When Night Falls

part ii| chapter ix

THE BELLY OF THE EARTH HAS changed, accommodating her offspring with states that once existed, and states that draw great boundaries, and Anitchka belongs to none of them. Dmitri tells her that her old, worn house by the edge of the world is occupied.

"Who lives there now?" She asks, knitting a scarf from the deep crimson yarn that the Count had bought from the marketplace. They are rigged with goblin magic, granting wishes and taking tenfold.

Helga weaves spools of silver through them. "Women who have lost their men to the partition of the Northern Wastes and the Southern Lands."

"When the Tsar splits borders, men rush to all sides, they kill for what their minds believe to be right," Olga adds quietly, "Then Master collects them, and they become men of Death."

She uses her teeth to snap the ends of the thread, and Anitchka swallows her breath. It has been months, in her time, but there is no end and there is no beginning in this kingdom. Anitchka could sleep, and the world will have aged a hundred years. Her fingers tremble. "How many has the Count taken?"

Dmitri scratches the tuft on his head. "Thousands. But don't you fret your pretty little mind, Bones, we all pass from the land of living to the land of death."

Anitchka sighs, preparing herself to venture into the woods, much to the dismay of the goblins and the imp. She walks through the kitchen, and the kikimoras let out shrill whistles in response. Their small, scruffy backs are bent crookedly, and one of them shatters a ceramic plate. The moss curling over their clothes is a pale green, swaying with their feet, their noses thin and pointed in mischief. Olga had warned her of the kikimora, propping a broom outside Anitchka's door, lest they burst through the keyhole and strangle the life from her. "Throw her from the house, we don't take human girls for mistresses."

Helga hisses at them sharply, and the kikimoras disappear behind the cellar, crawling underneath the stove. She has heard that the creatures residing in the nooks of the mansion are not quite fond of her, besides the house elves – the domovoi – for she leaves them biscuits and honey. Anitchka kneels before the stove, peering at the gaping hole in the wall that is much too small for her. "Would you like treats too, kikimora?"

Dmitri rolls his beady eyes. "Ungrateful those things are."

Searching into the pockets of her dress, Anitchka pushes two cubes of sugar that she had kept during tea. She wraps her knit scarf around her neck, the one whose ruby wool curls with silvery goblin craft, and pulls a pair of gloves onto her hands. As she heads outside, she notices the sugar disappear into the darkness of the world under the stove.

. . .

There aren't any spirits and goblins this time, but the table and the splendor of an untouched banquet lies on it. Apples, peaches, frothy milk, and bread peek from baskets and plates. The wide, ancient tree with its old roots twisting over and under the ground, is stripped bare of its glory. Even the woods are seemingly darker, as though the branches and leaves have huddled closer. Anitchka laces her fingers tight. She circles around it, wary for any shift in the shrubs, behind the cover of forest greens. "They are hearing us, aren't they?" She asks of Dmitri, pleased when he nods. In its stillness, Anitchka raises a fine cup and throws it to the grassy floor. Olga and Helga jump in surprise, and she proceeds to toss the contents of the basket. "You took from me a finger, I'll take from you your feast – well, it is all dirt and rotten worms anyway."