The night passed restlessly. Jaromir did not suffer from nightmares at all — the sound sleep of a hunter was seldom troubled by bad visions. But Katara tossed on the straw mattress as if in a fever, now sobbing in her sleep, now jerking and jabbing her husband in the side with her elbow. The children slept uneasily too — Mirek mumbled something, turning from side to side, and little Agata whimpered several times, pressing herself to her brother. Even Bogdan groaned more often than usual, and the stumps of his legs twitched under the blanket.
Jaromir got up, as always, before the roosters. In the hut there was that special silence of the pre-dawn hour, when the night has not yet released the world and the morning is only preparing to take its rights. The hunter rose carefully so the bed would not creak, groped for his clothes in the dark. His shirt was slightly damp with the morning wet, as were his trousers — in marshy country the moisture seeped everywhere. He pulled on his boots, took up his bow, and checked the string with a habitual motion. He slung the quiver of arrows over his shoulder and tucked a knife into his belt.
"Are you really going out hunting?" Katara propped herself on an elbow, her hair disheveled, her eyes glittering anxiously in the half-light. "What about… that evil?"
"We have to eat," Jaromir answered shortly, adjusting the quiver strap. "Game won't jump into the pot by itself."
"But people are dying!" His wife sat up on the bed, clutching an old sheepskin to her chest. "What if you…"
"The evil takes people in the fields," he cut her off. "That's the only place they've found the dead. And I'll be in the forest, in the bogs. That's my home; nothing will threaten me there. Lie down and sleep, you'll wake the children."
Katara muttered peevishly about male foolishness and stubbornness; her voice trembled — whether from fear or anger, Jaromir could not tell. He only shook his head and headed for the door.
Stepping out of the hut, Jaromir paused on the threshold and looked over the village. Everything was as always — crooked little houses thatched with straw and moss, narrow paths leading to the well and the fields. Mist was rising from the bogs; white tatters clung to the alder bushes and reeds. The air was damp, steeped in the smells of slime and rotting leaves. The roosters were still silent, but somewhere in the distance frogs were already croaking — a sure sign that dawn was near.
Yesterday at the gathering the men had agreed to set a watch — said they needed to guard the village from the evil, to take turns standing duty with weapons. Jaromir had kept silent then, but he considered the idea foolish. The evil struck in the fields, not in the village, and at night no one dared go into the fields anyway. What was the good of a watch that guarded the wrong place?
He was confirmed in his opinion when he saw the "watchmen." Two men — Yakub and Martin — slept the sleep of the righteous at the village entrance, their backs propped against the fence. Their weapons lay beside them — rusty sickles and makeshift spears of sharpened sticks. An empty bottle of strong spirits lay on the ground. Evidently the watchmen had decided to warm themselves against the night chill — and then fell asleep.
Jaromir deliberately stepped on a dry twig — in the morning hush it cracked loudly, like a shot. The watchmen did not stir. The hunter snorted and strode on. So much for protection against unclean forces.
The path to the hunting grounds met him with familiar sounds and smells. Fish splashed in the sedge thickets; somewhere far off an owl hooted — a late hunter returning to its hollow. Boggy slush squelched underfoot, but Jaromir knew every hummock, every safe trail. He walked cautiously but confidently, reading signs that a common man would not understand.
After about five hundred meters the bogs ended and firm ground began. Here, on the border between mire and forest, the best game was found — ducks flew in to feed, hares came out to the field's edge. Jaromir knew the places to set snares and where best to hole up in an ambush. He turned off the path and went deeper into the undergrowth.
In the birch grove it was quiet, only the leaves rustled underfoot. Jaromir moved soundlessly, like a shadow — hunting skills honed over years. Soon he came upon fresh tracks — hare, judging by the paw prints. The animal was big, likely fat after a plentiful summer. Jaromir crouched, studying the tracks closely. They led deeper into the forest, to an old oak where hares liked to feed on acorns.
The hunter followed the trail, string drawn, an arrow nocked. In such moments the whole world narrowed to this path, these tracks, the anticipation of a kill.
