The Snaring of Bashtchelik Chapter 4
“Girl, wake thyself! A bitter cold has set upon the forest,” Bashtchelik said, shaking her by her shoulder as she struggled to maintain her composure at this startling awakening, “But thy cape shall keep the chill from thee. I must be out before the deer all settle in their hiding places, and I expect a meat porridge once I return.”
He rose from kneeling beside her and left. Chessa slowly raised herself from her mess of blankets, feeling horribly shaken.
“I feel a bruise brewing,” she muttered, brushing her fingers over her cheek which his shaking had caused to strike against the floor, “How childish of him.”
She saw the fox-cape—some of the stitching wide and uneven, betraying the haste with which Bashtchelik finished it—lying near where her head had been. She drew it about her shoulders, shivering slightly as she drew herself from beneath the blankets. The coals glimmered in the fireplace like children whispering with smiles to their parents, asking for playthings and favours.
“Alright, I shall feed you,” she sighed, drawing herself onto her feet.
The coals giggled happily as she fed them wood, stirring them up into a fiery fever. She swept the floors, cleaned as much of smoke-stain from the cave wall as she could possibly reach, washed clothing and blankets and sought to shake them dry until her arms trembled and burned, all the while cursing her inability to find the heart of Bashtchelik or how to pry the skin off of him. She peered outside the cave around midday, quaking as the cold drew her into its deep embrace.
She caught sight of Bashtchelik leaping up the mountainside towards the cave. She closed the outer door softly, and then dashed into the kitchen, setting a pot of water over the mumbling coals, and pouring in the oats hastily.
“No meat, I have no meat!” she muttered sharply, “Besides what may be left of the foxes.”
“Ah, I see thee likes thy cape! Has it kept the cruel chill out?” came the voice, dissolving into a song that caused Chessa’s burning anger to melt into a swirling confusion.
She turned, eyes wide and blinking, to see Bashtchelik stride through the stone archway, his arms raised in triumph, each hand clasping a pair of fox tails. ‘The fox meat again, I suppose,’ she thought.
“Indeed, this cape is wondrous warm, True Steel. Should I prepare the foxes for the porridge?”
“Nay, Chessa, for I happened on a chestnut tree while on my hunt. I shall toss these foxes here,” he answered, flinging the foxes, whose slender bodies entwined as they arced by Chessa, a cord of soft flames, before they splayed out limply by the fireplace. “Now, come, and we shall gather them.”
“Gather more foxes, True Steel?” Chessa asked, hoping this oblivious act would not wear her mind down to the sharpness of her cape.
“Nay, chestnuts! Thou seems so simple, often, I cannot help but hope a sharper mind lies beneath it,” he laughed, extending his hand—but not to hold, only to beckon—seemingly unaware of how disgust rippled over her face. “After all, I hold my companions to high standards.”
The bitterness taut within her chest seemed close to lashing out or snapping.
“Have you many companions then?” she asked, following him as he strode through the doorway into the stone hall.
He halted a moment, turning to face her. She would not raise her head much, but also loathed to not meet his gaze, and so play the coward in this exchange. His lips pulled apart, too wide and not far enough apart to imitate a true smile. ‘What is this foolery, this mockery? I wish to peel the needed skin off of you in this instance,’ she thought. She smiled in return, tilting her head in feigned shyness to hide the vengeance glistening upon her polished teeth.
“I had not thought thee to be quite so rude, thou must not ask about what other company I keep,” he said, drawing his lips together once more, “For we have chestnuts to gather and roast.”
She followed him down the hall and through the door onto the mountain doorstep, the cold pinching and cosseting her hair and cheeks like a long-deprived grandmother. Bashtchelik muttered some phrases to the stone, which she intentionally chose to push out of her breadth of attention.
“She seems awfully persistent today, girl,” he said, winking down at Chessa by his side.
“Grandmother Cold, Mother to Mother Earth,” Chessa smiled back, looking up at him.
