The square by the well, usually quiet and drowsy at dawn, now seethed with life — or with what was left of it after a sleepless night. Mist from the bogs spread along the ground, mingling with the smoke from torches guttering in the men's hands. All the inhabitants of Rechitsy had gathered there — some on carts, some on benches brought from their huts — waiting for Jaromir's return or, rather, preparing for the fact that he would not come. Stanislav, not believing in the hunter's success, had ordered a pyre for the execution to be raised: afraid to go into the forest at night for fresh brushwood, people dragged old logs, straw, and dry branches from their yards, piling it all into a huge heap in the middle of the square. The pyre grew like a monster — crooked, menacing, ready to flare up any second.
Agnieszka stood by a post, bound with coarse rope, under the watch of two of Stanislav's guards — brawny men with clubs who never took their eyes off her. She held herself proudly, back straight, chin lifted, but fear betrayed itself in small details: the tremor in her bound hands, which she tried to hide, and a gaze that flicked through the crowd seeking support. Beside her, a few steps away, stood Katara. She tried to come closer, to comfort the poor orphan, but one of the guards shoved her back roughly:
"Not allowed, woman."
The woman retreated, but her eyes kept straying to the edge of the village, into the mist where her husband had vanished — her face was pale and gaunt, and her lips were bitten bloody with worry. The children clung to her skirt: Mirek stared silently at the pyre, eyes wide, and little Agata whimpered softly, tired and frightened, clutching at her mother's apron. Bogdan, on his little cart, had placed himself off to the side of the crowd and could not find any rest; he kept fidgeting, pushing himself with his sticks. His face looked even more haggard, the wrinkles deeper, his eyes sunken, and the stumps of his legs, wrapped in rags, jerked in agitation, as if he were on the point of standing to do something — anything — but could not think what.
People spoke in undertones, shifting from foot to foot in the morning chill.
"Jaromir won't return," one of the old men muttered, spitting sadly on the ground. "The evil took him, like the others."
"Sending the hunter was for nothing," old woman Zofya murmured, wiping her nose with a kerchief. "We wasted a man for nothing."
"We should have gone with him," Yakub, the former wagoner, added gloomily, rubbing his callused hands. "One man can't manage there, and here we sit like cowards."
Someone younger grumbled: "It's not right to take the law into our own hands, men. We should go to the city, to a witcher or a priest — let them drive the evil out."
But there were few such voices — the majority kept silent or nodded toward Stanislav, awaiting his word. His fields and holdings fed many: those without land went to him as laborers, and he paid in coin, not empty promises like other elders. He sometimes forgave widows and large families their debts, and paid men for odd jobs — hauling cargo to the city or standing with a club at the fair. For the women he would even bring a length of cloth for a dress now and then, and for the children he'd gift gingerbread or a wooden toy. And the people, as usual, paid with gratitude.
With his coming Rechitsy had grown richer. With him there was more food and more peace. Harvests increased when he bought up land from Zalesie, Vishnevka, Lozovka, and now the surplus grain was carted to the city. The communal house was repaired, the well renewed, the mill set to rights — everything under his hand. Some whispered that he had taken the land dishonestly, by cunning, and that he filled his purse with more than his due. But no one protested aloud: hunger is more frightening than greed. So long as there is work, bread, and a warm stove, most have no questions for authority.
In the turmoil the evil brought, people clung to Stanislav like to an anchor in a storm. He had always been their support: his word calmed worries, his hand pointed the way. They believed — if the elder decided something, then so it should be, and if you followed him, you too would receive a share of calm and safety. A crowd knitted together by that belief was ready to follow his orders, if only to drive out the fear that squeezed their hearts.
Meanwhile the first rays of the sun were already gilding the edge of the mist. The elder surveyed the square and nodded to himself.
"Time's up," he thundered, his voice echoing through the village. "It's morning, and the hunter isn't here. The evil took him. Bring the girl to the stake!"
The watchmen seized Agnieszka by the arms. The girl jerked, but the ropes held fast. Katara lunged forward, shielding her with her body: "Don't touch her! She's done nothing wrong!" But the men dragged her back roughly, one even shoving her shoulder.
"Settle down, fool!" one of them snarled.
The children wailed louder; Agata screamed: "Mama!"
Bogdan, on his cart, rolled closer and sank his teeth into the nearest man's leg like a dog: "Let her go, you swine!"
The man yelled in pain, kicked the cart, and Bogdan toppled into the dust. Uproar flared — not everyone in the village agreed with Stanislav's decision. Yakub grabbed someone by the sleeve, shouting "Stop!", the women squealed, but Stanislav's yes-men — those who fed from his largesse — were louder:
"Burn the witch! End it!"
At the peak of tension, when Agnieszka was already being dragged to the pyre and Katara was tearing herself from their hands, someone in the crowd — old woman Zosia, with her sharp gaze — shouted:
"Look!"
And pointed toward the bogs.
Every head turned to where, out of the mist, staggering, came Jaromir.
He walked slowly, his figure blurred in the gray morning light. His gait was uneven, heavy. The crowd gasped: the skin on his face and hands was shriveled and cracked, covered in brown scars, as if the evil had wrung some of the life from him. His eyes were sunken, full of weariness and something alien, inhuman. He carried his bow on his shoulder and gripped a prayer book in his hand, but he looked less like a man than a corpse — one more victim of the miasma who, against all the laws of the world, had not died and was moving forward, driven by the last spark of will.
"Mother Melitele…" old woman Zosia whispered, and others drew back, muttering prayers. Katara cried out and sprang forward, but the guards held her. The children cried louder, and Bogdan, still in the dust, pushed himself up on his elbows, whispering:
"Brother…"
The crowd murmured:
"Look at him… His skin is like Kazik's!"
