Sarwat Chadda - Dark Goddess

Old Gray, back in human form, pulled her to her feet. The werewolf’s naked body was covered with downy white fur. She squinted at Billi.

“She fights it, Great Mother.”

The witch smiled, her jagged iron teeth scraping together like rusty knives.

“She HAZZ a DaRKNEss IN herrr. Freeeee it. I want To hEAR her HOWL.” Hundreds of voices chorused the words together, all from one mouth. Voices of those she’d consumed over the countless centuries, still trapped deep within her soul. Billi clamped her hands over her ears, but the voices penetrated straight into her mind.

“The Beastis strongin her. A gift from her father,” said Old Gray. The voices laughed.

“That GIFt did NoT comme from HER Faather.”

“I am not a beast!” Billi screamed.

The wolves pushed and beat her. Hard hands slapped her, pulled her hair, and tossed her back and forth across the frozen ground. Everywhere she turned, some creature barked and harried her. She was in the heart of the pack. The heady musk of the damp fur and hot breaths overwhelmed her. Women with wild raging faces, and bodies covered in woad patterns, attacked her with their nails and claws. Wolves barged into her, knocking her down each time she rose. Others, half-human and half-beast, attacked her with blows and heavy cuffs, never letting Billi gather a breath. She spun in confusion.

Fight back! the Beast urged. Bite! Claw! Kill! Billi’s eyes flooded red and a haze of fury roared in her head. Someone grabbed her coat collar, and Billi bit deep into that furry hand. The other person yelled, but Billi shook her head savagely, tearing into the flesh. She felt the blood fresh and hot on her tongue. It tasted good.

Billi threw herself away from the melee, stunned, her head spinning and her legs weak and made of rubber. She spat, wiping out her mouth with her fingers to remove the taint of the rich, mouthwatering smell.

“I am not a beast!” she screamed.

Billi fought back, but steadily weariness took hold of her. There were too many. The dark-pelted wolves climbed over each other to get to her. The feral women formed a small circle around her, and there was Old Gray, the leader of the pack, gazing at her with cold fury. Billi’s arms became heavy and her reflexes dull. Unsteady but standing, Billi faced them, head low, breathing heavily, gasping down air. She flexed her fingers and snarled. The monsters crowded around her. But then Billi swayed as the ground under her pitched. Her vision became blurred, and she sank to her knees.

“I am not a-”

“B ILLI. WAKE UP.”

Billi groaned. She felt warm and safe, as though she’d been buried under the earth. She belonged down here. But the voice persisted.

“Billi. Wake up.”

She moved, but it was hard. Her chest throbbed dully, and she could only take tiny sips of breath. She touched her ribs gingerly and found that tight bandages covered her chest. Every bone ached, and every muscle burned, sending sharp spikes of agony along her nerves. Billi gritted her teeth and pushed, forcing herself up. It was hot work. Billi blinked as she emerged. The orange light from an oil lamp flickered on the walls of a nomadic Mongol tent-a ger-and weak sunlight shone through the partially open door flap. She hadn’t been buried; she’d been lying under a pile of smelly sheepskins.

Ivan sat to one side. “Welcome back,” he said, his face awash with relief. He looked tired, but well.

His leg had been reset and bound in a neat splint, and there was color in his cheeks again. He’d been given fresh clean clothes. An embroidered shirt and heavy woolen trousers. Around his waist was a red sash. He wore a heavy Mongol coat draped over his shoulders-glossy, dark blue silk with wool lining. He looked as though he’d stepped straight out of some Victorian romance. An old wooden crutch lay on the floor behind him.

He handed her a ladle filled with water. Billi emptied it in a gulp, and Ivan refilled it. She looked at her hands, almost expecting her nails to have turned to claws, but no, nothing had changed.

“You didn’t give in to it,” said Ivan, passing over the ladle again.

But God, did that water taste delicious. She licked her lips, savoring the slight earthy flavor that lingered there.

There was also a bowl of steaming broth-chunks of freshly cooked mutton floating in viscous gravy. Billi emptied it in seconds, then licked her fingers clean. She caught Ivan’s disapproving look.

“Sorry.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air swam with scents: of sweat and cooking, of the almost fruity perfume of leaded gasoline, and of deliciously smoky mutton.

“How long was I out?”

“Half a day. It’s Friday afternoon,” replied Ivan.

“Running out of time,” said Billi.

She’d fought off a change already, but tonight under the moonlight the urge would come again, stronger than before. And tomorrow, under a full moon? She’d transform.

Billi looked at the neat clean bandages on her forearm, where she’d been bitten. But these weren’t Elaine’s poultices: these were plain cloth. “I need my backpack,” Billi said. More than enough of Elaine’s magic patches in there.

Ivan shook his head. “They threw everything into a bonfire.” He leaned nearer. “Just hang on, Billi. Your father knows where we are. He’ll come, and he’ll bring more of Elaine’s bandages.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then will it matter what happens? To any of us?” Ivan pondered the next bit. His chin rested on his fist, and he looked at her. “But I will stick with you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Even if I become… one of them?”

“You will always be who you are, Billi SanGreal.”

She could hear voices around her, speaking in a mixture of languages and accents. People laughed and argued and coughed and cursed. The snow outside her tent crunched with approaching footsteps.

Svetlana-Big Red-threw open the tent flap wide and came in. She was holding a girl’s hand.

Vasilisa gave a cry of delightand bundled herself against Billi. The two embraced.

“I knew you’d come, Billi,” she whispered. “I just knew it.”

For a moment, Billi just hugged the girl. Maybe all the pain and hardship had been worth it.

But then Billi pulled her back, away. Vasilisa continued to smile brightly. She trusted Billi totally.

She doesn’t know why I’m here, Billi thought . She thinks I’ve come to save her .

In spite of the cold, the child wore a white summer smock, beautifully embroidered with green vines and delicate flowers. Her hennaed hands were bound with golden bracelets, and several necklaces hung from her neck. They were strung with beads, decorative stones, and uncut gemstones. Her blond hair had been arranged with seven or eight braids, each threaded with gold wire and old coins. On her feet she wore red slippers with curved toes, the felt decorated as lavishly as her smock.

The Polenitsy valued their Spring Child.

“Don’t you feel cold?” asked Billi as she held out a blanket. The smock was as thin as a handkerchief, and the girl’s legs were bare. Vasilisa shook her head.

“Not anymore.” She scratched her arm. “She’s shown me how, Billi. How to change what I am. It’s like the wind, the snow.” She passed her hand over the lamp flame. “Fire, even. It doesn’t touch me.”

“Baba Yaga?” Billi whispered. What other changes had the witch wrought on the little girl?

Svetlana hissed, and Vasilisa shuddered. She glanced over her shoulder at the Polenitsy, then nodded. “Yes, the goddess has shown me what I am.”

Billi brushed Vasilisa’s hair out of her face to get a good look at her. She was fresh and well-fed, but she had changed-she looked at Billi with wise eyes.