The men reached the village edge by evening, when the damp, boggy air had thickened into a heavy, stifling fog. Something ill hung in the air, a foreboding of new trouble. Before they even reached the first huts, Jaromir heard agitated, sharp voices. The village buzzed like a disturbed hive. Women's cries mingled with men's shouting, over which rose a long keening — half wail, half lament. The men trailing after the hunter exchanged glances and quickened their pace.
A bluish smoke drifted over the rooftops, but not from stoves — torches lit the square. In the center, by the well, all the inhabitants of Rechitsy were crowded together, and in the middle of that crowd, on hastily knocked-together bearers, lay a body covered with coarse linen. But the cloth did not hide the main thing — the characteristic posture of the dead man, the same shriveled, darkened hands sticking from beneath the shroud, the same whitish roots sprouting between the blackened fingers.
Beside the stretcher, kneeling, was Gedwiga, the elder's wife, howling like a beast maddened with grief. The buxom woman who had always carried herself with dignity now rolled on the ground, tore at her hair, beat her fists against her chest. Her face was swollen from tears, her eyes bloodshot, and inhuman moans tore from her throat. She reached for the body, but the women drew her back, whispering words of comfort that sounded empty and pointless at such a moment.
"My boy!" she cried, choking on sobs. "Maciej, my little boy! What have they done to you, my child!"
Stanislav raged nearby like a madman. His face was red with fury, his eyes bulging, sweat running down his neck. Spittle flew from his mouth as he stormed before the crowd, swinging a nail-studded club. He jabbed it at the air, shouting at everyone — at the women keening over the stretcher, at the men standing with bowed heads, at the children peeking out from behind their mothers' skirts.
"You!" He jabbed a finger toward a cluster of people, and they recoiled. "This is all your fault!"
The club whistled through the air, nearly clipping someone's head.
"And you!" Stanislav lunged at old woman Zofya, sister of the late Nastasya. "Old harridan! Did you see anything?! Speak!"
Pale as death, the old woman only prayed, murmuring: "Holy Mother our protectress… Help us bear these trials…"
But the elder no longer listened. His crazed gaze slid over the terrified faces.
"Silent? All of you silent? Bloodsuckers! Beasts! My son… My heir!" His voice broke into a scream, so helpless in its rage that even the bravest men dropped their eyes.
"Elder," someone in the crowd said quietly, "it wasn't people. It was a spirit."
"Silence!" Stanislav roared. "There are no spirits! It's sorcery! The witch!"
Jaromir pushed through to the stretcher and lifted the edge of the linen. What he saw made him wince in spite of himself. Maciej lay on his back, arms flung wide, but his body had been dried to the state of parched earth. It seemed it might crumble at a touch. Thick whitish, wet stalks jutted from his eye sockets and mouth, and his skin was covered in bark, rough and cracked. Thin roots of some plant had wrapped his fingers, and green shoots had grown through his nails. The same smell of mouldering herbs and metal came off the dead man as from the earlier victims.
"Found him in their byre," a woman sobbed. "Lying in the corner, where the witch used to live."
"In broad daylight!" someone else added. "The sun was at its height, and the evil got to him anyway!"
At that moment the elder's wild, darting gaze lit on Jaromir. Stanislav began to breathe heavily, stepped forward, shoving people out of his path. He grabbed the hunter by the shoulder. The elder's face was twisted with grief and rage, and his eyes burned with a mad fire.
"Jaromir!" he hissed, barely holding back the spittle on his lips. "Well?! Where is she?! Did you bring the witch? Where's the whelp?! Speak!"
The hunter kept silent, looking straight into the bloodshot eyes of the elder. He saw a picture slowly assembling in Stanislav's grief-clouded, impotently enraged mind: the men had come back empty-handed. No one bound, no one leading the sorceress. The search had failed. Agnieszka was free.
The realization struck the elder like a mallet. The flush on his face turned deathly pale, then flooded back again. His pupils narrowed, and the rage that had been directed at others now crashed down on Jaromir with renewed force.
"Useless!" Stanislav growled, squeezing the club's handle until his knuckles whitened. "You… NOTHING?! Found not a damn thing?! Or…"
A wild, paranoid guess flickered in his eyes.
