by Mac Pomeroy
It was the night before what should have been the happiest day of Mila’s life. Yet, she ran deeper and deeper into the forest, hoping the blizzard around her would cover her tracks; perhaps cover her body if it came to that.
Maybe happiest wasn’t the right word. Hardly anyone in her village considered their wedding to be the happiest day of their lives as much as it was another expectation. But she thought it would be different, since she wasn’t just marrying a man her parents had chosen for her, she was marrying Sagan. Her best friend since they were children. Sure, maybe this marriage had been agreed upon between their parents before the children were even born, but she always felt like it was the choice she would have made anyways. Sweet, kind Sagan. He was a year older than her, but throughout their youth always looked towards Mila for guidance and comfort. He was taller than the other boys, yet it never seemed that way, with how he always shrunk into himself…
The sound of footsteps crunching through fresh snow briefly snapped her from her thoughts. Of course, they would notice she was missing, but she had been hoping that it would take longer. It was only an hour ago that she had said goodnight to her mama while her papa was at the Bokovs’ home, discussing final details regarding Mila’s dowry. When she walked back into the small room she shared with her sleeping siblings, she hadn’t been intending to leave; but before she could think, she suddenly found herself putting on her heaviest outer layers. Once she felt efficiently covered, she slipped out the window. It was as though her brain could not communicate its protest to her, so it decided to take action on its own. She ran as far as she could, avoiding lights and noise, wishing to vanish like a single snowflake falling into a pile.
Now that she considered it, it seemed foolish to have believed that she would go unnoticed for longer than a few minutes. While Mila was grown, past the age that most girls lived with their families, some of her siblings were very small and still struggled with sleeping through the night. With no Mila there to comfort them, they had probably gone to their mother and reported her absence. It was becoming more and more clear that she did not think this through, especially since she still wasn’t sure why she was running in the first place.
She loved Sagan. Yes, it wasn’t a romantic love, but Mila wasn’t even sure what that felt like. Hardly anyone she knew claimed to have married for love, and most seemed to gain affection after marriage. She had the advantage of already caring for Sagan. She was much older than her other siblings, it had been unclear if her parents would ever be able to have more children until Rimma had been born a decade later. Sagan’s parents were not so lucky, and after losing his older brother soon after Sagan’s birth, he remained an only child. The two were practically inseparable, spending their days playing together, or sitting side-by-side in the small schoolroom, distracting each other more than learning. They had always known they were to one day marry, but they didn’t understand what that meant. Mila only knew that she enjoyed Sagan’s steady hands when cross stitching, and that she had never seen anything more beautiful than his works.
Mila was more of a wild child. She didn’t have the patience to sit inside and work on a craft all day. She loved to be in nature, she loved to explore. She wanted to know every kind of tree, which mushrooms were edible, what flowers could be used for medicinal purposes. She didn’t want to learn how to cook or mend clothes or tend a garden with her mother- after all, couldn’t Sagan handle that once they got married? Instead, she preferred spending time with her father, a portly man with a dark, bushy beard, and oak eyes that matched her own. He was a carpenter who doubled as the village handyman, going from house to house. She wanted to learn how to build a cabin or fix a stove or whatever her papa set out to do. Deep in her heart, she hoped things wouldn’t change much as they got older, and they could continue being Mila and Sagan.
