Feast of the Mother

CHAPTER 1

Hiding was always more difficult at this time of year. The tall golden fields of wheat, oats, and rye had been reaped, and their barren starkness offered no concealment—to her especially. To her great misfortune, otherness crowned her as conspicuously as a wedding wreath, if not the least bit as happily.

But at least she had this, from between the leaves a view of the world outside—or a glimpse, anyway. If she wasn’t home by dark, Mama would take the woven willow switch to her again, but she’d be home with time to spare. Just a little detour from gathering ingredients wouldn’t hurt.

Careful not to step on the pots of honey or aged loaves of bread, Brygida leaned out from behind the enormous border oak, its living tree flesh struck and sundered by almighty Perun’s bright lightning. In the distance, a bearish man crept beside his house, plunging a brush none too gently into a bucket of whitewash. Beneath the blue-painted frame of a window, he stained the side of the oaken wall with dots, flashes of precious gems and metals glinting on his fingers in the high-noon sun like blades.

One of their customs—she’d seen it before. It was late in the season to announce a marriageable daughter to the village, so close as it was to the Feast of the Mother, but at least this man’s daughter would have a chance at her fall, a chance to choose someone to share in her life. She’d dance tomorrow night at the feast, plait the wreath of rue, make offerings at the shrine, and celebrate with other young women and the entire village. Together.

No chance of that in the wood.

The wind plowed along the harvested grassland, bending the stubbled fields toward the trees. Clutching the vial of Mroczne lake water at her neck, Brygida turned away, leaning against the Perun-struck oak with a wistful sigh. Such was not the destiny of Mrok witches like her, the women of the lake, who did not want the village and whom the village did not want. The oaks were their villagers and the craft their bridegroom, the lake their shrine and their offerings beneath the moon.

Mama and Mamusia had each other, of course, and liked it that way, but who was there for her?

No one lived in the wood other than her and her mothers, the Mrok witches. For the rest of her life, there would probably be no one else, and her mothers had made it as clear as Skawa river water that not only was she not allowed in the village, but no one would ever want her there.

With a deep breath, she pushed off from the oak and receded into the wood. In the village of Czarnobrzeg, the reaping was ending, and tomorrow a well-earned rest and celebration would follow, but at the Mrok cottage, there was always work to be done.

There was time enough to pick the honeysuckle and the ramsthorn as Mama had told her to, but she’d already spent too long at the border. Neither of her mothers would approve, and there was the switch to consider. She flinched.

The luscious twilight-blooming flowers of the honeysuckle grew along the outskirts of the wood, but their sweet fragrance greeted her long before the contrast of light-colored petals showed among the trinities of deep-green leaves. That enticing scent was but a taste of the delight honeysuckle offered, something Mamusia had shown her long, long ago… and now probably regretted she had.

Only a moment. It would take only a moment and no longer, wouldn’t it? Where was the harm?

With an impish grin to herself, Brygida picked a flower off the vine and pinched hard enough to break through the smooth petal. Slowly, she pulled on the end of the flower and guided all the delicious nectar to collect in a droplet at the end. Her mouth watered as she brought it to her lips and savored the sweet treat on her tongue. She helped herself to a few more, and only stopped to leave some for the hummingbirds.

With no one but her mothers to talk to, these simple pleasures had been the rays of sunshine in her day-to-day life. As a little girl, she’d spent hours with Mamusia at these shrubs, laughing and playing and suckling the honey-sweet nectar of these flowers. But around the Feast of the Mother, when all of Czarnobrzeg celebrated, Mamusia always became uncharacteristically sullen, no matter the forced smiles she wore.

Brygida gathered some of the flowers, just enough, and tucked them into her apron. She would be seventeen tomorrow on the autumnal equinox, and considering Mamusia never spoke of Brygida’s father, there was little doubt as to why her demeanor darkened at this time every year. Something had happened to him, or to her, or perhaps to them both, but it had to have been a long time ago, for there wasn’t a single memory Brygida had of him.

Perhaps these herbs were for Mamusia. An elegant water distilled from the blooms made an effective remedy for nervous headaches, and with enough to see her through this moon, at least she’d have an easier time of it.

The honeyed high-noon sunlight had long faded, and she had to return to the cottage before dark. Little time remained, so she needed to hurry.

Deeper into the wood, the myrtle shrubs, quatrefoil, and wild currant sprawled through the undergrowth, with the quatrefoil’s black crow’s-eye berries abundant. Poisonous as the worst of snakes. Everyone avoided touching them or the black currant for fear of mistaking the two. But she was a Mrok witch on her witchlands; every bit of this place was home to her, and its secrets spoke to her. She plucked the black currant as she passed, the tartness cutting the sugary honeysuckle nectar in her mouth.

A hedgehog greeted her shyly among the ferns, and as she flowed carefully around him, a ladybug landed on her hand. It was late in the year to see one, but it was always a merry meeting. Tiny fairies glowed not far away, flitting and fussing amongst the rare prickly gooseberry shrubs. Perhaps there would’ve been a fruit or two left if she hadn’t picked this one clean days ago.