"Or you helped her yourself?! You son of a bitch! Your woman kept company with her! You…"
The fury pent up by helplessness, by fear, by the sight of his dead son burst out. Stanislav bellowed incoherently and, forgetting the club, lunged, fist raised to smash Jaromir full in the face.
The hunter swayed aside like a supple reed in the wind. The powerful blow, meant to knock a man off his feet, hissed a hair's breadth past his temple. Missing the expected resistance, Stanislav lurched forward, face contorted with spite, barely keeping his balance.
"Calm yourself, Elder," Jaromir said evenly. "Your pain is understood, but rage will not bring your son back."
"Calm myself?!" Stanislav shouted, trying to strike again, but this time the men seized his arms. "My son is dead! And you! You! You did nothing!"
The elder sobbed, his body racked with convulsions, but Jaromir, looking at him, felt no pity. He saw not a grieving father but a man who had finally gotten his deserts. And he understood all too well that this madman would keep sowing chaos until the whole village drowned in fear and hatred.
"Calm yourself," Jaromir repeated firmly, straightening. "Blind fury won't help. Think clearly — if you want to find the culprit, use your reason, not your fists."
Stanislav jerked in the men's grip, but they held him tighter. Boris the blacksmith, for all his obsequiousness toward the elder, understood that a brawl in public must not be allowed when the entire village was already on the brink of panic.
"Reason?" Stanislav croaked, his voice bubbling with rage mingled with despair. "My son is dead! And you dare talk of reason?"
"We looked for the girl, Elder," Miron the cobbler put in, trying to defuse things. "We went through all the forests, the tracks led right to the border. We saw the dead land in Zalesie too — ghastly sight, as if the earth itself were hateful to the gods. The witch's trail broke there, by the stream."
"I don't give a damn about poisoned land!" Stanislav bellowed, struggling free. "The witch must be found! I'll cut her throat myself, tear her to pieces with my own hands!"
The mention of the dead land stirred something in Jaromir's memory — some hazy link between what he had seen in Zalesie and what was happening in their village. But the thought slipped away like a fish in muddy water — close, yet impossible to grasp.
"She killed them all!" the elder raved on, spitting. "Her father first, then old Nastasya who spoke the truth about her! Then holy Tadeusz who defended us from her with prayers! And now my boy…"
"The girl could hardly have done this," Jaromir said calmly.
Stanislav froze, his eyes narrowing to slits. "What did you say? You defend the witch?"
Jaromir understood he was tempting fate, but it was too late to step back. And his conscience would not let him stay silent when an innocent was being blamed for others' sins.
"I found her in the undergrowth this morning," he said slowly, feeling the crowd fall silent, dozens of eyes boring into him. "When Tadeusz was dying, we both saw it. She was no less frightened than I was. I saw the evil with my own eyes — the miasma that rose from the earth, struck with roots, sucked the life out. At the sight of that creature the girl nearly fainted from fear. It was no pretense — I can tell true fear from a feigned one."
Whispers ran through the crowd. Some prayed, some shook their heads. Stanislav, for his part, turned an even deeper purple, if such a thing were possible.
"So you know where she is!" he spat. "You hid the witch! Conspired with her!"
"I won't say," Jaromir cut him off, steel in his voice. "Because the girl isn't guilty of the deaths — only of running from your son. She ran from his filthy hands when he tried to take her by force!"
Stanislav opened his mouth but no sound came out — he only wheezed like a fish on the bank. The crowd froze in dumb astonishment. And into that tomb-like silence came the creak of wooden wheels.
Every head turned toward the sound. Along the packed earth, pushing with sticks, Bogdan, Jaromir's younger brother, crawled out on his little cart. The stumps of his legs were wrapped in rags, his face contorted with effort, but his eyes burned with resolve. He stopped in the middle of the square, breathing hard, and raised one stick to point at his brother.
"Stop playing the fool, Jaromir," the cripple rasped, his voice ringing through the hush like an alarm bell. "No need to defend the witch. She's in our house — my dear sister-in-law is hiding her. And you, brother, with your stubbornness are leading the whole family to the executioner's block!"
Jaromir felt the ground go from under his feet. He looked at his brother — the very Bogdan he had fed all these years, brought game to, for whom Katara had cared as for her own. His mouth fell open, but no words came — only bitterness rose from his heart to his throat, bitter as wormwood.
