Vasilisa (Hearth and Bard Tales Book 1) Read online

  Vasilisa

  Hearth and Bard Tales Book 1

  M. L. Farb

  Contents

  The Bard

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  The Bard

  Food for Thought

  More Hearth and Bard Tales

  Other Books by M. L. Farb

  End Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Vasilisa. Copyright © 2020 by M. L. Farb.

  Morgan Horse Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Annie Douglass Lima

  Cover design by Winter Designs

  Contact the author at [email protected]

  For Jesse

  You bring magic to my life

  The Bard

  The lingering scent of roasted goose mixed with the oak of the slowly burning yule log in the mayor's fire. Usually after the mid-winter feast, the mayor held a dance. But tonight he had a visitor he'd not seen since he was a child—a tale teller whose tapestry of words had filled his dreams for the next forty years. And now the bard was back with promises of new stories and a winter in which to tell them.

  The mayor rubbed his hands with delight as he watched the servants clear the last of the tables and set the benches in a half-circle in front of the hearth.

  A figure sat on the stone bench in front of the fire, leaning closer as if even the blaze was not enough warmth. A brown hooded cloak hid both face and features. Only an olive-toned hand showed, stroking a bob-tailed cat.

  The mayor's wife, four children, and many grandchildren seated themselves on the front-most benches. His guests packed the other benches with children in laps and youth standing behind.

  The mayor stepped to the side of the cloaked figure and bowed. “Honored Bard. We bid you welcome to our humble town. Your presence is more—”

  The cloaked figure raised a hand to cut off his words, then threw back the hood. Black curls tumbled around her face and down her back as she shook her head. Dark brown eyes crinkled with laughter, and a smile curved upward on a smooth, olive-toned face. Thick eyebrows lent a serious line to her otherwise mischievous features.

  Her audience gasped. The mayor did too, though he already knew that she looked like a forest spirit called forth by the druids of old.

  She stood, sending the cat stalking away, and let the cloak drop from her shoulders to the stone hearth. A wool dress in deep forest green and embroidered with red holly berries covered her from neck to wrists and swept the floor with a rustle. The gown hugged her slender shape, then pooled at her feet.

  “Gather in closer.” She beckoned a wide-eyed child. “There's room for more on the hearth. And the night is chill.”

  “But you're a woman,” protested a dandified man. He twisted a red felt hat. “He promised us a famous bard's tale tonight. Not some young woman's gossipy ramblings. The dance was canceled for this? A dark-haired, foreign-faced woman!”

  She fingered a black curl, her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Why, so I am. Since my femininity so distresses you, here's a coin for your trouble, and you can go.” She flicked a small coin, and it struck him across the bridge of his nose.

  He bellowed and lunged.

  Two of the mayor's servants grasped his arms and dragged him from the grand hall.

  The woman’s lips drew tight as she picked up her cloak.

  The mayor bowed before her, his nose almost level with his knees. “Forgive us. No other will interrupt. And if they do, they'll spend a week in the stocks.”

  She stopped tying the strings of the cloak and let it slide again from her shoulders. “I'll allow that but once. Those who care not for tales that will live in your hearts and your dreams should leave now, and make room for those who want to breathe in magic.”

  The only shifting was of her audience leaning closer.

  “I am the Bard. I've been Saoirse, Abrial, Lysandra, Amadi, Jiyuu, and many more. I was known as Palasha as I traveled Ruska, and it is there I'll take you tonight.

  “Ruska is a cold land. The people are strong, for they yearly fight winter. Those who win live to see another summer. Those who do not, find a home in earth that is frozen half the year. Come and enter a land of wolves and ogres, tsars and wars, and forests vast enough to hold whole nations.

  “A land where the servant will always be the servant—unless.

  “Come see.”

  1

  A dirt clod shattered against the back of my neck between my two long braids.

  “Forest born! Ogre child! You’re nothing but a demon wild!” Their mocking voices rained from the summer oaks that lined the road from the fields to the manor house.

  I broke into a jog, holding three snared pheasants against my chest and keeping my head down as another dirt clod hit my shoulder. I’m not an ogre’s child!

  A stone stung the crown of my head.

  Heat rose in my chest. I’m not an ogre’s child, but I’m stronger than any of you! I slung the pheasants over my shoulder, hiked up my work stained skirt, and clambered up the trunk of the nearest oak.

  A boy yelped and dropped from his branch. Ten others dropped from nearby trees, like acorns in a storm.

  The oak groaned and then shrieked in protest as I bent then broke a branch. I leaped down, waving the branch in circles over my head.

  The bullies scattered, laughing.

