Where the Dark Stands Still

by A.B. Poranek

Look toward the light, she reminds herself. Then you will not see the shadow behind you.

“The bargain is sealed,” the Leszy says. “You are mine for a year. Now come along.”

He grimaces. “I preferred you when you were quiet.” “And I preferred you when you were a deer.”

His is a treacherous beauty, a rusałka’s beauty—enthralling and deceitful, good for nothing but tragedy.

“It’s done by calling upon spirits, and to do so deliberately is witchcraft. The Church forbids it, because the most eager spirits are always agents of the devil. It’s especially dangerous for girls like you.” She listens intently, wide-eyed. “How come?” “Because women are more susceptible to temptations of darkness.”

hah i beg to differ

“Leszy?!” She injects all the panic she can muster into her voice. “Leszy!” To her surprise, the door opens immediately, letting a blast of white light into the dim stairwell. “What is it?” The Leszy stares down at her,

He begins to step out of the room, but Liska has made sure to stand as close as possible, forcing him to step around her. As he does, she swallows nervously and reaches out and grabs his shirt like a frightened child. Keep your eyes on me, she prays. She feels the barely-there weight of Jaga vanish from her pocket, scuttle down her skirt, and leap off. “It was b-by the cellar, in the shadows. I saw his eyes, I swear it!” She tightens her fingers on the linen—she can feel the warmth of his skin through it, the exact moment his heart thuds in tandem with hers. He looks down at her hand and pries it off carefully, grimacing. “Calm yourself, not-so-clever fox. You are under my protection here.”

The Leszy slows to a walk, then a smooth stop, allowing Liska to slide shakily off his back. She clutches his shoulder, breathless. “Impressed?” he asks, amused. “I think I might be going into shock.” “I do have that effect on women,” he says casually. “Most people, really.” He shrugs Liska’s arms off and steps over a downed branch, his hooves muted by the blanket of needles.

He sheathes it and leaps into the hollow landing gracefully beside Liska and kneeling at her side. “Are you injured?” “I don’t—I—” She gulps another too-shallow breath, brushing leaves and moss frantically off her skirt, then looks up at the demon. That is a mistake. The Leszy is far closer than she thought, his face inches from hers, sage-colored eyes like beacons in the dark. His brows are drawn low, his lips parted slightly, and the long shadows of his eyelashes paint his cheekbones like streaks of ink. Their eyes meet, and it feels like the world tilts.

“Fox?” The Leszy’s frown deepens. Liska jerks away, her tailbone striking a tree root painfully. “I’m fine,” she says, too quickly. Her cheeks are oddly hot, her heart beating in an entirely new sort of panic. “See?” She grips the roots behind her in an attempt to push herself upright, but her shaking legs quickly lose purchase on the blood-slicked soil. The Leszy catches her before she can hit the ground, an exasperated look in his eyes. With all the ceremony of a farmer lifting a sack of potatoes, he scoops Liska into his arms and deposits her back on the flat soil above. He climbs after her, transforming into a stag as he goes.

The Leszy kneels so that Liska can slide off and lay the hat in the grass. She says a quick prayer for the man’s soul, then climbs onto the Leszy’s back and rests her head against his neck. The return gallop is a haze, the night blurring into naught but ink and moonlight. Exhaustion rolls over Liska to the monotone one-two-three, one-two-three of the Leszy’s hooves. Their travel is slower this time, the Leszy’s breaths heavy, and the steady rocking of his movements is enough to coax Liska’s eyelids shut. She fights it, but sadness and slumber are both overpowering forces.

“Meet me here again tomorrow. Same time.” “Wait!” Liska exclaims. Frustration sparks within her—at the Leszy’s sudden dismissal, at her own foolish attraction. “Stay with me.” He halts in his steps. “What?” “Stay,” she repeats. “You always leave like this, as if you’re afraid I may burn you if you’re with me too long.” He stiffens. She wonders if she is close to the truth, but she cannot tell—she never can, with him. It is only his evergreen eyes that flicker strangely, like the shadow of an animal weaving through a grove. “I’m sorry,” he says at last, hard-edged, and turns away. Liska does not see him again that day.