The crowd exploded in shouts. "They're in league!" someone screamed. "The hunter made a pact with the witch!" others took up. "Wipe out the whole family before they doom the village!" The men holding Stanislav let him go and edged away from Jaromir as if he had suddenly turned leprous. The women called on Melitele and muttered curses; children hid behind their mothers' skirts.
The crowd surged toward the hunter's house like a muddy torrent after a dam bursts. Stanislav ran at the front, brandishing his club; his faithful retainers — Boris the blacksmith and a couple of other men — kept pace beside him, urging him on with cries of justice and vengeance. Jaromir was seized at once — rough hands wrenched his elbows behind his back and dragged him after the mob.
"Stanislav, stop!" the hunter shouted, struggling. "She's not guilty! You know she's not!"
But the father crazed with grief did not listen. Blood hammered in his ears; a red veil of rage swam before his eyes. He saw only one thing — vengeance for his son, death for death.
On the threshold of the house they were met by Katara. The children clung to her skirt — Mirek stared at the crowd wide-eyed, little Agata sobbed, burying her face in her mother's apron. Beside Katara stood Agnieszka — pale, but with her head proudly raised.
Jaromir caught his wife's gaze and gave the slightest shake of his head. No use for heroics here, he understood. She was a clever woman — that was why he had fallen in love with her years ago: for her sense, her good judgment, for not rushing bull-headed at trouble. He had only noticed her incredible beauty after, when he was already placing the wedding wreath on her head. And now she understood him again — do not stand against the mob. The mob is a rabid beast, but it will not touch the children if their mother does not defend them with an axe in her hands. Jaromir still believed in the remnants of humanity in the hearts of the people he had lived beside for so many years.
Agnieszka stepped forward of her own accord. Katara tried to catch her by the hand, but the girl only gave a bitter little smile and slipped free.
"So, you've come for me?" her voice rang like a drawn bowstring. "You've come for the witch? For the one who supposedly killed everyone?"
She swept the crowd with her gaze, and many dropped their eyes.
"Do you know why your precious Maciej died?" Agnieszka turned to Stanislav. "Because he reached his filthy paws toward me! Because he wanted to take me by force when my father hadn't yet grown cold in the ground! And you" — she jabbed a finger at the elder — "you knew! But you looked the other way, because he's your heir, your own blood!"
Stanislav purpled, but Agnieszka didn't let him speak.
"And you all," she swept her hand over the crowd, "are ready to betray anyone for the coins from his pocket. Like this one — " her gaze stopped on Bogdan, who had pushed closer on his little cart. "You sold your own brother for what? For the elder's promise of a handout? Or simply out of cowardice?"
Jaromir couldn't help thinking. Had Bogdan really bargained something out of Stanislav? Or in his fright had he decided Jaromir truly was leading the family to ruin? But any thought of it burned his soul like red-hot iron, and the hunter drove it away. He listened to Agnieszka and saw — Stanislav didn't care about her words. Grief and rage had made him deaf to reason.
"Seize the witch!" the elder growled with sadistic relish. "Drag her to the square!"
"Kill her!" someone in the crowd shouted. "So the evil will leave!"
Jaromir lunged with such force that the men holding him lost their grip. He shoved forward to Stanislav and planted himself between him and Agnieszka.
"Leave the girl," he breathed. "It won't help."
"Shut up!" Stanislav roared. "One more word and you're next for the stake!"
Jaromir stood firm, shielding the girl with his body, and looked into Stanislav's eyes — eyes bloodshot and mad. The crowd froze, breathing heavily like one great beast ready to slip its chain. The air reeked of sweat, fear, and the smoke of torches that fluttered in the wind, casting shadows on the people's faces — distorted, almost unrecognizable.
"And if you kill an innocent and the spirit doesn't leave?" Jaromir said softly, but clearly enough that every word reached the crowd's ears. "What will you do then, Elder? Drag someone else to the stake? Are you truly ready to kill an orphan for a mere chance that the evil will be sated with her blood and crawl back into the fields?"
Stanislav bared his teeth and stepped closer, squeezing the club until the wood creaked in his hands.
"She is not innocent!" he snarled, spitting. "She didn't run for nothing, the whelp! She's a witch; with sorcery she killed them all! She must die, and that's the end of it. Her death is the only way to still this scourge!"