“Mayhaps we should compose a song about them, they sound an odd pair,” Bashtchelik replied, gazing down upon the forest spread out, welcoming at first glance, beyond the rock’s edge.
“I wonder who’s the father,” Chessa added, noticing he had stepped toward the path while her eyes had settled steadily upon the forest, and trotting to meet him.
“Warmth, I should think.”
Chessa’s knees bent, but instead of buckling underneath her, she found her feet higher than her head, her knees held up by something as large around and spiny as a tree branch. She almost roared with rage, until she realized the other arm of Bashtchelik now raised her back, both holding her aloft.
“What in the—” she shouted, spitting, though still mindful not the let the venom of vengeance leak from her tongue or face.
“’Tis a long walk, and I wish to speed our journey as much as possible. Thy feet are terribly small and ill-suited to the stony path,” he answered, her spittle having caused no great dismay, only settling on the skin with snaking veins and pine-bark look.
She loathed him yet more in this proximity.
The earth shook, and her vision swirled about as his feet bore them both down the path, she wondered whether he would be struck by some humor and toss her off the side along with the stones his feet sent scampering. They reached the bottom of the slope within a dozen strides, but Chessa wished it would have taken one. The guts within her groaned, especially as Bashtchelik released her legs, and then her shoulders. The mountain’s surety of stance seemed better than the movement of man in that moment.
“Thou need not drink to sway, I see,” Bashtchelik remarked, rather unhelpfully.
“You would sway so if you were carried down the slope at that pace. I thank you, though, True Steel. My legs would have buckled long ago while walking down it,” she said, smiling as she up-righted herself.
“I can carry thee if thou cannot walk unaided,” he added, unfolding a hand of carved nails toward her.
“I should not trouble you,” she answered,
“Then follow me, and mark that thee not fall too far behind.”
Bashtchelik set off at a pace he considered walking, but which would be a man’s jogging pace. Chessa followed after, her guts and sinew discussing their misery in concert.
“Hush, I have a task to finish,” she whispered to her body, feeling a steeling seething in her.
She stilled herself as she sighted Bashtchelik halted, leaning against a chestnut tree. A man stood in front of Bashtchelik, bent in posture, hands clasped on his chest in pleading, head lifted up in hollow prayer to a creature undeserving of a god’s title.
“Ah, Chessa! Thou have caught up, but stay there a moment, I must preserve our chestnuts from this bandit-man.”
“No, True Steel!” she called, the vengeance dripping in her voice, but lost across the distance which her words carried, “There are many chestnut trees, and we shall find another. You shall have no trouble, only do not trouble this man.”
“Thank you, lady!” the man answered tremulously.
“I hate thy whine, bite thy tongue,” Bashtchelik snarled, his face twisting into the likeness of a wolf—or at least it seemed to Chessa.
He seized the man’s neck, forcing his head backwards, and hooked his jagged nail through the man’s tongue, his other fingers crawled down to the gateway of the man’s throat. A simple tug—so effortless, almost a whisk to swat away an intolerable idea—drew out the whole length of the man’s tongue, a pink-red eel caught on his nail.
“Seems I must hold it for thee.”
The man’s scream struggled against Bashtchelik’s hand curled around his neck, formless without a tongue to guide the sound. Bashtchelik dropped the man who crumpled, coughing as blood overcame its surprise and wept for the loss. Chessa’s eyes lingered on the convulsing man. Without a tongue, he struggled to cough the blood out, so slowly, trickling, it filled his chest and robbed the breath from him. Bashtchelik hummed his low melodies, picking chestnuts and plopping them glibly in a basket. He seemed swathed in his own music.
‘Swathed enough, swaddled, in fact, for me to attempt this,’ Chessa thought as she slowly hauled the man further from Bashtchelik. The man’s eyes, no longer wide and questioning as a horse’s, flickered dimly at her. Chessa knelt by him, gripping one of his limp hands in her shivering ones. She furrowed her brow and turned her gaze toward the overarching branches as she sought to recall that particular melody. Each note flowed into each other as she began, but fell apart as memory failed her. ‘Perhaps I need to add my own words,’ she thought.
