Ved'ma
desperation.
The morning light brought desperation with it.
The incessant knocking came again and again, pounding in tune with the headache that was slowly building behind Inna's brown eyes. She kept her head on her pillow for a bit longer, debating whether or not to will this person elsewhere.
Desperation brought the Ved'ma out from under her comfortable covers and into her shapeless tunic and thin woolen pants and thick boots. She left her frazzled hair as it was; she swished rosewater in her mouth and spat it out into the wash basin by the cracked mirror. She clomped down the stairs and waved a brown hand as she reached the bannister. In the hearth, a crackling fire awoke from the ashes. Another wave of the hand and the hovel's messes -- knives on the sofa, mugs and cups on the tables -- were cleaned up.
She opened the door as the knives sheathed themselves into the block. A woman stood there, a scarf wrapped around her hair. Her clothes were much like Inna's -- thick and dark. Her eyes were watery.
"Hello," Inna said carefully.
"I've been looking for you for months, Ved'ma," the woman whispered as she began to cry.
"C-Come in," Inna said and gently took the woman's elbow and ushered her in. The door closed itself behind them. Inna sat the woman down on one of the sofas.
The Ved'ma always found it mildly taxing and anxiety-inducing when someone showed up to her door in tears. Humans were such sensitive, fragile creatures; there was little that can be said to console them in such a state.
"What is your name?" Inna said. She breathed out and her kettle found itself warming in the hearth.
"Barbora," the woman said. Inna had never heard of such a name here, in the edges of the Tsarist realm.
"Where are you from, Barbora?"
"Hungary," Barbora said.
"Why have you come to see me?"
In response, Barbora pulled her coat away from herself and her scarf came away with it. Under the tan skin of her neck was a deep, dark bruise in the shape of a hand. On the edges of the finger marks, the darkness bled out like a pox.
"I want to keep my baby safe," the woman whimpered.
The woman had to say no more. From a drawer, the Ved'ma reached for a velvet bag filled with pieces of broken mirror. Opening the velvet bag to the light would be unwise; she reached her hand in and, careful not to cut herself, picked a satisfactory piece: jagged and cracked. She put this into a small burlap bag and held it out to the woman on the sofa.
The woman looked at Inna with fear. "What is it?"
"Broken glass," Inna said. "Put this under his pillow."
Barbora crossed herself as she took the bag in her hands and deposited it into her pocket. Along with the broken glass, Inna slipped Barbora a little bottle filled with a tincture of blood root and henbane.
"To put in his drink," Inna said. Barbora did not cross herself this time.
For Barbora and her baby, Inna gave her a few springs of cinquefoil to burn and keep under her pillow. She began to cry again when Inna handed her the charms.
"Isten áldjon," she kept saying, over and over again, even when she hurried out of Inna's little hovel. She made a sign of the cross over the door, the falling snow dotting her gloves, and kissed Inna on both cheeks.
"May God smile down upon you," Barbora said. "You are all that is good."
God has forsaken me, dear lady, Inna thought, as she watched the woman walked away from the hovel, a black dot that was growing smaller and smaller in the snow. And He has forsaken you, too.
The incessant knocking came again and again, pounding in tune with the headache that was slowly building behind Inna's brown eyes. She kept her head on her pillow for a bit longer, debating whether or not to will this person elsewhere.
Desperation brought the Ved'ma out from under her comfortable covers and into her shapeless tunic and thin woolen pants and thick boots. She left her frazzled hair as it was; she swished rosewater in her mouth and spat it out into the wash basin by the cracked mirror. She clomped down the stairs and waved a brown hand as she reached the bannister. In the hearth, a crackling fire awoke from the ashes. Another wave of the hand and the hovel's messes -- knives on the sofa, mugs and cups on the tables -- were cleaned up.
She opened the door as the knives sheathed themselves into the block. A woman stood there, a scarf wrapped around her hair. Her clothes were much like Inna's -- thick and dark. Her eyes were watery.
"Hello," Inna said carefully.
"I've been looking for you for months, Ved'ma," the woman whispered as she began to cry.
"C-Come in," Inna said and gently took the woman's elbow and ushered her in. The door closed itself behind them. Inna sat the woman down on one of the sofas.
The Ved'ma always found it mildly taxing and anxiety-inducing when someone showed up to her door in tears. Humans were such sensitive, fragile creatures; there was little that can be said to console them in such a state.
"What is your name?" Inna said. She breathed out and her kettle found itself warming in the hearth.
"Barbora," the woman said. Inna had never heard of such a name here, in the edges of the Tsarist realm.
"Where are you from, Barbora?"
"Hungary," Barbora said.
"Why have you come to see me?"
In response, Barbora pulled her coat away from herself and her scarf came away with it. Under the tan skin of her neck was a deep, dark bruise in the shape of a hand. On the edges of the finger marks, the darkness bled out like a pox.
"I want to keep my baby safe," the woman whimpered.
The woman had to say no more. From a drawer, the Ved'ma reached for a velvet bag filled with pieces of broken mirror. Opening the velvet bag to the light would be unwise; she reached her hand in and, careful not to cut herself, picked a satisfactory piece: jagged and cracked. She put this into a small burlap bag and held it out to the woman on the sofa.
The woman looked at Inna with fear. "What is it?"
"Broken glass," Inna said. "Put this under his pillow."
Barbora crossed herself as she took the bag in her hands and deposited it into her pocket. Along with the broken glass, Inna slipped Barbora a little bottle filled with a tincture of blood root and henbane.
"To put in his drink," Inna said. Barbora did not cross herself this time.
For Barbora and her baby, Inna gave her a few springs of cinquefoil to burn and keep under her pillow. She began to cry again when Inna handed her the charms.
"Isten áldjon," she kept saying, over and over again, even when she hurried out of Inna's little hovel. She made a sign of the cross over the door, the falling snow dotting her gloves, and kissed Inna on both cheeks.
"May God smile down upon you," Barbora said. "You are all that is good."
God has forsaken me, dear lady, Inna thought, as she watched the woman walked away from the hovel, a black dot that was growing smaller and smaller in the snow. And He has forsaken you, too.