The hunter did not retreat a step, though he felt the crowd behind the elder heaving, ready to surge forward. In some men's eyes a flicker of doubt appeared — the kind that's born when fury collides with logic. He saw Miron the cobbler look away, and Boris the blacksmith shift from foot to foot, as if suddenly unsure of the elder's hasty decisions. It was not sound sense that moved Stanislav, but blind vengeance — for his son, for the loss, for the world that had suddenly turned over and struck him to the heart.
"Are you prepared to live with the consequences if she truly is innocent?" Jaromir asked, staring him down. "If her blood on your hands is shed in vain?"
Stanislav laughed — hoarsely, raggedly, but in that laugh there was an uncertainty he tried to hide behind rage.
"Yes, I'm ready!" he spat. "Because she's guilty! Guilty, and that's that! And if not… then the gods will decide. But she will not live!"
The crowd hummed — not as unanimously as before. Someone in the back muttered, "Smells like vengeance, not truth…" And old woman Zofya, sister of the late Nastasya, laid a hand to her heart and whispered to her neighbor: "Oh, what is happening…"
Katara stepped forward, pushing the children behind her. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned with resolve — the very resolve Jaromir had loved in her from the first days. She stood beside her husband, unafraid of the crowd, and her voice rang out sharp.
"Listen to him!" she shouted, sweeping her gaze over the villagers' faces. "Jaromir has never lied to you! How many times has he brought game in hungry winters? How many times has he protected us from wolves? He's an honest man — always has been!"
Someone in the crowd — seemingly old Yakub, the former wagoner — nodded and boomed in support:
"She speaks true! The hunter isn't one to lie. He's always told it straight."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Certainty melted; people exchanged glances, and tension hung in the air. Jaromir took advantage of the moment, raised his hand, and called for silence.
"Fine, suppose she is a witch," he said loudly so all could hear. "But where's the guarantee the evil will leave with her death? That it won't stay and go on devouring us one by one?"
"She summons it!" someone shouted from the back, one of Stanislav's lackeys, it seemed. "Kill her and the spirit will quiet down!"
Jaromir shook his head, wielding arguments like his arrows — precisely and mercilessly.
"Use your heads! When old woman Nastasya was dying, the orphan was in Stanislav's byre — under your supervision, Elder. When Tadeusz perished, she was standing next to me, saw it all with her own eyes, and was scared to death, as I was. It was no act, but true fear, the kind that makes your legs give way. And when Maciej died, she was sitting in my house, under my roof. If she is a witch — if she truly loosed the spirit — then now it lives on its own, by its own will! And where's the guarantee that after the "witch's" death it won't be angered all the more and slaughter the whole village? What then — shall we pay with all our blood for your mistake?"
Those words fell into the crowd like stones into bog mire — heavy, with a gurgle, and waves went through the people. The men lowered their sickles and spears, the women pressed their palms to their mouths, and the children stopped whimpering, sensing the air thicken with doubt. Jaromir's logic was as simple as daily bread, and therefore irresistible. Certainty and rage ebbed — people balk when reminded about their own skins.
Stanislav looked back at the crowd, saw the wavering, and growled in helplessness.
"And what do you propose, hunter?" he hissed, squeezing the club. "Sit and wait till the evil eats us all?"
Jaromir straightened, looking at the elder and at everyone at once.
"I'll go to the evil myself," he said simply but firmly. "I'll go into the fields and try to stop it. You lose nothing. If I manage to kill the creature, then Agnieszka is innocent and will live. And if I die… well, then let the village do as it will."
Silence fell. Torches crackled, the wind stirred the thatch on the roofs, and the people stood motionless, digesting the hunter's words. In that silence you could hear hearts beating — fast, uneven, full of fear and hope.
Katara stepped forward, her eyes full of tears and fear. She seized her husband's hand; her fingers trembled, cold and damp with sweat.
"Don't go, Jaromir," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, don't go. It isn't your war. Let them… let…"
The hunter looked at her — at the woman who had borne his children, shared his bed and hungry winters — and felt something inside him quiver. He laid his palm on her cheek, warm and soft, and shook his head.
"I'm tired of standing aside, Katara," he said quietly. "The world now is such that if you don't do good deeds, it's as good as serving evil. How long can we watch injustice take place?"
She sobbed and pressed herself to him, embracing so tightly his ribs ached. Her hands dug into his back as if trying to keep him here forever. But in the end she let go and nodded. Her eyes were red.
