C. Cherryh - Chernevog

He had herb-pots of his own to bring up from the cellar. The bread he had left the domovoi was gone, neither crumb nor track showing on the smooth-worn floor: “Little grandfather,” he called, but the House-thing made no appearance even when he brought his lamp into that area of the cellar it most haunted. He searched the shelves there for feverfew and woundwort, willow bark and yarrow, salt and sulfur, little pots he and Eveshka had neatly labeled, everything to Eveshka’s exacting sense of order.

Her touch, her presence was strong in this dark place, in the depths of the house she had grown up in, died near, returned to as a wife… He told himself there was nothing in the world to fear from Eveshka’s lingering wishes, there was nothing she would ever do or want that might harm him or Pyetr…

But he kept remembering—Chernevog came and went here, often.

He heard Uulamets shouting, heard her saying, in tears:

—You never give anyone a chance, papa. You never trust anyone! Why should anyone be honest with you?

Eveshka walking on the misty river shore, among like ghosts of trees long dead—toward a cloaked man waiting for her—

“God.” Sasha all but lost his breath, caught his balance against the shelf, pottery rattling against his arms.

Cold and dark, roots above a hollow bank, where the vodyanoi lived, Chernevog’s old ally—

Eveshka’s grave, such as it was, whatever it still contained…

He wished with all his heart for her to hear him. But that smothering hush fell like deep snow. He stood there smelling age and preservation, and listening to the distressed creaking of old timbers.

One never knew how long wizardry was going to take once It got started, Pyetr knew that, and there was no telling what Sasha meant to do in there, but a body was well advised not to walk in on things, no matter how tired he was or how desperate, no matter that it was dark out in the yard and he had no lamp.

A wizard did not have to think about such petty things. A wizard could talk about packing damned little pots while a man’s wife was in danger, a wizard could talk about reason while the sky was falling and then still cast about to be sure and double sure before he did anything.

So Pyetr had himself a supper of cold sausage, and poured a drink for Babi while Volkhi lipped up the last of his grain in the moonlight, under ragged cloud. Babi had zealously done what a proper Yard-thing should do: he had gotten Volkhi out of the garden and into his pen, Volkhi none the worse for a few greens on the way, and not at all disturbed about Babi, who had been, when Pyetr had arrived in the back yard, sitting in the gap he had left in the pen—insisting something at least behave itself and stay where it was supposed to.

Now Babi was a small black furball tucked as close to Pyetr’s boot as he could get.”Find ’Veshka, can you?” Pyetr had asked him, and maybe Babi had tried, silently, in whatever way a dvorovoi might know where his people were. Certainly Babi was not his ordinary cheerful self tonight—he moped, drank his vodka and dropped his chin on his small hands with a sigh.

“We’ll find her,” Pyetr said, and stroked Babi’s shaggy head. Babi growled then, which might mean almost anything.

But Babi had his head up staring across the dark yard; and Pyetr looked at the bathhouse, where Babi was looking, with the most uneasy feeling there was something in the shadows staring back at him.

Sasha fed kindling into the fire in the hearth, flung in herbs that master Uulamets had recommended; salt, baneful to certain wicked things; lastly a few strands of Eveshka’s hair: that was the essence of the spell he was casting. He looked for patterns in the light, he leaned close and fanned the smoke to him, taking whatever thoughts the smoke brought.

The spell was not the smoke, the spell was not in the smoke, it was in thinking about the things it held, not in one’s own order of importance—

It was in letting the smoke mix everything equally and spin out a new order of things—no one thing and no one question, momentarily, in greater importance than anything else—

A willow leaf balanced on a still current, a bubble stopped in the act of breaking —

In the quiet, think about hearth and house: Pyetr and Uulamets and Eveshka. Think of Vojvoda and Kiev; think of ordinary folk, oblivious to what existed beyond their fields and over the hills, think of all the tsars in all the kingdoms in all the world, because the currents went that far—

Everything poised motionless and waiting —

Think of a butter churn and a mud puddle; a house far north of this house, all in charred ruins—

Chernevog’s house. Malenkova’s house, once. Even Uulamets had lived there, when Uulamets had been himself an apprentice…

Be rid of hearts, Uulamets’ voiceless voice chided him: never rely on them; love nothing and nowhere above everything and all places.

Nothing more than anything, everything passing like the river passing the house. Uulamets’ wife was in that river and his daughter was in that river, Uulamets’ life was in that river: everything flowed past him, everything was always there, the paradox of leaves on the water-Breathe in the smoke, boy, breathe in, breathe in, breathe in…

Head above heart, boy. Head always above heart.

He pressed his hands against his eyes, thinking: Head without heart—that made Chernevog. Heart without head—what can that make anyone, but the town fool?

Thank the god, Uulamets had said, most wizards lose their gift young, most smother it, most wish the power of wishing away—

Always that choice was available, until the power grew too great, until one dared do nothing—not even retrace the steps leading to that one frozen moment—

’Veshka saying: I don’t want to be stronger—so that’s that, isn’t it?

He sat in front of the fire, he listened to the shifting of the domovoi in the cellar, bound to the house, lost in its memories; he thought about Pyetr out there alone in the yard.

Babi was with him. But there were things Babi could not deal with, there were things Babi had no power to fight—nor did he have. God, if it was Chernevog at the root of this, and if the leshys were failing to hold him…

A ring of thorns… where Forest-things wove in the danger that Kavi Chernevog had been —

He got up, shaking in the knees, he got all the books from the kitchen table and sat down again cross-legged in the heat and the light of the hearthside. He breathed the smoke, he asked himself what he was doing here, in Uulamets’ place, alone… it was Uulamets’ book he wanted, it was Chernevog’s he profoundly dreaded—but dread seemed like doubt to him, and wondering whether he was a fool even to contemplate what he was doing, he wished for answers from Chernevog’s: let it fall open to any page it would and let his eye find anything that stopped it—

Today Draga is dead. She had begun, I think, to worry about me.

Another skip of the eye:

… But she wanted me more than she wanted power: she had so much of that she didn’t want any more, so she settled for her own indulgence. That was her mistake…

—I don’t want to be stronger—so that’s that, isn’t it?

Learning it, I surpassed my teacher; understanding it, I despised her; using it, I killed her…

God, what’s it saying? Is it about ’Veshka?

Or does it mean anything at all? It’s like the smoke, it’s not what’s in it, the spell’s not in the smoke, it’s not in the words—

Chernevog’s not a wizard any more, he’s a sorcerer, whatever that means. Uulamets had to use real magic to stop him—he had to do it and the god only knows what he paid for it or how he got it or what helped him. That’s not in his book. That’s not in anything he left me.