“Leszy?” she tries softly. “I’m sorry about yesterday. And about Florian.” He lowers his hands and looks away, jaw working. Candlelight reflects on his antlers, catching on their notched surface. “I kept so much from you,” he says slowly, “because I did not want you to be afraid. That, and…” He trails off. “It’s not easy.” She tugs on a braid. “I know,” she says, trying not to remember the terrible things she has done to keep her own secrets hidden.

“I underestimated you,” the Leszy remarks. “When I met you on Kupała Night. I expected you to be a harmless thing, staying away and doing as you were told. Imagine my surprise when you led my manor and my house-spirit into what I can only call a mutiny.” “I didn’t mean to—” Liska starts, but he shakes his head. “I’m complimenting you. I chose the field of battle, and you disarmed me nonetheless. You do that frequently, I find. It’s actually quite annoying.” A sudden frustration boils up in Liska. “You trapped me in your sentient manor, and you find me annoying?” “It was for your safety,” he says calmly. “And not just yours. I couldn’t take you back to Orlica only for you to tell everyone what you found here, could I? Your kind would love to come after a wood-demon with pitchforks, and that would end horribly for both parties, I assure you. Besides, not-so-clever fox, you did make a bargain.” “You forced me into it! That’s hardly a binding contract.” “It was your choice.” “You said the demons would eat me,” she says flatly. “You made it to the manor—you really think you couldn’t have made it back to the border?” “Could I have?” He steps closer, eyes glinting devilishly. “We will never know, will we?” She fights the urge to slap him. “You’re terrible!” “I won’t deny it.” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “And I don’t think you hate it.” “You have a very high opinion of yourself for someone with a pet moth named Mariusz.” The Leszy raises an eyebrow. Liska crosses her arms. “...

“Fox?”

Its giving Jacks

“I will have to touch you. If you don’t want to proceed, tell me now.” Liska knows she should shout no, should run from the room as fast as her legs can carry her. It is what the Liska from before would have done. But the Liska now… she will do what she must to set things right. Even if it means trusting—only for now, only this once—a demon. “It’s all right,” she says, voice feeble but chin raised high. “I can do it.” The Leszy gives her a slight, barely there smile, lit by the glow of his magic. “Don’t you worry, not-so-clever fox,” he says. “I can be gentle if I try.” Without further preamble, he takes her face in his hands.

The Leszy mirrors her head tilt teasingly. “What is it?” There is something filling her, overflowing past the brim, a mead-warm feeling too melancholy to be called gratitude. She reaches out and puts her hand over his, long and pale where it rests on his knees. He twitches, his breath stuttering, as if her touch is lightning, as if he expects to burst aflame. When she looks up, his eyes are wide and bright and bewildered. “You’ve endured so much for us,” Liska whispers. “It’s my duty,” he says. “Thank you.” She holds his hand until his shoulders loosen, until he knows she means it. “Thank you.”

Remember what you did last time? her mind whispers. If you free it, you will truly become a monster. “Fine,” Liska hisses, blood leaking down her arm. “Then let me be a monster.”

“Unless I took it into myself.” “That’s impossible,” Kazimiera cuts in. “The poison corrupts the soul and the body at once. No one can take from another’s soul.” “I have to try,” he says, voice fraying. “I have to.” His fingertips brush Liska’s cheek, and they feel like flames, like ice shards, like light at the end of an endless night. “Fox, stay awake. Open yourself to me, just as you did during the soul-searching spell, all right?” Kazimiera seizes his arm. “Eliasz, it cannot be done. Eliasz.” The Leszy shrugs her off, eyes locked on Liska’s. “All right?” Even nodding is painful. Her body feels leaden, a dead weight as the Leszy pulls her into his arms, ignoring Kazimiera’s protests. His hand cups her face. When his magic scatters across her skin, its erratic touch is almost soothing. Her body escapes from her, her consciousness fading rapidly. Memories flash by, but this time the Leszy weaves between them. His magic plunges deeper, searching for something, something. For that brief instant, a tiny eternity, their magics are one, their souls entangled.