With an apologetic wince, she approached with currant berries in her outstretched hand. In a flurry, the fairies flew in, each group gathering a single berry together. Let it never be said family didn’t help each other. They dug in, and hopefully all was forgiven about the gooseberries.

The wood had slept well for as long as she could remember; its manifestations were dreams and not nightmares as the Mrok grimoire warned, and Holy Mokosza willing, it would so remain. Quiet, undisturbed, dreaming. Fairies, too, thrived in a healthy wood but feared the village folk, who feared them as much in turn. At the slightest proximity, they’d hide, just as she did.

But no villagers wandered the wood, especially not when there was a harvest wreath to be crafted, a last sheaf of grain to be gathered, preparations for tomorrow’s feast to be made. If there was but a moment in Czarnobrzeg tonight to take a breath, even Great Mother Mokosza herself would topple her loom in surprise.

The ramsthorn yet awaited—another poisonous plant, and odorous to be sure. Mamusia sometimes used it to make a marshy-green pigment for writing in her grimoire.

Past a cloud of ephemeral dream-ghosts, Brygida moved toward the lake, the group of fairies flying alongside her as they usually did when it was just her, Mama, or Mamusia.

Not far from the shore, the fairies chimed in tune around Brygida’s shoulders, but a familiar song gave her pause, one the village girls sang when no suitors approached their fathers.

And... beneath their chime was her own voice. She’d been singing it to herself. My fall has not yet arrived.

Silliness. Her fall would never arrive, as every Mrok witch well knew. Witches never married. There would never be anyone for her, and nothing but the wood. She loved her home, so… she would have to make peace with it. The village was too dangerous anyway and, as Mama had said many times, didn’t want her there.

Please don’t stop on my account, a masculine voice offered.

CHAPTER 2

The fairies fled, bolted in myriad directions among leaves and trees. Brygida spun toward the voice, which carried across lilac bushes and ramsthorn shrubs before the black glass surface of the lake.

A young man stood before a wooden stand of some kind. His light-blond hair was disheveled, tousled by either his paint-speckled hand or that of the wind. His broad shoulders tapered down a long, lean frame to narrow hips.

Her gaze dropped to the sword belted at his waist. A warrior? Who else would dare venture here, to her lake, to her witchlands, to ancient Iga Mrok’s grave and home, where worship and vengeance slumbered beneath the water?

None but witches and the occasional monster hunter walked here, or warriors who did not yet understand whom they pursued.

Was this—was this a village man? The danger Mama had always warned her about?

Her fingers clutched the vial of lake water at her neck. If he posed a risk, she had but to venture into the Mroczne waters to be at her full power.

As his gaze followed her line of sight all the way to his sword, his eyes widened. Slow as moonrise, he reached for the weapon, untied it from his belt, and set the sheathed blade on the ground.

Friend, he enunciated slowly and loudly, holding his hands palm up. Not here to—he shook his head—hurt you. He indicated the sword upon the ground and pushed it farther away with his booted foot.

With an exasperated breath, she crossed her arms. I’m not deaf. Nor am I ignorant of the common tongue.

His mouth curved in a half-smile. He tilted his head and raised a pale eyebrow. My mistake. Forgive me.

Mama had warned her about the manipulations of men, most especially village men, and she wasn’t about to trust his honeyed voice or exaggerated gestures just because he had a handsome face.

What are you doing here? she demanded.

He tipped his head toward the wooden frame, upon which sat a board of some kind.

Squinting, she could discern a few splotches of color… No, the silvery glass-like surface of the lake, the greenery of the ramsthorn, grasses, and hints of lilac blooms beneath a blue-gray sky.

Foliage crunched beneath her boots as she neared, the image coming into focus. It was vibrant, more beautiful than any drawing she’d ever seen.

Mamusia had taught her to make pigments and paints, and together, they’d painted flowers inside the cottage, on the walls, on the doors, even on the shelves in the cellar. But never anything like this.

It’s not finished, he said abruptly, eyeing her with a sparkling blue gaze, but I’m to receive more paints tomorrow, so it won’t be much longer.

More paints? The ramsthorn, she whispered under her breath.

Hm? The low hush of his voice was close, and as she glanced over to him, he was only a couple feet away. Like an enchanted fool, she’d come right up to him. Or rather, his painting.

With a few steps back, she looked him over. It was not often a man sought the wares of the Mrok witches, and certainly never in her presence, but this man’s cloth was finely woven, his coat a rich celandine yellow, many shades deeper than his golden hair. And around his neck, a silver chain dropped to a large stone of dark amber, a ward against the evil eye and other dark forces. Well to do, and a believer in the craft. And most certainly from the village.

Your song, he said softly, pensively. It was lovely. His blue eyes equally soft, he met her gaze. If you keep singing, I’ll keep painting. He winked.

What was—? Did all strangers speak so freely upon first meeting? Most of the villagers never saw her, and those who did either pretended they hadn’t or fled. The only time any Mrok witch walked among their kind was in service of Iga Mrok, first of her name, hand of Mokosza, mistress of Mroczne Lake, and lady of the rusałki on these witchlands… when a woman died at the hands of injustice, and vengeance would have her say.

