The Bear and The Nightingale

by Katherine Arden

Pyotr’s house was alive with devils. A creature with eyes like coals hid in the oven. A little man in the bathhouse winked at her through the steam. A demon like a heap of sticks slouched around the dooryard.

But I think you should be careful, Batyushka, that God does not speak in the voice of your own wishing. We have never needed saving before.”

Before the end, you will pluck snowdrops at midwinter, die by your own choosing, and weep for a nightingale.”

“It is easy to die,” replied the bannik. “Harder to live. Do not forget me, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

Dread settled over the village: a clinging, muttering dread, tenacious as cobwebs.

I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me.