“I mean, you’re a czarownik. A female czarownik. I was told that… that women who used magic would go mad.” Despite all she has learned, she still lingers on that part of Father Paweł’s lecture. Seeing Kazimiera use magic so easily… it’s hope—evidence that there is a chance, no matter how small, that she could one day control her powers. Kazimiera, on the other hand, is scowling. “All changes in the world but the ways of men,” she says venomously. “When I first came into my powers, I was told the same thing. Do you know why?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Because women are inherently more powerful in magic. Yes, it also makes it easier for us to lose control as children, but once we reach our potential… then we are unstoppable. Men could have never stayed in power if they allowed us to thrive. So they spread rumors and refused to take us on as apprentices, and here we are.” She clicks her tongue. “I ought to have taken Orlica’s crown for myself and put an end to all their idiocy. Probably could have prevented a few wars while I was at it.”

Period

“If I look like a monster,” he says roughly, “then no one will be surprised when I do monstrous things.”

“I don’t think you’re a monster.” He begins to smirk bitterly, but she touches her thumb to the corner of his mouth. “I don’t,” she repeats. “Eliasz.” “Oj, Liseczka.” The words escape as a sigh, one she feels on her cheek. He brings his face closer to hers, so close their foreheads are almost touching. His lips are slightly parted, limned by the muted light. All she would have to do is lean in, tilt her chin up, and— “What am I doing?” The Leszy jerks away, rising to his feet. His pupils are blown wide, eyes roiling with emotions she cannot begin to discern. He rakes a hand through his hair, straightens his sukmana. “I believe it is time for me to leave,” he says curtly. “This is farewell for a while, Liska Radost.”

“He does not deserve you, Liska Radost.” “Nor I him,” she replies. “But nothing is ever equal with humans, really—we give and we take, the scales ever tipping. That’s just the way of it. I am what he has, and he is what I have—there’s no point keeping score.”

my dear fox,

if the world has not prepared a place for you, you must take up a hammer and chisel and carve one out for yourself.”

“You are not a monster, Liska Radost. You are sunlight, and you breathe life into everything you touch.”

The Leszy presses his lips to her forehead. In her shock, Liska’s thoughts go still. She blinks up at the Leszy—they are nearly nose to nose now, his piercing green gaze holding hers with unwavering trust. An easy smile, a smile of certainty, curves his lips. He is not afraid. She has nothing to fear.

“God,” Liska pants. “Not quite,” the Leszy says, watching her carefully. “But it’s still a better compliment than screaming the moment you see me.”

“Please,” Liska whispers, then switches to godspeech. “Bring them to me.”

“How did you do that?” Liska coughs. “Do what?” “That was a Driada tree. They hardly even obey me, and I created them.” There are red marks on his face and neck from the blunt nails of utopiec, his shirt torn nearly in half and hanging in tatters around his pale, well-muscled chest. It takes all of Liska’s willpower not to stare. “I just asked it politely,” she says, wiping her hands on her skirt. “She asked it politely.” The demon makes a sound that is half laugh, half wheeze. “I resent you, you absolute madwoman.” “Likewise, terrible demon.”

“I must tell you, my dear fox,” says the Leszy, “that you deserve someone far better than me. And yet—” His fingers brush the tip of her ear, linger there. “And yet, and yet and yet, I am a selfish creature, and I do not want to let you go.”

“Do not go back to that village, Liska.” He holds her gaze, steadfast. “Stay here with me. Stay, and you can have all the power and magic you desire. Stay, and you can be anyone you want.”

“God have mercy,” he murmurs. “You are going to be the end of me.”