Holy Mokosza was the protector of all women, and since the first Mrok witch had called this lake home, the entire line had served Mokosza in Her aspect as the goddess of death. Although Czarnobrzeg worshipped Her as any pious settlement did, most people were doubtless disturbed by the hermit witches who were tasked with sacrificing murderers to the lake. This painter included.

Fortunately, no women had been murdered in her lifetime, by the grace of the Mother.

The sky clouded over the early evening grayness, and Brygida swallowed over the lump in her throat. No one but Mama and Mamusia had ever heard her singing, much less deemed it lovely. But it didn’t take all day to gather honeysuckle and ramsthorn… the latter of which she’d already forgotten.

She’d definitely get the switch tonight.

With a furrowed brow, the painter tilted his head, watching her.

Her breath quickened. Mroczne Lake was home to the water-dwelling and deadly rusałki, but far more dangerous things walked these lands in the dark, and apparitions of the wood’s dream, leading wanderers astray or worse. It would be a pity for this young man to encounter them—if only because naive villagers had an unfortunate habit of pointing fingers at forces they did not comprehend.

If the wood’s dreams found him here, he’d be in trouble. But if her mothers found him, he’d be in even worse trouble...

Don’t linger by the lake after dusk, she said, by way of good-bye to the painter, and departed for the cottage.

Will you be at the feast tomorrow night? he called, turning from the painting. You should come.

She opened her mouth but did not answer. Both of her mothers forbade her approaching the village, let alone joining in their events. Ignoring him, she headed back for the cottage.

Two years ago, in a fit of foolishness, she’d sewn a linen dress of the Mrok violet but lined with a drab village brown lent by ramsthorn bark, along with a matching headscarf for her auburn hair. She had but to turn the dress inside out to blend in, or so she hoped, although there was no article of clothing that could hide her violet eyes.

Once, she had entertained the idiotic notion of venturing into Czarnobrzeg in disguise, but Mama and Mamusia had taught her better. That, and there wouldn’t be enough switches to deliver the punishment Mama would want to hand down. Mama loved her, but sometimes her protection could be stifling. The switch didn’t hurt anymore, not since years ago, but disappointing Mama always stung.

As Brygida traced the rim of the lake toward the cottage, she hastily plucked any ramsthorn in her path. Mokosza willing, it would be enough to content Mama.

A tiny flame winked in the distance, a candle set in the window to guide her home, and she followed it through myrtle leaves and overgrown grasses. All was quiet outside the ash-wood cottage.

Brygida froze. Mamusia always hummed or sang and Mama constantly murmured under her breath as she worked. Mokosza’s loom, they were already waiting for her. Had to be.

Brygida took three deep breaths, raised her head, and smiled. All was well. All would be well. She would just have to explain why she’d lost track of time… and not mention that she’d run into a man from the village that they’d warned her was dangerous and she should stay away from. Or that she’d been watching the village again… Or anything other than gathering ingredients.

With a brightness she didn’t feel, she opened the door and quickly turned to shut it. The sun certainly set early today, didn’t it? One moment I was enjoying some honeysuckle, and the next, it was almost dark.

Untying her apron, she faced the table, where Mama sat unamused with the switch on her lap, her frown and green-stained fingers in stark relief to her perfect posture and dark-red braid, with nary a single hair out of place.

And while you spent the day dallying, guess who had to gather the ramsthorn? Mama raised her eyebrows.

I—

And prepare it?

Well—

And make the pigment?

Mama did so much of the work around the cottage, and she should have been the last person tasked to finish additional chores. Although Mamusia tended the garden and animals herself, it was Mama who gathered and split the firewood, repaired anything and everything, dried the herbs, did the cooking and cleaning. It was Mama who spoke to any villagers seeking remedies, midwifery, or last rites.

I’m sorry, Brygida offered. I got carried away.

Mama shook her head. Did you get carried away with the plants, or with the village?

Brygida’s mouth dropped open. Shutting it quickly, she took the honeysuckle and ramsthorn she’d gathered to their workspace. I would never set foot in the village.

It was completely true, if not exactly the answer to Mama’s question.

Mama huffed under her breath.

Next to the workspace, the altar boasted all manner of offerings to Mokosza, from fine needlework to spools of woolen thread and clumps of rye. And above it were some of the many things that made the Mrok witches outsiders. The Scythe of the Mother and the Belt of the Golden Spider, with its long red linen yarns hanging loose, part of the regalia used for their duties as Mokosza’s Reapers of Death. In all her years, she had never seen their purpose bloom, but being a Mrok witch was isolating enough without walking through the village wielding a giant scythe and wearing a spider belt of red yarns.

Oh, leave her be, Ewa, Mamusia chided gently from her loom, her voice airy and light as always. Tonight her attention swayed in the webs of her threads, leaving only a wisp of her to chime into the discussion. We’ve taught her well. Now we must trust her.

I’ll trust her when I know she’s not ogling young men from the village, Mama shot back, receiving an ephemeral, exasperated smile from Mamusia before she returned to her weaving.

Mama