"A monster's come!"
Stanislav froze, and confusion showed on his face. Jaromir stopped about ten paces from the crowd, raised his hand, and called for silence. His voice was hoarse, broken — but firm.
"I saw the evil," he began, sweeping his gaze over his neighbors' faces. "No witch called it. It's a spirit of the earth, woken by poison. Stanislav… he poisoned the neighbors' rivers so their fields would wither, their harvests rot, and the peasants sell their land for a pittance. Zalesie, Vishnevka — this is all his doing. He hired men, paid them gold to pour filth into the water. The evil is taking revenge for this — it wants to cleanse the land of us, of our greed."
The whisper swelled into a mutter:
"He's raving!"
"The evil's muddled his wits!"
"Don't believe him — he's unclean himself now!"
Several women dropped their eyes, unable to bear the sight of his gaunt face, and the men who worked for Stanislav shouted:
"Lies! The elder feeds us!"
Stanislav burst out laughing — loudly, raggedly, but with hidden fury in the sound. He lifted his club and stepped forward, sweeping the crowd with his gaze.
"You want the truth, people?!" he thundered. "Then hear it! Yes, I sent men to poison the rivers, I paid them for it. Zalesie, Vishnevka, Lozovka — their land grew weak, and they sold it to us. Why? For Rechitsy! For us! Our fields are growing, and the land always revives. In a couple of years at most, the harvest will be abundant. We'll feed every household, and the surplus will go to the city. There will be work for everyone: on the new lands, in the granaries, at the mill. Coin will flow — you'll repair your huts, buy the children new toys, dress the women in city cloth. Without me you'd be dying of hunger like all the rest! We'll go on — buy up more, raise the village. There will be food on the table every day, while others starve as we grow!"
The crowd fell silent for a moment, then hummed approvingly:
"The elder is right!"
"He's saving us!"
"We won't go under with him!"
Most nodded, recalling his favors and their work — fear of hunger outweighed the truth. A few voices — Yakub, old woman Zofya, Bogdan — shouted:
"This is an atrocity!"
"The land will not forgive you!"
But their protest drowned in the noise of approval. Stanislav, twisting his lips in a smirk, raised his club and barked:
"This traitor is the evil's envoy! But we, people, are the masters of this land, not ancient spirits! Show him we're not afraid! We'll burn this heresy, tear it up by the roots!"
Jaromir stood, listening to the crowd's rumble and Stanislav's words, and suddenly understood — everything had been leading to this. Years of handouts, fear, and silent assent to injustice had brought them to this outcome. The evil would not be stopped while the root of it lived. There was no other way.
He glanced at Katara — her eyes, full of worry and love, met his. She understood without words, as she always had. A fine, faithful woman. The main thing was not to miss.
With a practiced, honed movement Jaromir snatched an arrow, drew the string in a flash, and shot at Stanislav.
But his hand trembled — whether from weakness or from the evil's scars that still bound his body. The arrow struck the elder's shoulder, not his heart. Stanislav bellowed, clutching the wound; blood ran over his coat.
"Seize him!" Stanislav yelled, spittle flying, and the crowd, like a pack of enraged dogs, surged forward. Men with fists and clubs fell upon Jaromir, their faces twisted with malice and fear. Those who fed on the elder's largesse were the first to charge into the fray, brandishing sickles and sticks, shouting:
"Traitor! Unclean thing!"
Jaromir fought back fiercely; they tore the bow from his hands and trampled it in the dust, but he grabbed attackers by the tunics, punched jaws, drove elbows into ribs, flinging the nearest aside. Yet the crowd was not of one mind — old Yakub roared and plowed into the crush, shoving aside two of Stanislav's henchmen:
"Stop, you idiots! He's telling the truth!"
Someone seized the blacksmith Boris by the sleeve, shrieking:
"Don't touch him, you brute!"
A brawl flared in the square — fists flashed, clubs whistled, cries blended into chaos. Women wailed, men growled, dust billowed in clouds, but those who stood with Stanislav were too many. His farmhands and sycophants, driven by promises of coin and fear of hunger, prevailed, pushing back Jaromir's defenders. Katara screamed shrilly, lunged toward her husband, shoving people aside, but one of the guards posted over Agnieszka — a big lout with a club — punched her in the chest, hurling her back. The woman fell into the dust, gasping for air, and the children shrieked in terror, rushing to her:
"Mama! Mama!"
In the turmoil the orphan Agnieszka went down; the ropes slackened, and the crowd nearly trampled her. Jaromir saw it and lunged toward her, but someone's hands grabbed him by the neck and threw him into the dust. The girl crawled aside, coughing, while the crowd was busy with the hunter. Bogdan, on his little cart, rolled up to her, teeth clenched. His fingers began hastily untying the knots on her wrists.
"Run, girl," he whispered, and Agnieszka, without looking back, darted toward the edge of the square, into the mist, to the bogs.
They threw Jaromir down and twisted his arms behind his back.
"To the stake with him! With the witch!" Stanislav's followers shouted. The elder, clutching his bleeding shoulder, rasped:
"Find the girl!"
But no one noticed how Agnieszka disappeared. And the only one who knew the bog trails lay bound and beaten. The pyre flared, flame licked the dry logs, and the crowd, drowning out Yakub and old woman Zofya crying "Stop, you madmen!", dragged Jaromir toward the fire. He tried to break free, but his strength was leaving him. The last thing he saw before darkness closed over him were Katara's and the children's tear-streaked faces, their silhouettes in the smoke. And behind them, in the depths of the mist, a glimpse of Agnieszka's black dress fleeing into the forest, toward freedom.