But after fifty paces the hare trail crossed something else — human tracks. Jaromir stopped, frowned. The prints were fresh, left in the night or early morning. The feet were small, narrow — female or adolescent. And beside them — crushed marks in the grass, as if some sack had been set down there for a time.
Who could be roaming the forest at such an hour? Especially after what was happening in the village? Jaromir hesitated — follow the track or return to the hunt. Curiosity won. He turned off the hare trail and followed the human prints.
The track led into the very thicket, where young birch and alder grew so thickly that he had to force his way through. Jaromir pushed branches aside, stepped over fallen trunks, keeping his bow at the ready the whole time. Who knew whom he would find at the end of this trail.
And he found her.
In a small hollow, under the boughs of an old spruce, on an improvised bed of spruce branches, lay Agnieszka. The girl slept, covered with her cloak, her head resting on a bundle of belongings. Her face was pale, dark shadows lay under her eyes. Even asleep she looked exhausted and frightened.
Jaromir froze, not knowing what to do next.
Agnieszka woke at the crack of a twig under his foot. Her eyes flew open wide and terror flashed in them — the girl saw a man's figure with a bow and for a moment thought someone from the village had tracked her down with ill intent. She clutched at her bundle convulsively, ready to spring up and dash through the thickets without looking where she ran. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed it could be heard through the whole forest.
But then she recognized Jaromir and went still. She likely remembered that he had not supported the crowd's opinion or echoed the slanderers. And also that of all the villagers only this hunter's wife had treated her like a human being when others shied away as if from a leper.
"Quiet," Jaromir said softly, lowering the bow. "Don't run. I won't touch you."
Agnieszka went still, her hand trembling as it gripped the edge of her cloak. Her eyes were wide like a cornered animal's — full of terror and readiness to leap.
"I… I didn't want to," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I didn't know where to run. To the village — I can't. Across the fields — can't either. There… it."
Her face was haggard, her hair tangled, blue shadows under her eyes as from lack of sleep.
"What happened?" Jaromir asked quietly.
Agnieszka lowered her gaze. Her fingers clenched into fists.
"He… Maciej…" her voice faltered, but she forced herself on. "He came in the evening. To the byre where they keep us. He knew I wouldn't go to prayer. He said… that I'm his now. That father allowed it. That I must…"
She swallowed, as if trying to choke down bitterness.
"He tried… to touch me… I fought back. He grabbed me. And I… I scratched his face."
Jaromir nodded. Everything fell into place. Both Maciej's scratched cheek and his haste to report the girl's disappearance to his father. In her eyes Jaromir saw the weariness of a hunted creature. And he understood that in her place anyone would have run.
"Tell me straight," he exhaled. "Was it you who cast the spell?"
Though he already knew the answer.
"How could I?!" she flared, her voice turned sharp, almost angry. "I gather herbs to heal! When my mother died of fever, I swore I would learn. My father passed me a book from a wandering alchemist. I don't conjure! I just… know what helps what!"
Jaromir raised a hand, calming.
"I believe you," he said simply.
She fell silent, looking at him with distrust.
"Really?"
"Really. I saw how you looked at your father when they buried him. That is not a murderer's look. That is an orphan's look."
The girl lowered her eyes; tears appeared in them. Jaromir suddenly realized that he might be the first in all this time to tell her he believed. She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't have time.
The morning air was torn by a bloodcurdling scream. A scream full of such terror and despair that gooseflesh ran over the skin. It came from the direction of the village, and there was something in it that made you want to clap your hands over your ears and run anywhere, as far as your legs would take you.
But Jaromir sprang toward the sound without thinking. Much as he tried to stay out of village quarrels, he shared his life with these people — worked beside them, drank from the same well every day, buried the dead together. He did not meddle in their internal squabbles, but when danger threatened the village he stood in defense — be it against bandits or wolves. And if the time had come to face a spirit, Jaromir would stand against it too, even if he did not know how to fight such a creature. But he had a bow in his hands, and that meant he could at least try to help.
Branches crackled behind him — Agnieszka was running after him.