The Shining Falcon

«I'm tired, too.» It was an automatic response, without any real fire behind it; long days of endless labor, of helping Danilo clear and plow resistant soil—praying all the while that it was rich enough to support crops—of sowing seed and chasing away a never-ending troop of thieving birds and beasts, of cooking and mending and rebuilding, had dulled any anger she might have felt. Groaning, Maria sat back on her haunches, trying to ease complaining back muscles. A fine boyarevna I look now. Broken nails, sunburned face …

Still, they'd come a long way from that first, terrifying day in only… just how long was it? Maria blinked to realize she'd quite lost track of time. Were they a month into their exile already? Two months? There had been, thank Heaven, not the slightest sign of pursuit from Stargorod, and that other way of life and its dangers already seemed vague and unreal. There were more immediate perils now. Maria glanced about. It had been full summer when they'd arrived. The weather was still warm, but now that she studied it, the forest all about them did seem to be already slipping past that last, lush peak of growth. And what happens when the weather turns chill? Fighting down the increasingly familiar ache of fear, Maria forced herself to concentrate only on what they had managed to accomplish so far. They'd made good use of the wood salvaged from the ruined outbuildings. The roof was at last reasonably rain-proof, though replacing the shingles had proven to be even more tedious, lengthy, and perilous than Danilo had predicted, particularly since he'd had to spend so much time perched atop the house. There was a reasonably secure stall for Brownie, a pen for the one aging pig Danilo had been able to buy in the village, and a ramshackle enclosure for chickens. Maria smiled faintly, thinking that for a time it had seemed they were feeding every fox in the forest on those stupid birds‑Damn! They were out again! «Oh, Lissa, you forgot to latch the gate again.»

«I hate those chickens! They're smelly and disgusting — "

«You like the eggs well enough.» Maria was busy catching up the foolish creatures, which didn't put up more than a token struggle, and dumping them back over the fence; not bothering to use their stubby wings, they landed like so many plump, feathered rocks and promptly set about scratching peacefully in the dirt of their pen. «Lissa, if you don't want to tend the chickens, take care of the pig instead.»

«Oh, but he's so big and ugly!»

«Then don't look at him! Curse it all, Lissa, I can't do everything around here!»

«Maria!» It was Danilo, returning from the hunt, spear over his shoulder, a brace of rabbits dangling down his back. «Don't talk to your sister like that!»

«But — "

He'd reached her side, whispering, «You know how delicate she is! She can't stand hardships.»

Maria wanted to shout, And I can? But she was too painfully aware of how drawn her father's face had be‑come, of the guilt and shame radiating from him—that he should have brought his daughters down into this—and Maria contented herself with saying, half choking on suppressed frustration, «The snares worked, I see.»

The year was turning, all too swiftly, towards winter. The forest fairly blazed with color, a wild tapestry of birch‑leaf gold and oak‑leaf copper picked out in threads of somber larch-green, all beneath a sky clear and sharp as blue enamel. The air was crisp enough to hurt the lungs and dazzle the mind.

If one had time to let the mind be dazzled.

Driven by terror, the exiles prepared for the coming ordeal of winter as best they could, wasting few moments on unnecessary speech, caulking the chinks between the logs of their house with mud and moss, setting racks of meat‑deer and rabbit—to dry, piling up turnips, carrots, the grain they'd bought in the village, in every spare corner of the house and barn. There was no time to spend in soothing the fears of Vasilissa, who grew more housebound and afraid with every shortening day. But though she still sensed demons everywhere beyond the charmed ring of their palisade, she could at least be useful, pickling cabbage or beets, though at times she sobbed with fright into the mixture over Things only she could see.

Maria went on wider and wider expeditions into the forest as the days grew short, hunting nuts, fruit, anything edible, anything that might last the length of the winter, hardly aware of the forest except as a source of potential food. Akh, and of firewood, wood to keep them warm and alive… Unable to coax Vasilissa out with her, she foraged alone for dead branches and twigs, dragging them back in an old shawl, while Danilo used their one precious axe to join with the villagers in cutting down dead trees; neither he nor Maria saw anything at all incongruous in the once proud boyar coming back triumphant because he'd managed to gather a whole wagonload of wood.