  I dashed after the largest of them—a boy who should have acted like a man by his size. But they were all weak-minded and cruel. And slow. I caught him easier than a rabbit.

  His laughter changed to yelps as I clobbered his back with the branch. “Help! She’ll kill me!”

  Kill? I wouldn’t, but if I beat him beyond fieldwork use, they’d punish Mama. She’d been punished enough for me. I threw the branch aside and stalked off.

  A boy’s voice whispered, “Forest born, ogre child. You’re nothing—”

  I spun and glared.

  The boys scattered over the fields, even the one I’d caught, though he hobbled like an old man.

  I yelled after them. “Manor born, servant rotten. You’re nothing but pig slop and ill begotten.”

  Mama scrubbed the dirt from the back of my neck in the corner of the servants’ sleeping shed. Other servants bundled their daytime clothes into pillows, the house servants huddled in gossip at one side, and the laundress burst into laughter with the cook. They ignored us in our corner.

  Mama laid the coarse cloth aside and brushed out my hair. If mine were like hers—ripe wheat-colored—maybe the boys would stop teasing me.
Mine burned with the bright red of a fox and a single lock as dark as a black bear’s fur. Forest born, wild animal, no other girl looked like me. I was small like my mama, same narrow face, same slender hands. But my eyes were so dark blue they looked like the moonless night sky—black is what the polite called them, devil black if they were less polite.

  Mama wove my hair back into two braids. “Vasilisa, you must ignore them. They can’t hurt you.”

  “They do. They throw things at me. They call me names. It hurts here.” I touched between my newly forming breasts.

  “There will always be those who mock. You must be strong without falling to their viciousness. You must be careful. You have a gift of strength they will never have.”

  “I thought when I reached my fifteenth year, and started looking a woman, they’d be kinder.”

  Mama shook her head. “Those boys couldn’t see beauty if it hit them between the eyes—which you’ve done before.”

  I laughed.

  “But if you want the boys to like you, you may want to act more like the other girls.”

  “I’m not like the other girls. I don’t look like them. And they don’t act like me. They won’t climb trees, run with the hounds, or swim in the river. I think I must be like my papa. Please tell me—who was he?”

  “Not yet, my Vasilisa.”

  “Then at least tell me about him. I’m losing the memories I once had.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “He had dark eyes—like mine.”

  She nodded.

  “He was tall and strong. He carried me in one arm and you in the other, then set us in a tree to watch. Quiet, like the forest cat, he ran down the deer and, like the bear, he stilled it with one blow of his fist. We always had good meat to eat.” I picked at the frayed edge of the blanket that lay over the pallet that mama and I shared. “He tossed me in the air, so high that I could see over the short trees, then caught me, swinging me around, then tossed me again. He loved me so much.”

  Mama wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders.

  “I remember that. More than anything. Though he never said it…” I paused, searching my ghosts of memories. He never spoke in any of them. Mama sang, scolded, and told stories. Papa protected, hunted, and played with me. Had he been a mute? No—one memory rang in my ears. The night he died. Many creatures, covered in furs but standing on two legs—they’d been men! I gripped mama’s arm. Many men attacked our cave. Papa growled and howled as he protected us. The men died, and so did Papa. Mama buried him, then carried me away from the forest and into a life of servitude and mocking. “He died to protect us.”

  Mama nodded.

  “Why didn’t we stay in the forest?”

  “Because you were too little. Just a toddling thing. I could not provide for or protect us like he did. And,” she tilted up my chin, “you will someday be a woman. The forest is not for you.”

  “I liked it better than here. I’m strong now. I can draw the bow of the archer, though it stands taller than me. Let’s go back. I’ll protect you, I’ll provide for you.”

  She held me closer. “Vasilisa. I’m not made for the forest. Besides, what would Staver say?”

  “There are songbirds in the forest to match his music. I won’t miss him—much.”

  “He’ll miss you.”

  “No, he won’t. He only wants me around because I listen to him practice. He’s a weakling, more so than all the other boys. No muscle in his arms. No adventure in his mind. Just music. Besides, he’s the master’s son. And I’m a scullery maid.”

  Mama lay down on the pallet. “We’d better sleep. Tomorrow’s work will start before sunrise.”

  I snuggled closer to her and resolved as I did every night. Someday I will be free.

  The deep blues of the moon-lit forest blurred past as I ran. The breeze raced behind me, tugging my skirts forward.

  Shouts shattered the stillness.

  Hurry! I stretched my stride. I had to get there on time.

  A roar overwhelmed the shouts.

  The ground steepened into a cliff. I gripped a root and scrambled upward.