But, as is often learned the hard way, life doesn’t listen to wants. Slowly, their relationship became… different. At a point, they could no longer just be children playing as they do, but rather they were suddenly expected to be more. In their early teens, conversation around them turned more and more towards their impending commitment. What used to make them who they were was suddenly no longer enough. Mila could remember the day when she was thirteen and got her first blood, and suddenly was called a woman. Her father no longer allowed her to follow him and instead insisted she stay home with her mother and help with the new babies, saying it would be good practice for the future. Sagan, however, was allowed to remain a boy for a while longer…
A sharp branch found its way to her exposed face, leaving a long cut across her cheek. The pain pulled Mila out of her thoughts, and back into her current predicament. The sun had completely set, and the forest was pitch black. The only illumination was a handful of small lights scattered in the distance, which was surely a search party for her. She heard some cries, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Good. She didn’t want to let them close the gap. Instead, she ignored the throb in her feet, the metallic tang of blood as it dripped down into her mouth. It had been years since she consistently went into the forest with her father, but she still had a fair memory of the many twists and turns. The deeper she got, though, the less she knew. Even the men of the village stopped their normal hunting explorations at a point. Stories spread throughout her village, warning of an old witch who lived in the forest, one with wicked powers. As a child, Mila was sure it was meant to just scare her and her peers from wandering off, but now, she felt doubts creeping in.
The legends were mixed. Some said she was a bride who had been left at the altar while her husband-to-be ran off with a much younger woman. Some said she wasn’t even human, but rather some demonic being haunted those who were on the brink of death. There were whispers that she ate children, songs about her sending heroes on treacherous quests, stories about her strange dwellings. The one thing the tales seemed to agree on, however, was her appearance. While there were no solid descriptions of her face, Mila had heard countless times how the witch was the most hideous being who ever lived, and that if you were unfortunate enough to catch a good look at her, you would crumble back into the soil beneath.
She hadn’t really thought of that story in years, since her father stopped taking her with him. Now, though, she felt an added ball of anxiety in her stomach along with the fear of being caught. A pathetic whisper went through the back of her head, wondering if she was running towards something that was just as bad, if not worse than what she was trying to escape. It seemed foolish to even care about such a thing, yet she quickly made the decision that she would rather die than return to the place she had known as home. She still wasn’t sure of why she wanted out, but she was starting to understand.
Mila learned quickly that she hated everything to do with running a household. The constant noise from the children brought her great anxiety, as did the knowledge that they needed her to survive. It seemed like after so long of being an only child, her mother couldn’t stop having kids. The second eldest, Rimma, was born when Mila was ten, the twins the following year. The next year was quiet, leading Mila into a false sense of security, before another set of twins came the year after. Four more children in four years added many more mouths to feed and faces to wash, and it fell upon Mila to help. By the time she was fourteen, she stopped attending school; there was no point in educating a girl, especially not one so simple as herself, who couldn’t read without great difficulty. She was never going to leave the village or pursue something more than being a farmer’s wife. Without school, though, there was no escape. Everyday became filled with laundry, cooking, putting babies to sleep, tending to her mother who grew sicker with each life that she brought into this world.
The only moments she could sneak away was when she saw Sagan. At first, he expressed a lot of sympathy for Mila, and would try to cheer her up by sharing what he learned at school or his newest sewn pieces. She thought his work was beautiful, and his talent soared with age. Using the threads he managed to collect whenever the rare merchant passed through, he used his careful stitches to weave stories of flower fields, winter nights, even once attempting to create something of Mila before deciding he would rather not sew people. She always looked forward to seeing what he would create next. Until suddenly, when she was fifteen, he started arriving empty handed. She let it go at first, but after a few months had passed, she made the mistake of asking. That was the first time he walked away without saying another word. In his eyes, she saw something she couldn’t quite place. Anger? Hurt? Resentment? Maybe a bit of all? She kicked herself for not keeping quiet, and vowed to never bring it up again…
As Mila ducked between the branches of an overgrown evergreen tree, sitting by its trunk as she tried to catch her breath, she wondered why she never asked again. That was seven years ago, she had more than enough chances. Was she truly only afraid of hurting Sagan? Or was there something else she was afraid of? When did she stop being honest with him? She could hardly think over the sound of her heart beating wildly in her chest. The bottom of her dress was soaked with mud and snow. She was freezing. She tried to pull her cloak tighter around herself, but nothing seemed to help. She wondered how long she had been running. If she should stop.
“MILA!” She heard in the distance and flinched. It was her papa. “Mila, where are you? Stop playing these foolish games and come out here at once.”
