There – it moved again, slipping softly as a snake across the stones. Breath held, Iwa pressed the thick folds of the blanket tightly about her limbs, ready to spring into action. At least the blanket covered her. Nobody except a trained hunter would ever have suspected her watchfulness. If only she had her knife. Under the blanket her hand reached for a rock, her eyes trained on the darkness. Nothing moved, only the moonlight playing across the stones. Maybe there wasn’t anything out there after all. This night has unsettled me: or else I’ve grown as foolish as Babcha or one of the other old ones.
Then, in the darkened recesses, the creature moved again. At first she thought it could have been a small boy, his form all but hidden in the shadows, but there was something about the way the thing moved, as if not quite human. But it wasn’t any animal she’d seen before, not from the way that it slithered across the stones. It was strong, for all its diminutive size, dense muscles lurking within a squat body as it grasped the thighbone of an elk, sharp teeth breaking through to the marrow.
With an awful slurping sound it began to gnaw on the bone. Suddenly the thing stopped and looked to the water’s edge. The body tensed as it glanced around at the gloom. From out of the dark came the slithering sound again. With a grunt of fear the bone was flung into the dark.
There was a pause and then the sound withdrew. On top of the rocks the shape squatted. There came an odd grating sound. Was it laughing? Nothing human could have made such a noise. Even old Katchka’s cackle paled into insignificance. Then it hopped down to the floor, short legs carrying it off into the dark.
‘You must be thirsty,’ a voice from behind said. Instantly Iwa shut her eyes and pressed herself hard into the ground. ‘Nobody who sleeps is ever that still,’ the voice mocked, as a hand rested on her shoulder.
‘Come now,’ the voice continued, ‘you’ve been through so much. Drink this, and all will be well.’ Gently a hand turned her over and only then did Iwa dare to open her eyes. Part of her expected something like the creature on the rocks, some other misshapen thing, but the figure that knelt over her was a young woman, her hair raven-black and braided with gold. ‘Take this,’ she said, her fingers easing around Iwa’s neck so that her head rested on the woman’s lap. ‘You must be parched.’ She smiled and pressed a golden cup to Iwa’s lips.
Too thirsty to resist, she took a deep gulp. Her mouth filled with a sweet honey taste, but there was something else, a trace of bitterness, as if the drink had been mixed with loganberries. ‘Don’t worry,’ the woman said, ‘I’m not going to poison you.’ She raised the cup to her own lips and drank. She was young, her skin the colour of pale moonlight, but her eyes were dark. Long braids reached behind her back. Silver rings dangled from a silken band drawn about her high forehead. ‘See,’ she took the cup from her lips, ‘nothing to worry about. A simple potion, nothing more; some fresh water, a few herbs.’ She paused and smiled. ‘And the rest is a secret lost to the world long ago. I can’t be giving away my recipes to the first stranger who passes, now can I?’
She held out the cup to let Iwa drink freely. ‘Good.’ The woman brushed Iwa’s forehead. ‘You must learn to trust. It must be difficult for you after all you must have been through.’
Iwa rested her head against the woman’s lap and felt that she could lie there forever, lost in the warm, velvety folds of the dress. It was a long gown which hugged the woman’s body and shimmered as she moved. Iwa had never seen, or felt, anything like it. ‘Are you one of the Polish ladies?’
‘Nothing so grand.’ The woman rested a finger on Iwa’s cheek. ‘I could never be so noble.’
‘Who are you, then?’
The woman looked away and paused, her finger stroking over Iwa’s face. ‘Hands.’ There was a hint of melancholy behind the word, as if it hid a great pain.
‘What kind of a name is that?’
‘You didn’t ask my name, only who I was, and I am a hand. My master motions me to act, and I respond. I am an extension of his body, nothing more.’ Now that the cup was empty, the woman put it on the ground by her knees. The sleeves of her dress, bound with gold thread, trailed in the air, and around her neck a silver torque gleamed, its clasp fashioned in the shape of a crow’s head.
‘I can’t call you Hands: that’d be ridiculous.’
‘Once I had a name. I was called Miskyia, but that was a very long time ago.’
‘Miskyia,’ Iwa repeated. It was a strange name, but not altogether unpleasant. The woman didn’t look old enough to have many names. ‘Where am I?’
‘In my master’s hall, or what was once his hall.’
‘Men built this?’ Iwa gasped. Now that she looked more closely she could see a ruined doorway, the lintels carved in the shape of what could have been snakes, though their heads, if they ever had any, lay smashed in the rubble. She’d heard of the halls of the Polish lords but in the stories they were wooden, like Krol Gawel’s boats. Not in her wildest imaginings had she ever considered that people could build halls from stone. Such things only existed in far-off Byzantium.
‘Men destroyed this place,’ Miskyia said, ‘long ago. They came with sword and axe and magic, and razed this temple to the ground.’ Iwa sank back. She didn’t know what a temple was, but it must be an important thing; to be built from stone and have men come to