  Grunts, roars, and shouts intermingled.

  Halfway up the cliff, the roots disappeared. I sought fingerholds in the clay soil. I'd make it this time.

  The clay crumbled, and I fell as the howling death cry echoed in my ears.

  I shuddered awake beside Mama. She shifted, her breath soft in sleep and slow with weariness.

  I'd not had that nightmare in years. But I made it further this time. I was stronger. I'd grow stronger yet. Next time I dreamed it, I'd reach the top of the cliff and stop them from killing Papa.

  The forest called, and so did he.

  2

  I scrubbed at the ash-bottomed pot.

  The cook rapped me on the top of my head. “Not too hard, girl! Slower and gentler. I don’t want a hole in the pot before I’ve used it a year.”

  I lightened my touch, but scrubbed faster. As soon as I finished that pot, I’d start my one free half-day in seven, though the cook had kept me several hours into the afternoon.

  The lilting notes of the balalaika floated through the open window, along with the afternoon breeze. Staver was getting better. When I’d first spied on him, when we were both little children, he’d sounded like rocks plopping into the water. I’d told him so. And instead of getting angry, he’d laughed.

  I hung the finished pot from a hook on the ceiling and dashed out the door.

  Staver sat on a stone bench. His sun-bright hair fell in thick locks about a face that was beginning to widen into a strong jaw. His triangle balalaika balanced on his legs and his fingers flew over the strings. But instead of the usual stately melodies, he played the twittering song of the marsh warbler.

  I whistled in harmony. We sounded like two marsh warblers in their springtime courtship. I stopped whistling. He was just a silly boy who wasted his time playing that silly instrument.

  He grinned, his pale blue eyes dancing. “Vasilisa, I’d hoped to test you on where I found my new song, but you guessed it before I asked. How about this one?” He played a slower and sadder tune.

  “Nightingale.”

  He squished up one side of his mouth in thought, then the other. He played a third tune. One that made me want to dance.

  “House wren.”

  He set down his balalaika. “You know all the bird songs. And I’ll wager all the animal calls too. I wish I did.”

  “I can whistle more for you.”

  “Would you?” He patted the bench next to him.

  I would not sit by my master’s son. I’d got a whipping across my backside for the last time I did. Instead, I whistled a shrill song.

  He plucked the strings, and within half a minute was mimicking the call. “I like that. It feels like what flight must be like for the birds—free and fierce against the wind. What is it?”

  “A shrike. It is small, but savage as a hawk.”

  “It sounds like it. I would that I could see one.”

  “I can show you. There is a nest only a few hours’ walk. If we ran, we could be there for its evening song.”

  Staver set his balalaika on the bench. “Which way?”

  “North along the woodcutter’s path, past the otters’ den, through—”

  He caught one of my motioning hands. “Just show me.”

  I gripped his hand, and with a laugh, ran towards the gate that led from the manor.

  Chickens scattered with annoyed squawks, while a goose hissed. The old coachman called out after us. “Young Master Staver, don’t you go getting into trouble now.”

  Staver slowed, but didn’t let go. “I’ll be back by nightfall, and I’ll be careful. Tell my mother not to worry.”

  His mother would worry. And I would get extra chores for it. Maybe I shouldn’t show him. “Staver, we wouldn’t be back by nightfall, unless we ran the whole way. I’ll show you the otter den instead.”

  “I can run the whole way
. Let’s go!” He dragged me toward the manor gate.

  Even if it was only for the afternoon, freedom in the forest was worth extra chores—especially since I had someone to share the freedom with. I stretched into a long loping run. The sun warmed my face, and wind cooled it. My braids bounced against my back to the rhythm of my stride.

  Staver’s hand grew sweaty and slick in mine. His breath came in pants.

  I let go of his hand and slowed my stride to a jog. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be—I should—learn to—run—like that.”

  “You’re faster than Gleb or Dmitri, even when I’m chasing them away from torturing some poor animal. They waddle like ducks.”

  He bent over in panting laughter, bracing his hands against his knees. When he straightened, he started into an easy jog.

  The woodman’s path split off from the road and passed into the cool greenness of the woods. Great pines swayed over white-barked aspens as a stream chuckled underneath. Trillium dotted the ground. The sharp tang of pine mixed with the rich moldering of last year’s leaves.

  A rabbit hopped onto the path.

  Staver froze.

  I stopped.

  He slowly crouched down and extended his hand, holding a bit of grass.

  The rabbit studied us with dark eyes, then hopped towards Staver but edged around me. It ate the grass from Staver’s hand, then hopped off the path.