His tone sounded firm and angry. Mila had known his anger more than once, but this felt even more unsettling. Never had she disobeyed him to such a blatant extent. As she heard him yell, she knew she needed to get further away. Getting on her knees, she crawled forward, trying not to make a sound as she reached out and pushed a branch over just enough that she could see through it. She could see the silhouette of her father and another man, each holding lanterns. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to make as little sound as possible, unsure what to do. Mila backed towards the tree trunk again, hoping they wouldn’t hear the rustle of pine needles over their own steps. The knees of her dress sank deeper in the mud, chilling her to the bone. There was no way for her to climb from under the branches without getting caught, and she wondered if her need for a rest would be the death of her.
“Everyone, over here,” another voice called out, sounding far away, “I heard footsteps.”
It took Mila a moment to recognize the voice, more ragged than usual as if he had been yelling for much longer than this hunt. Sagan. She held her breath and listened to the others follow him far away. Did he just intentionally help her, or did he truly believe he had found her? It was hard to know anymore. No matter how difficult it was for her to admit, the boy she once knew was long gone. Nothing of their past mattered anymore. Whether intentional or not, she took his diversion and climbed from under the tree and ran in the opposite direction of his voice.
Mila had only been so deep in the forest once in her life. She was about seven years old. Mama was having a rough pregnancy, and her father decided to see if he could go collect any wild herbs to help bring down her sickness. He figured it would be a good learning opportunity for Mila. At first, she stuck close by, carrying a little basket for her father and holding onto his every word. After a while, though, she started to grow restless with this careful searching. Instead, she turned her attention to the autumnal scene around her, watching as the wind moved leaves off of their branches. One particular leaf caught her attention. Wide and pointed, the red and gold beauty was larger than any leaf she had ever seen. Mila watched it be carried away, riding the breeze like a gentle current.
Glancing back at her papa, who was crouching by a log and not paying mind to her, she carefully took a few steps away, before sprinting in the direction of the leaf, wanting to know where it would end up. Even in nature’s golden flurry, she could spot it. Her soul knew which one was hers. She chased it through the trees, amazed at how it never caught on a branch or fell. She jumped from rock to rock over a babbling brooke, climbed over boulders, struggled her way through deep mud, but somehow the leaf never went too far. It was like a blazing bird in the sky, circling over her head.
Finally, after chasing for what seemed like forever on such small legs, the leaf came to a stop, landing in the middle of a pit. Mila started to approach it, when she heard a branch breaking behind her. She stopped, taking in her surroundings. It was only at this point that she realized she was totally, completely lost. She had never been in this part of the forest, where the trees crowded so tightly together that the only light to be seen was peeking down through the occasional gap. Rustling could be heard on all sides. She backed away, losing her footing and falling in the pit, crushing her leaf. The rustle seemed to get louder and louder, and the trees closed in. The patches of light started to vanish, like some great force was blowing out a row of candles. It seemed like there was hardly room to breathe, like air couldn’t pass through the inky darkness. It consumed her whole, making it so Mila couldn’t even see her hands in front of her face. That didn’t stop her from trying, though, as she covered her eyes. She felt no air in her lungs, yet she managed to let out one loud scream before succumbing to the darkness.
