‘Sacred Mother Earth, look over us and preserve your children,’ Katchka said as she got inside.
Scrabbling after, Iwa half expected that the boat would be different somehow, but she wasn’t too surprised to find that it wasn’t, except for the loosened tarpaulin, which let in some air. At least it’s driven the smell away, she thought ruefully. It was only now that she could make out the interior of the craft properly: the wooden ribs of the boat arched along the sleekly curved hull, banded by the sun where the light dripped down across the wood, the colour of honey.
Where do people eat, how do they sleep? She’d heard of voyages that lasted months, ships that sailed right up to the snowy mountains of the Laps or to holy Byzantium itself. She had little idea where these places were, but they must have been very far away to be outside the forest. Maybe they don’t sleep at all, not when they’re at sea. Perhaps Jurata forces their eyes open. She shivered. The sea goddess must have been really cruel to do something like that. Maybe that was why they were all mad. Jurata must have sown this idea into their heads because she doesn’t like Matka Ziemia.
She sank back against the side of the ship. The only real difference was the cauldron that the woyaks had dragged into the centre of the space. Katchka and some of the elders crowded round and there was a murmur of disappointment as the lid was lifted to reveal nothing more than a mess of dried berries and a little smoked meat. But everyone crammed round all the same, the wooden ribs of the ship creaking under their weight as the elders dished out the food with their hands. Iwa elbowed her way to the front and was rewarded with a handful of nuts and a hunk of smoked meat that might once have been elk.
Quickly, she cats-pawed her way to the far end of the ship and sank into the darkness, her back braced against the timbers as she stuffed the meat into her mouth. Almost at once her lips curled in disgust and it was all she could do to keep from spitting it out again. The meat was so hard that she thought she might tear her teeth on it. It had been salted too, so heavily that her tongue felt ready to burst. Luckily the woyaks had also hauled up a barrel of fresh water into the centre of the boat.
She was just about to ask for a second mouthful of water when Katchka grabbed her arm and drew her from the others. ‘Tonight,’ the old woman whispered, ‘slip out once it’s dark, by then the men will have had their fill of vodka.’ She slipped a couple of reed baskets into Iwa’s hands. Iwa had no idea where she had got them from. Some of the women clutched a few possessions. They’d take them out sometimes and look at them with blank, careworn eyes.
‘No,’ Alia said as she realised what was going on, and the whole room stopped dead. ‘You’ll get us all killed.’
‘Better that than to rip open the womb of Matka Ziemia,’ Katchka said, ‘or do you want Jezi Baba to grind your bones into dust?’
‘Piórun protects Krol Gawel, and Piórun is mightier than Jezi Baba.’ Alia drew a deep breath. She’d gone too far and even some of the younger women edged away. Of course the clan had heard of the great god Piórun, who lived up high in his mountain and cast down bolts of thunder on all who angered him. Sometimes the clan would sacrifice a hare to him, but he was one of the newer gods: not like Bielobog or Chernobog or even Jezi Baba, and the clan didn’t trust him as much.
Yet not all the women seemed shocked, not nearly as many as Iwa would have expected, and, in the darkened corners at the stern, even some of the older women nodded. ‘Karnobog will look down and protect those who are his children,’ Katchka said, her voice rising to hide her fear. ‘Go and get the mushrooms and I’ll wipe these Poles from the face of moist Mother Earth: krols, woyaks, keinezes and all.’
‘But what if Krol Gawel finds out?’ Alia cried. Behind her the women nodded, their faces filled with fear. ‘She’s bound to get herself caught and then the krol will set his men on us.’
Iwa tugged hard away from Katchka’s grip and hoped that she would listen. She almost gave out a sigh of relief as the old woman let her arm fall.
‘Don’t think I haven’t seen you casting doe eyes at the woyaks.’ Katchka turned on Alia as Iwa dropped the baskets and began to creep away. ‘Our men aren’t even cold in their graves and already you lust after their murderers.’
‘Can I help who takes a fancy to me?’ Alia said. ‘I’ve done nothing to encourage any man. Give me the chance and I’ll show you how much I hate these woyaks.’
‘Such fine words,’ Katchka replied, ‘but it won’t be long before you’re in some woyak’s bed, or are you after the krol himself?’
Alia began to say something, but the old woman had already turned to Iwa. ‘We’ll wait until after sunset. The woyaks will be good and drunk by then and you can slip out of the camp quiet as a hawk. Make your way to the aspen trees, you know the spot.’ Iwa nodded. Behind her the faces of the women were grey with fear and uncertainty. ‘You should be back well before sunrise.’
‘But…’ Iwa began, looking for help as the women huddled together in the shadowed recesses of the boat and murmured dark prayers to bleak gods.
‘If you force her to go,’ Alia said slowly, ‘then I’ll tell Krol Gawel.’ There was a long silence as Katchka stood with her back to the women. Then she turned swiftly. Alia screamed and fell to