“The clutter of one’s heartbeat
Presses sharply ‘gainst the doorway
Painted ebony for one’s defeat,
A debt of war one can’t repay.
The bitter blue frame of view
Shatters once the gloom is o’er,
Shudders in confidence renewed,
But black’s the final glower.
I glimpse a shadow on my feet,
Glistening an air of finality,
Glibly following me, to greet
The black doorway, the gloaming—
For the end is known,
You know, I know,
No matter momentary
Cerulean glow.”
Chessa felt the blood returning to his hand, saw the blood pulsing, his eyes widening as she softly sang one of Bashtchelik’s tunes. The man drew himself to his feet, remaining crouched, as he glanced over in Bashtchelik’s direction. He quickly kissed Chessa’s hand, making to flee through the undergrowth.
“Just a moment, good man. Should you happen upon a man in these woods a little north of here, tell him any way you can that True Steel nears his demise at our hands, but one final straw remains to be pulled. Now go, I cannot swear your health can be returned again.”
The man nodded and leapt away on all fours. A disgruntled growl issued from where Bashtchelik likely stood. Chessa flung herself to the ground, rolling onto her back, and crossed her hands over her chest, closing her eyes. Her eyelashes seemed to whip at her face as she glimpsed toward the horrid chestnut tree. ‘Why such condemnation, self? Have I not saved a man from that bitter brute? Why whip me so?’ A sigh, serrated, passed through her chest. Unmistakable footsteps bore a voice towards her.
“Chessa, why did thee not join me in gathering sweet chestnuts? Thou said thee likes them greatly, come, if thou not pick them with me, thou must do the roasting.”
‘How odd his tone, a hint of plaintiveness, like a child to a mother,’ Chessa thought as he continued.
“I shall carry thee, thou seem weary, though from what, I wonder.”
“Thank you, True Steel. Perhaps I grow tired from wondering where your heart rests, I even dream of searching for it, it beats my mind with such curiosity. A man who lives without blood or heart is truly a curious man, and I have some sharpness of thought, to answer your earlier question, sir.”
She opened her eyes to see the hairless face of Bashtchelik peering down at her, his wings twitching though drawn behind his back in rest. She smiled gently to dull the edge of any perceived slight or threat. He drew back his lips from his teeth in an answering grin. Those wild, sharp cornered eyes fixed on her as he bent to gather her up in his bristly, thick arms.
Chessa fought the urge to shy from the strength used so recently to tear a man’s tongue from his throat, now used to tenderly carry her, as a son carries his aging mother. He rested the basket on her stomach, which she then wrapped her arms around, for where else could she receive comfort? She entered once more the belly of the beast’s home, armed with a hair but not the skin of even his teeth.
‘I cannot fail. Nothing can await me but fulfilling of this awful duty,’ she thought as Bashtchelik bore her through the forest to the mountain’s foot.
~~~
Bashtchelik had left her to roast the chestnuts, as if expecting her gratitude. The beast! Tossing her into the forest and about his arms, and expecting her to thank him for an excursion? She spat out a chewed nail she’d gnawed off in her high-strung state, pacing about the little hearth room. The fox-skin coat lay by her little bed. With enough intense staring, she could see the flames dancing on the beast’s gift.
“He sees me as a mother, seeks my approval, but dismisses it when I fail to respond as he wishes—what a child of a terrorizing beast! How can I pry the final ingredient from him, stew up his end? Stew his skin and hair with these horrid chestnuts, a slew of unripe plums, and a foal’s leg? How shall I reach the end?” she babbled.
She drew up suddenly, and ran to the cupboard, plucking a pot, sack of flour, and little jug of vinegar from it. She flung open cupboard doors and scoured the nooks and crannies of the stone walls ‘til she found a little bag of fine sugar, a smile laced with vengeance seeping into her lips. She stirred the flour and sugar together and poured in water, setting the pot over the coals. She stirred and stirred the frothing mixture, sprinkling in fingertips of sugar.