When Mila came to, she was on the start of the path between her village and her forest. A neighbor rushed over, announcing to the others who had been searching for her that the young child had been found. When her papa came out of the woods, he scolded her greatly, but even his anger couldn’t hide his relief that she was safe. She was brought home and somehow managed to escape punishment, mostly because that same day is when her mother lost another pregnancy. She had no idea how she got back, and no one asked. No one brought up the strange quilt she was found wrapped up in either, covered in a pattern depicting bears, hens, and ferns. It smelled like lavender and sage, along with something smokey but not burnt, and throughout the years, she kept it, her only reminder that what happened was real. Her return wasn’t the only unexplainable part, though. Another memory gnawed at the back of her mind. In the brief moment where she had managed to get a look at the pit where both she and the leaf had fallen, she noticed it was a strange shape. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, except that it resembled a giant chicken foot…
Mila hadn’t thought of that part in years, but as the snow started to soak its way into her boots, and she realized she had nowhere to go, she wished for nothing more than that blanket. She was feeling weaker by the moment, and wondered why she was doing this. Why did she insist on running? She knew Sagan had changed, and not for the better. She was no longer in denial that she hadn’t seen him smile in a long time, but was that really a reason to die out here? Maybe she could fix whatever broke inside of him, maybe he could change. Wasn’t the purpose of a wife to support her husband through the trials of life? Hadn’t she seen her parents stick together through far worse than someone being unhappy?
Yet, as the word wife passed her mind, a numbness spread through her chest, one that wasn’t caused by the cold. She knew all these years that was who she was supposed to become, Sagan’s wife. And for a long time, she was even excited about it. She could spend every day with her best friend. She had seen her mama and papa dote on each other, they were one of the best pairs in the village. She had hoped that her and Sagan would be just as great. Yet, as she weakly moved forward, crossing the now frozen brooke and trying her best to get around the rocks, she doubted that would have ever been her reality.
She remembered the last time she saw Sagan, just that morning. It was the Winter’s Bloom, a special day in their village. All unmarried women would dress in their brightest, most colorful gowns, braid fabric flowers and ribbons in their hair, pull on their thickest boots. Then, they would go out into the snow, join hands, and dance. They would dance till they were no longer cold, till sweat dripped down their faces and all they felt was tired, but happy. Their beauty and energy was supposed to encourage spring to come faster, to show the same beauty back. Everyone else would stand outside and watch, some dancing as well, others mingling and discussing who their favorite of the ladies was. After, they would gather at the great hall for a feast and to discuss plans for the warmer seasons. It was Mila’s favorite time of year, and there was something bittersweet in knowing it would be her last. Tomorrow, she was to be a bride.
Her mother braided her hair with precision that Mila had never managed to master. With her six small siblings, her mama rarely paid her much attention these days, nevermind braiding her hair, so when she was able, it felt special. She felt as though she was also her mother’s child, not just another pair of hands. When her mother was done, she gave her a kiss on the head before walking to the old wooden chest that she kept by her bedside. Mila knew it was full of things from before her mother had wed her father, but no one else ever touched it. Her mama opened it and reached in, pulling out a bundle of white fabric. She turned and handed it to Mila, who unfolded it to reveal an apron covered with beautiful embroidery. Mila’s breath caught at the sight. Delicate flowers, scattered across like stars in the sky. Beautiful red foxes and green leaves mixed throughout. The neat work was the only she had seen that truly rivaled Sagan’s talents. Mila looked back up at her mother, tears forming in both of their eyes.
Her mama nodded. “My mother, your grandmother, she made it for me.”
She carefully took the apron out of Mila’s hands and turned her around. As she tied the apron around Mila’s waist, Mila felt her mother’s fingers tremble. She had never recovered after the birth of her youngest child. Her mama suddenly seemed much older than she was, much more feeble. She was younger than Mila was now when she married her papa and had Mila, only nineteen compared to Mila’s twenty-two. Even with the extra years, Mila couldn’t fathom raising a child, especially not with the hardships her mother was going through at the time. Mila’s grandmother passed away soon after her parents got married; this apron was likely one of the last things she left behind in this world. Her father’s carpentry business had also not been doing well when they wed, which was part of why her parents were so happy with Sagan- his family owned a large farm that was set to go to him one day. He would be able to take care of Mila and their… future family.
The children that Mila would be expected to birth and take care of.