She gets the impression this has happened before. “Is Weles doing this to you?” He nods, mouth twisting in pain. “Punishing me.” “For me,” Liska says numbly. “For what we did. God, Leszy—” “It’s not your fault. It was—” He grimaces as another twig breaks through his skin, dangerously close to his vertebrae. “It was worth it, every second.”

“You defended him,” the Leszy notes, sounding both impressed and bothered by the idea. “You would find light in the darkest cavern, wouldn’t you, fox?”

“I don’t suppose you could conjure some tea in the meantime?” The corner of his mouth pulls up in that laughing half smile. “I do so love when you command me.”

“You know who I am.” “Florian,” Liska realizes. “The Leszy’s…” “Lover, apprentice, professional pain in the behind,” the ghost—Florian—offers. “And that lovely skeleton, the one to your left, is mine.” Ice fills Liska’s veins. She whirls around, counting the corpses. “Six,” she says. She looks at Florian, begging him to deny it, but he only inclines his head. “One for every century the Leszy has been warden.” “But the Leszy is seven hundred—” She breaks off, understanding suddenly how foolish she has been. Seven centuries, yet six corpses. Because Liska is meant to be the seventh.

“Name your price.” Your life, says the god smoothly. Your life and your magic in one hundred years’ time.

because she does not know if she will get another chance, she whispers, “I love you.” He pulls her close, into the safety of his arms. He smells of pine sap and pouring rain and ancient things, of the manor’s dusty corridors and of old books and of magic. He smells of home. “I…,” he says. She hears his breath catch in his chest, and for a moment she is afraid he won’t say it. But he does. “I love you too, Liska Radost.”

“Why are you doing this?” Liska half sobs, though she knows she cannot expect sympathy, cannot even reason with a demon. One hundred years are over, Weles croons in reply. He is mine. “Not anymore,” Liska growls. “Not while I draw breath.”

(Smiles! At a demon! The girl must be very stupid or very brave. Likely both.)

(He does not find her beautiful, he does not. What an absurd idea!)

(Of women, he’s heard it said: “She will be the end of me,” or “She will be my undoing.” None of that is true for Liska Radost. She is not the end of anything, but the beginning of everything. He has been dead a long time, and she is his resurrection.)

A powerful root, thick as a trunk, erupts from the darkness. For a single, tense heartbeat, it wavers over Liska. Then it plunges into her chest.

She chokes on a sob, stifles it with the back of her hand. It’s not fair; none of this is fair. Stories like theirs are supposed to have happy endings. This cannot happen, not now. Not when he is finally free, finally human, when he is hers and she is his, and she can’t accept this, she can’t. “Please,” she begs. “Surely there must be some spell—there must be something, anything. Please, Eliasz, please. Tell me how to save you.” “Liska, Liseczka. Oj, lisku.” He raises her hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles in a final act of worship. His smile is that of a man complete. “I am already saved.”

She feels like the pain is going to eat her alive, every thump of her heart like words scorched into her soul. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, they say. Looking away from Marysieńka, she clutches at her chest as if she could wrench open her rib cage and empty out all the emotions. “How did you do it?” she asks hoarsely. “Do what?” “Endure. After… after I… after he…” “After Tomasz died?” Marysieńka says it kindly, without vitriol. “I don’t know. I simply went on, day by day. Grief is a bit like a chronic ache, I think—it’s always there, but sometimes you notice it more and sometimes less, and sometimes it’s unbearable and sometimes you think it might be gone for good.”

“The wood must always have a warden.”

That is when he comes. A stag, a beautiful stag white as starlight, with evergreen eyes and antlers so tall, Basia is afraid they will get stuck in the trees. When he walks, he leaves no marks on the woodland soil, and when Liska reaches out to touch his head, her hand goes through him as though he is made of mist. This is the strangest part of it all: every time Liska meets the stag, she tries to touch him. Every time, her hand passes through. Until one night, one rainy spring night, it does not.