In another pot she cooked the fox porridge, humming low a nightshade tune. A dash of salt, and clove of garlic, a roasted chestnut for that True Steel’s supper.
~~~
“A marvelous meal, little Chessa, thy cooking improves. What did thou add tonight?”
Chessa turned her gaze from her bowl to Bashtchelik’s animal face. She smiled a simple peasant smile.
“Perhaps ‘tis the garlic and chestnuts you taste, sir.”
He nodded in answer, the porridge filling his mouth as he sloshed each spoonful about in his mouth. Chessa’s chest twinged as she thought of his tongue savoring the food of her creation after ripping the tongue off a true man that morning. His scythe and knife hung by the hearth where fresh pine wood crinkled ‘neath the flames’ heat. She breathed the pine, clear and sharp, to combat the gamy, uncomely taste of fox meat.
Bashtchelik began humming a tune unfamiliar to Chessa. She furrowed her brow in concentration upon it, alarm striking her as he suddenly broke his song.
“Girl Chessa, I shall spare thee further thought. My heart,” an odd softness settled on his sharp features, even his wings seemed to relax, “Lies within this stone home, but thee shall never find it. Forget the matter of my heart, ‘tis it not enough to dwell in domesticity?”
Terror struck Chessa’s stomach, closing it against the food still in her throat.
“I thank you, sir, for ending my curiosity. I find myself much satisfied here in this safe home, for you protect and provide me with meat,” she answered sweetly, setting her bowl beside her. “But sir, let me lull you to sleep. You have hunted chestnuts and creatures alike today, and have earned a little tenderness.”
He nodded, shuffling closer across the floor. The softness stilled upon his features for a moment as she laid his head in her lap. Then, as lead in the mold, he melted against her outer warmth. She reached for the comb on the floor beside her and ran it through his hair, her eyes straying to the pot of her inedible mixture nearby. She sang softly a wordless song. Bashtchelik’s frown-imprinted brow wrinkled. She shifted the tune to one he would not recognize ‘til his wings fluttered gently in light drowsing.
‘I mustn’t laugh now lest he wake. Sing, self, sing his melodies against him.’
She altered her tune once more, blinking away the sleep the song conjured in her mind. Bashtchelik sunk deeper into his slumbering. Chessa reached slowly for the cool pot and lifted it to set beside her. She sang all the while, feeling Bashtchelik’s body weaken with each wordless verse. She dipped her finger into the pot, drawing out a fingertip of the mixture.
With a grimace, she smeared it upon his eyelids, drawing the comb still through his hair.
“Sleep, True Steel, sleep,” she sang.
She wiped the last of the glue onto his hairless forearm, and hesitantly raised his arm toward his sleep-still face. He moved not as the arm inched closer. She took his sharpest nail and drew it across his face, gently at first. She drew it back and forth, her singing edging toward her true sentiments. He groaned beneath his own hand, but the sway of his song slid the veil of sleep over his senses. She peered at the nail, noting the water beading upon its edges.
She gasped. There, amidst the water, floated a speck of yellowish skin. She picked it out carefully before resuming her sawing away at his thick skinned face, harvesting piece after piece. The pine scent sharpened her mind against her near giddiness. The heaviness of her singing hovered still over the pair.
“Tis done,” she hummed, easing Bashtchelik’s head from her lap, slipping the flecks of skin into a pouch on her belt where one of his hairs lay.
The glue upon his eyelids trickled, as if melting, from them. Chessa leapt up from the floor, sparing a moment to spit on the sleeping monster’s face. She ran on her toes, seeking silence still, as she exited the cave of her imprisonment. She nearly tumbled all the path down the mountainside toward her brother’s camp, eager to shed her sister’s name for her own once more. A green light reclined on the horizon.