eyes caught on the rich velvet of her cream
cloak; the fur trim, odd given the warm weather; the little bejeweled
fingers gripping the reins. A pull on the hood revealed a headdress
encrusted in bloodred rubies, then the face beneath, thin and drawn,
cold as marble.
Though it had been years since we had last seen
each other, I would have recognized her anywhere. It was Anastasia
Romanovna Zakharyina-Yurieva-the tsaritsa and wife of Tsar Ivan IV of
Russia. But what was Anastasia doing here? Nothing short of disaster
could have compelled the tsaritsa to risk her reputation by seeking out a
reclusive witch.
Indeed, she was a shadow of the rosy-cheeked
maiden who had come to my izbushka more than a decade ago, on the cusp
of greatness, days away from the bridal show that would catapult her
into royalty. The viper of unease tightened around my throat. That girl
was gone. Here was a wraith at death's door. This day had brought
heartbreak. I could see the tsaritsa's situation was not just
disastrous; it threatened her very life.
2
Leaving the
guard to keep watch outside, I ushered the tsaritsa into the darkened
innards of my hut. Little Hen was used to clients coming and going and
usually behaved herself enough by staying low to the ground so as not to
frighten anyone. I hastily lit a few stubby beeswax candles. The scent
of burning honey filled the air as I turned back to my royal visitor,
swallowing hard.
Her tears had dried, her dull brown eyes taking
on a chillingly distant look. Where were the flecks of gold, the quick
wit, the uncharacteristic warmth of someone of her social standing? Her
vibrancy was gone. Her skirts rustled like dried-up leaves as she sank
onto the stool I offered her with the tired, defeated air of one who
wishes never to rise again.
A few wandering chickens clucked at
my feet. Noch hooted from a shadowy corner. The tsaritsa probably found
this-me-uncivilized, disgustingly rustic, even.
But she only said, "It has been months. The doctors do not know what it is. I do." She struggled out of her cloak. "I am dying."
The
bell-sleeved, flower-patterned letnik gown dragged her down as if
bloated with seawater. A little shiver darted up my spine, almost
prompting me to ask the tsaritsa how many dresses she wore. For wealthy
women, it was customarily a minimum of three. But it was clear it was
not the dresses plaguing her.
There was sweat on her brow, a
redness at her mouth and eyes, though her skin was missing the telltale
blotches and swellings of pestilence. An internal imbalance was
possible, but those were the hardest to heal. An illness of the mind or
spirit? Stooping under the dry herbs and flowers hanging from the
slanted ceiling, I crossed the room to an iron cauldron bubbling over a
fire that never went out. Iron possessed mystical and protective powers.
"It has been some time since you visited me," I said slowly, brushing aside a purple lavender blossom. "Thirteen years?"
"With the wedding, I . . ."
"I
have heard weddings eat into time like moths. What about after? I
tended to your family for years. To be forgotten so quickly by you and
your mother was quite the revelation." I bent over the cauldron and
ladled out hot water into a bowl fashioned from bone. Steam billowed
into my face as I flushed with resentment. Or maybe disappointment.
How
would the great Earth Goddess Mokosh feel about such neglect? I thought
about my beloved mother, the protector of women-of their work and
destiny, the birth of their children. I glanced up at her symbol, the
wooden horse's head hanging above the cauldron.
We provide succor
regardless of wounded pride, she had once told me. Pride is an illusion
and the path to conceit. Gods may be guilty of it, Yaga, but not you.
But
our gods, the ancient ones born of the Universe, had been worshipped
then. While Mokosh had not spoken of it, tales say she helped to create
the Earth with Perun, the Supreme God and Lord of the Heavens, and many
other gods besides. Perun forged the sky with his thunderbolts; Mokosh
gave birth to the land. Her spindle spun the cloth of humanity, thread
by thread, woman by woman, life to death, generation after generation.
She was Moist Earth, mother of all living things and my actual mother.
Eventually,
mortals began to worship the Christian god. While some believed in the
old gods as well as him, I doubted the tsaritsa was of their number,
living as she did in the center of the Orthodox Christian faith in
Russia. Yet before her ascent to the court, she had gladly partaken of
what infuriatingly limited talents I had inherited from Mokosh.
"I
made you a tsaritsa," I said. "I provided your mother with the herbs
and charms that got the court to take notice of a dead aristocrat's
daughter. Or have you forgotten?"
The tsaritsa stared into my
too-light blue eyes, at my unbraided hair and exposed browned arms. They
were covered in pictures inked into my skin-of suns and moons and
stars, of living things. Perhaps she assumed the nails and teeth
studding the belt on my tunic were human.
To my surprise, she
said, "Of course I remember." Then she swept off her stool and knelt at
my feet. "Yagusynka, I do not fear death. I fear what would happen to
the tsar and to my sons, especially to our heir, Tsarevich Ivanushka, if
I were to die. I am desperate for your counsel." Her voice was soft,
charged with emotion.
The heat left my face. It was so like her
to fear not for herself but for others. Rumor had it that marriage had
tamed the tsar's naturally violent ways, that his tsaritsa restrained
his worst impulses. Her intelligence and faith guided him. If something
were to happen to her, it would not just be her sons who suffered. It
would be Russia and her people.
"I am providing you counsel, am I
not?" This was said tartly but with a twinkle of good humor. I did not
hold on to anger for very long. And I was remembering not Anastasia's
neglect but her. Mother had been right. This was not about my pride,
wounded though it may have been. This was about Russia's tsaritsa, about
Anastasia herself, the girl I had known.
In the hut's only room,
an oak table was wedged against the window adjacent to the brick,
flat-topped pech oven where I prepared my potions and salves, performed
my rituals, cooked my meals, even slept.
I beckoned the tsaritsa
over to the table and bade her to hold a wire dowsing rod over a bowl of
water. But when she did, it did not stir. This meant there was no
illness of mind or spirit.