By the time Mila’s mother turned her so the two could face each other again, she forced a smile on her face. Surely, it would all feel so different after tomorrow, after the wedding. She would look back at today and laugh at how silly she was, at how small her fears were compared to the rest of her life. Mila’s mother looked at her, and despite how old she felt moments before, her eyes were now as young as they had ever been, and Mila wondered how this woman could possibly be her mother. How she wasn’t another young woman going to join the dance. When was the last time she was that woman, able to be her own name, Yulia, instead of mother or wife?
“My Mila,” her mother, Yulia, pushed out, each word sounding like it weighed a thousand pounds, “you will always be my baby, but today is the last day you will be mine.”
Before Mila could respond, she was pushed towards the door, and into the blindingly white snow. She wished she could say more to her mother, ask if she felt this way before her wedding. Ask how often she was able to do things for herself, instead of each day being some great sacrifice. If she really thought Mila was capable of following in her footsteps. She wanted to go back inside the house she grew up in, but before she could take another step, Sagan appeared before her. He nodded, and started to walk away. Lately, this had been how he told her to follow- not words, but a silent command. As though Mila were a well trained dog. Part of her felt the need to disregard him, stay put or go elsewhere, but it didn’t feel worth it. It was the day before their wedding, she needed to wait till after to bring up such minor grievances. Instead, she followed.
He led her away, towards an empty shed on his family’s property. They didn’t enter, instead standing outside its doors; out of earshot, but not out of where any watching eyes could make sure they behaved. Sagan, so tall and strong, a farmer’s son in every regard. His hands that used to dedicate themselves to delicate details, now strong and firm, unable to hold a needle without snapping it. His dark blonde hair, usually long and shaggy, but freshly cut short for tomorrow. As she looked at his blue eyes, an uncommon feature from his mother who was from another land, she disgustingly wondered if their kids would also receive these eyes or her own dark brown color. Sagan nodded awkwardly.
“You look… pretty,” he offered, giving a small smile. Mila nodded back, unsure how she was supposed to react. He had long since stopped being the type to compliment her, and it had been so long since she had heard any kind words.
“Thank you. I hope so, it’s my last dance after all.” She played with the hem of the apron, feeling the stitches beneath her finger tips. She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt decorated.
Sagan’s face dropped, “Right. Yeah. Tomorrow.” A strange annoyance bubbled up in her chest at how he said it, as though Mila was the problem. Maybe she was, she couldn’t really argue that, but she still didn’t want him saying it.
“Yes, tomorrow,” she said, speaking slowly and carefully, “our wedding. I’m becoming your wife, so I will no longer be able to participate in such things.”
At this point, she started to wonder. Winter’s Bloom was only a small thing she would be losing after tomorrow, but an addition to an already long list. What did Sagan have to lose? Sure, he no longer sewed, but he didn’t have to lose that. Mila would support him if he decided to continue; it was his own choice to stop. Even with how unhappy he’d been lately, it seemed like he accepted all the changes, accepting that their families wouldn’t allow them to delay their marriage any longer. He would be ‘Papa’ in the home to their children, and husband to her, but he would still be going out. Still interacting with others. Still Sagan to so many. What right did he have to be upset? She knew it was unreasonable to be angry, he was human too, but her cheeks burned and tears began to threaten to fall. She looked away, hoping he wouldn’t see.
“That’s okay,” Sagan replied, “Rimma will be thirteen in autumn. You can help her get ready then.”
Mila nodded. “Yes, so long as I am not busy with our own child by then.” She knew she wouldn’t be, at least hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon, but she needed to get out all of her pain.