The crowd whispered, and someone rumbled in a low voice:
"Jaromir's a real man. Not a coward, like some."
Stanislav, still purple with rage, stepped closer, clenching the club.
"And won't you run?" he growled. "You know the woods best of all. You'll slip into the bogs and we'll never see you again."
Jaromir smiled with one corner of his mouth, but there was no merriment in his eyes — only weariness and resolve.
"Run?" he echoed. "I love my wife, Elder. And my children. I'll come back for their sakes even if I have to claw my way out of the netherworld. And if you doubt it…" He swept his gaze over the crowd. "Then come with me. Or you, Boris. Or you, Miron. Any volunteers?"
The men lowered their eyes, scuffed their feet on the ground, muttered something indistinct. No one stepped forward — fear was strong. Jaromir grunted in understanding, turned, and strode toward the house.
Inside the hut it was warm and stuffy — the smell of smoke from the hearth mixed with the scent of dried herbs and musty straw. The bow and quiver of arrows were already on him. But the hunter knew: this was no ordinary hunt. He believed Agnieszka was not to blame, that the evil had come from outside — from those dead fields or from the depths of the bog — and it had to be killed for the village to breathe easy. But how?
He could handle a wolf — knife to the throat and done. A bear — traps, an arrow to the eye, patience and cunning. But here? A bodiless spirit, a miasma from the mist through which arrows would fly and a knife leave no mark. How do you strike what is not flesh?
Jaromir sat on the bench and sorted through his arrows — the points were sharp, iron, forged by his own hand. Perhaps he should bless them with water from the well? Or smear them with the herbs Agnieszka brewed? No, foolishness. He stood, went to the hearth, and took a handful of ash — from burned birch branches, which, according to belief, drive off unclean spirits. He rubbed it onto the bowstring, muttering under his breath an old prayer to Melitele he had heard from his father: "Merciful Mother, give strength to the hand, fortify the spirit, drive away the darkness." Knife at the belt — a good one, with a handle of stag horn. Into his pocket — a bone amulet carved in the shape of a protective rune, a gift from his grandfather. He did not know whether any of this would help, but faith in such little things gave at least some support. The atmosphere in the hut thickened — the air seemed heavy, steeped in the expectation of misfortune, and the shadows from the hearth danced on the walls as if mocking his preparations. A chill ran down Jaromir's back: he realized he was not going out to hunt game, but something ancient, hungry. But to turn back would be to betray himself, his family, and his conscience.
At last, when he was ready — cloak on his shoulders, bow in his hands — the door creaked, and Bogdan rolled into the hut on his little cart. The cripple was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth to say something — perhaps to apologize, perhaps to reproach — but Jaromir raised a hand to stop him.
"Look after my wife and children, brother," he said without rancor. "And thank you for that much."
Bogdan broke off, nodded silently, and something like remorse flickered in his eyes.
When Jaromir stepped out of the hut, the crowd looked at him less contemptuously than before — respect flickered in their eyes, mingled with fear. Someone — old Yakub — came forward, shook his hand, and muttered, "Gods be with you, hunter." Old woman Zofya slipped a Melitele prayer book wrapped in a scrap of cloth into his pocket. "For luck, son." Even Miron the cobbler nodded in approval, though he turned away afterward.
Katara embraced him again, pressed her whole body to his, whispering in his ear: "You promised to come back. Remember."
He nodded, kissed her lips — salty with tears — and pecked the children on the forehead. Mirek stared at his father wide-eyed; little Agata whimpered softly, clutching at his trouser leg. Jaromir cast a glance at the orphan. She stood among the crowd, hands bound, but gratitude shone in her eyes. She mouthed, "Forgive me." The hunter only smiled sadly — there was nothing to forgive. Such a thing could have happened to anyone. All that remained was to act according to conscience, and come what may.
Taking one last look at his loved ones — at Katara, at the children, at Bogdan in the doorway — Jaromir adjusted the bow on his shoulder, ran his fingers over the arrows in his quiver, and set off along the road to the fields he knew so well. His steps were sure, but inside everything tightened from uncertainty.
Stanislav shouted after him, his voice full of malice and despair:
"We wait till morning, hunter! If you don't return, then the spirit lives — and that means we'll kill the orphan anyway!"