Sagan remained silent for a moment, and when Mila looked back to him, she saw his arm raised. There was an expression on his face she had never seen before, one of rage. He caught her eyes, and immediately changed, backing away. He lowered his arm and looked at her with horror spread across his face, before running away. At the moment, Mila couldn’t believe what she had seen, and hoped to talk to him again at the feast later. She couldn’t find him, though, and instead walked home that night, where she said goodnight to Yulia and…
He was going to hit me. She knew this now. It is why she kept running, even when she felt like her feet were bleeding. Sagan was going to hit her, and even if he didn’t that morning, he’d have every other morning for the rest of their lives to try again. And it wasn’t going to be a one time occurrence. She had seen marriages like this before, where the husband got physical. No one called it wrong, no one stepped in. After marriage, she would be Sagan’s, and who is going to step in when a man is punishing his wife? When he is handling troublesome property? Not even her parents could save her, not that she was sure they would notice if she started showing up with a black eye and bruises. As she ran on, looking for a place where the trees grew dense and light seemed like a limited resource, she knew once and for all. She’d rather die tonight, frozen in this forest, than live a long life slowly dying by his hands.
“MILA!” She heard her father behind her again, but she didn’t bother to stop this time. The thick snow would have to be enough to hide her.
“Jascha,” a voice said, addressing him by name, “we have to turn back. You know we can’t go any further in the forest.”
“She’ll die,” he protested. It became harder to hear them, but she only slowed slightly.
“Would you rather die for your idiot daughter,” the voice continued, hard to recognize but so familiar, “or live for your other children?”
Mila didn’t hear his answer as she trudged through the thick snow. She didn’t need to. She knew she was no longer being followed. That didn’t surprise her, and while she was relieved, she also felt more alone than she ever had before. It was like a heavy weight was settling on her shoulders; this was her choice. There was no backing out, no one to carry her home. It was the right decision, but that didn’t make the price any less terrifying. She was shivering so hard, her whole body hurt. Other than that, she felt numb, and was so tired. She wanted to stop. Lay down, close her eyes. Try again in a few minutes. She shut her eyes and kept walking; even her tears stung as they fell down her cheeks.
Then, she tripped. As her body went down, she expected to land in more snow, but instead she fell on a bed of autumn leaves. When she opened her eyes, it was that day again. No longer a storming blizzard, but a calm fall day. She glanced down at herself, making sure she saw her adult body. What happened? Did she die? Was this what came next? The idea should have been frightening, but instead she felt peace. When she looked around again, she saw that same pit ahead of her, shaped like a chicken foot. Instinctively, she reached for it, when another voice rang out.
“You’re not dead,” the voice said. It sounded feminine, aged, caring. Mila didn’t have to turn around to know there was a soft smile on the woman’s face.
“Then what is this?” Mila asked, still not looking back. Instead, she focused her gaze on the hole. It didn’t just sort of look like a chicken foot, it had divots at each toe, as though something clawed into the earth. She felt sure that if she went searching, she’d find more of these.
“This is… a place of your own making,” the voice answered, choosing each word carefully. Mila heard shuffling, and finally allowed herself to look up.
The speaker was indeed an older woman, short and round. Mila couldn’t see her face past the scarf she wore around her head, but she looked at the rest. She wore many layers of jewel toned fabrics, each with a different pattern and texture. Her neck held layers of beaded necklaces, and each finger was covered by a chunky ring. Her posture was hunched, and she leaned heavily on a wooden walking stick. At first glance, the handle appeared to be the carved shape of a bird, but upon closer inspection, Mila realized it was a rooster. A hand was offered, soft and pale, and Mila grabbed it. The woman was surprisingly strong and pulled her to her feet. Now, Mila could see her face.
Under a scarf embroidered with stars, soft grey curls framed a round face. Big, golden eyes stared at her with wisdom and concern, and a large nose shined red, as though the woman had just been out in the cold. Wrinkles covered her face, but unlike the legends, they were not ugly. Each line told a new story, someone the woman had loved before, a journey she had taken, a hardship she survived. Most of the wrinkles accumulated around her mouth, suggesting a lifetime of joy and laughter, while worry rested near the eyes. Mila wondered how anyone could look at this woman and think she was anything but one of the most beautiful beings they had ever seen.
She allowed the woman to cup Mila’s hands in her own, suddenly feeling very small. A reassuring thumb brushed over the back of her palm. Mila had so many questions, but found herself unable to do anything but simply stare at this woman. She knew who she was already, even if she didn’t have a proper name for her. She felt like she had known her forever, a familiar warmth in her hands.
“Is this real?” Mila asked, wanting to be sure. She took a deep breath, feeling the air fill her lungs, her chest rise and fall. Along with the smell of leaves and dirt, the faint scent of lavender, sage, and something smokey but not burnt entered her nose.
The woman nodded, “Yes, Mila. You’re alive.” Her face still held a soft smile, but pain flickered behind her eyes.
“Can I stay here?” Mila dared to ask the question that was most pressing on her mind.
The woman thought for a moment, “Not quite,” she answered, “but that doesn’t mean you need to go back.”
Still holding Mila’s hand, she led her over to a nearby rock, wide and perfectly flat on top as though someone had taken the time to carve it into a bench. The two sat down together. Mila’s heart was pounding, and she tasted a bitter tinge of disappointment in the back of her throat. She wondered what the alternative was, if the woman was going to suggest she go elsewhere and become some other man’s wife. That isn’t what she wanted either.
“You’re alive,” the woman finally said, “but barely. I was only able to find you because you were close to the barrier. You’re safe now, but had I not found you, you would have died.”
Mila was not surprised to learn she had almost died, but the rest filled her with more questions than answers, “Wait, barrier? Also, aren’t you the one who took me home as a child? I didn’t almost die that day.”
“The barrier is the slight line between life and death. Most people will only enter it for a few seconds at the end of their time,” the woman started to explain, “but the slower the death, the longer the opportunity to be saved. And you’re right; you weren’t dying when I last saw you. Children are much closer to the barrier, being so new to life. You were almost too old for me to find you.”
“Is this the barrier? Are we in it?”
“This is your barrier. You formed it from your memories, the moment you hold onto most. It seems it is when I found you.”
Mila looked around at each detail, finally noticing that some things seemed… fuzzy. The leaves fell slower than she had ever seen, the edges of the trees seemed dull and undefined, most of the ground was vague piles of leaves. The memories of a child who didn’t get such a good look before panicking. But unlike that day, there was plenty of light, and the forest felt like a friend, not a foe. Maybe that day in the woods, where someone held her and took her home, really was the last time she felt like Mila.
“You said I don’t have to go back?” It seemed as though all Mila could do was ask questions, like it was easier to wonder than to claim she knew anything.
“Not unless you want to,” the woman sighed, “I can take you back right now if that is what you wish. However, I ask first that I be allowed to introduce myself.”
The woman held tightly to her cane, and stood up. She couldn’t have been more than five feet at full height, but every inch felt powerful. “I know you already know who I am, but I would like to say it for myself. I am the Witch of the Woods, the one you’ve heard so many tales of. I have many names, yet none are truly mine. I answer to all, but the most common I’ve heard is Baba Yaga. I’ve always found it amusing, for I am no one’s grandmother, nor could I be. Instead, I am a guardian of the barrier, and I protect those who are crossing. I can offer you this.”
Mila nodded with wide eyes. So many legends she had been told in her life, yet she never had a clue that any were true. Though, she supposed many weren’t. While she had just met the Witch, she couldn’t imagine anyone, human or not, saving a child and then roasting and eating another one. Yaga snapped her fingers, and Mila felt a great tremble as something walked through the forest, and when she looked up, she saw the trees moving. They made way for a cottage that approached, walking on large chicken legs. One foot settled down near her, exactly in the imprint it left before.
“I can kill you now, and spare you the pain of returning,” Yaga offered, not even acknowledging the looming presence of her house, “or… you can join me. You can come with me, learn my ways. You can help souls find their way when they get stuck in the barrier. But, you may find it to be a more difficult path than death, and you might end up wishing you chose it. The work is endless, you would be committed, and… you cannot return. You will slowly forget pieces of your old life as the years go on. Once we make this agreement, that’s it.”
Mila’s mind raced. She had only just learned of the barrier, and now she was being offered to stay here forever. Enter other people’s memories in their final seconds, help guide them back to life or to whatever lies beyond. It sounded like a story, and part of her still questioned whether or not she was truly alive. But… anything sounded better than returning, and she knew she wasn’t done with living yet. She started to reach her hand out to accept, when a sudden crashing sound came from the trees. Mila jumped up in shock, watching as Sagan stumbled into the woods.
“Wait,” he begged, “please. Kill me. I cannot go back.”
He was disheveled, his clothes muddy and ripped like he had been running through the trees for hours. A crazed look ran through his eyes, and his lips were turning blue from the cold. Without thinking, Mila stood and rushed to him, cupping his frozen face in her hands. He briefly leaned in, before shaking his head and backing away.
“I’m so sorry, Mila,” Sagan apologized, “I don’t deserve your kindness now. I am a monster. I nearly hurt you, and all because…” he looked up at her, shoulders shaking as tears fell, “I could never love you. Not like I should have. I could never love any woman, I just… I should have been stronger and broken it off, but I didn’t. Instead, I nearly hurt you.”
Mila was stunned. She never expected an apology, but she finally understood. She knew deep down, she never loved Sagan either. Not that way. She loved him like a brother, like a twin who had always been by her side. What she said next surprised her even more.
“I can’t forgive you,” Mila heard her voice saying. “at least, not yet. Forgiving would mean your words make this any better. But I can… see myself forgiving you one day. I feel the same. I never wanted to marry you. Did you follow me? When everyone else went home?”
She knew without being told, if Sagan was here, it was because he was able to access the barrier. He was dying. Sagan nodded, unsure of what was going on, and Yaga stepped between the two.
“Normally, people cannot access each other’s barriers, but you let him in. It’s your choice, Mila, where I send him.” Yaga said, putting a hand on Mila’s shoulder.
It felt unfair for Mila to decide Sagan’s fate, but she knew better than to argue. She looked at Sagan, who continued to cry and bow his head down. For the first time, she really considered that he didn’t want this either. Even if not as much, pieces of him were still taken. He was no longer allowed the beauty of art, and was expected to ‘be a man’. Maybe that felt just as unclear to him as being a wife felt to her. Maybe there was a way they could both win. She started to reach back and untie her apron.
“Sagan, look at me,” she commanded, waiting till he raised his head before continuing, “I am going with Yaga. I need you to go home. Tell them I drowned in the river, that I fell through the ice and you couldn’t reach me. Tell them you cannot marry again after losing me. Give this to my mother. Watch out for my family,” she reached out and grabbed his hands, pressing the apron into his palm, “please. I ask you this much, my dear friend.”
Sagan blinked slowly, and then nodded, understanding. If he had truly witnessed Mila’s death in such a way, he would be allowed to do whatever he pleased. He wouldn’t be made to take on another wife, he could create art whenever he was done on the farm. Perhaps one day, one of Mila’s siblings would have a child, and he could give them the farm. Or perhaps, and maybe this was just Mila’s heart talking, he could find someone he actually loved, and pursue a path he really cared about. Even if she was hurt by him taking his pain out on her, and would need a while before she could forgive him, she still wanted happiness for him.
“Okay, give me a minute to send him off,” Yaga said, “but first, Mila, why don’t you go inside?”
The house crouched down, tilting so the windows looked curiously at Mila, before settling in a position where she could climb using the small rope ladder hanging from the porch. As she approached the door, she took one last look at Sagan, trying to memorize the details of his face for she knew (and hoped) it would be a long time before she saw him again. Then, she reached for the door knob shaped like a chicken, and walked in.
Mac Pomeroy is a Youngstown native and a YSU graduate. She has a degree in English, a minor in creative writing, and an interest in all things mythology and folklore related. She lives with her cat, Nancy, and enjoys spending time with her friends writing at local coffee shops. Mac is currently, and impatiently, waiting for winter to end at the time of writing this.