by Rebecca Stone
The day was mild, for Russia. Serfdom, as any form of feudalism, was based on an agrarian economy. Day after day, serfs worked the land of their lords, barely leaving time to cultivate the land allotted to them to take care of their family. Nevertheless, they survived. Somehow.
The days were getting shorter now. The cockerel was sounding later, and the setting sun never gave them time in the evenings to work. Soon it would be winter. Soon every inch of the land would be obscured by the bleak misfortunes of the snow-white season. And soon, they would be even more hungry. Still their lord would not let them rest.
Of course, Ivanna Kozlovsky was not allowed to help her brothers in the hard, uncaring steppes. Instead, she had to stay inside and wash the sarafans and the kosovorotkas. She had to clean the small hovel they lived in, and cook whatever she could, with help from her mother.
In the evenings, her family would huddle by the small, stone stove, and listen to the stories from their mother. ‘Baba Yaga’ and the ‘Wild Maiden and the Lord of Winter’ were of her particular favourites. Every evening, a story, before a stubborn supper, and then the dark perilous sleep. Seeing who makes it through the night is a particularly common observance in the morning.
At least, she should have stayed inside that day.
Once the sun had just reached its peak, and was hastily making its descent, an abnormal, warm wind caressed the side of Ivanna’s face. She looked towards the open door, left ajar by her senseless brothers. Longing gripped her body, and he shook her with such strength she struggled to control herself. The frozen grass, underneath the spotless blanket of frozen cerulean did not move, even in the strange wind. She looked towards her washing; the water already ice-cold, even after being heated to scalding point, then back to the open door, and the day beyond it. How she wished to be out there, running with the wind on her shoulders, dancing between the molehills and rabbit hovels, howling as the air rushes from her lungs and out in to the numb air beyond.
In one swift movement, her hands were out of the filthy water, her overcoat, or what was left of the shabby one she owned, was on her back, the hole-ridden cotton mittens stuffed in to the side pocket. Her legs moved underneath her, pushed on by muscle memory and… she was out.
The biting winter air froze around her wet hands, and she quickly rubbed them on her sarafan before packing them into her gloves, although they did not do much. Her feet started running, she did not will them to stop gaining speed until she, herself, was whipping through the rocky earth. The wind stung her cheeks, and her ebony hair escaped her hat and curled around her pale, small face.
She reached the edge of the field and turned around to see her small cottage in the distance with smoke curling around the chimney. Looking to the sky, and where the sun was, Ivanna decided she had enough time. So, she turned around again, and let out a yelp of joy, before jumping off the small mound, and tumbled in to the forest beyond.
She thought of nothing… smelled nothing… became nothing as she ran through the trees.
She dodged this way and that as the dark, obsidian trunks crossed her path. She heard only the cracking of twigs and the occasional bark she gave off.
Finally, Ivanna Kozlovsky reduced to a stop, against her willpower.
What was the time? Where was the sun? These questions were racing through her mind as she glanced around. She knew where she was, maybe. She should be just a few moments from the edge of the wood, maybe. Or was she out by the back of the church? No, there was the tree with the carving Ivan Orlov and she had scarred at the age of nine. She walked towards it, to see the familiar initials and swirled patterns.
She moved until her face was almost touching the bark. But nothing was there. It had been a figment of her imagination. False hope. Panic rose up her chest and threatened to choke her. The sun had reached the distant horizon and abandoned her, as had the Gods, and within the canopy of leaves, blackness had swallowed her whole. It wrapped around her like a blanket, swallowing up any remanence of optimism she had left. The dark eternity slithered in to any pocket of light visible, until all she could see was the blank, untouched canvas of the shrub before her.
Ivanna called out in to the darkness, having lost her sense of direction. Which way had she come from? “Is anyone there?”
“Is anyone there…” Came a reply, the same voice, the same sound.
“Help me!” She cried.
Again, only her echo responded, “Help me…”
Ahead of her eyes, she saw the first snowflake fall to the ground.
Followed by another
And another.
And another.
Until the ground was lined with a mat of snow. The temperature had dropped to below -30ºC.
Ivanna Kozlovsky would not survive the night.
The day was mild, for Russia. Serfdom, as any form of feudalism, was based on an agrarian economy. Day after day, serfs worked the land of their lords, barely leaving time to cultivate the land allotted to them to take care of their family. Nevertheless, they survived. Somehow.
The days were getting shorter now. The cockerel was sounding later, and the setting sun never gave them time in the evenings to work. Soon it would be winter. Soon every inch of the land would be obscured by the bleak misfortunes of the snow-white season. And soon, they would be even more hungry. Still their lord would not let them rest.
Of course, Ivanna Kozlovsky was not allowed to help her brothers in the hard, uncaring steppes. Instead, she had to stay inside and wash the sarafans and the kosovorotkas. She had to clean the small hovel they lived in, and cook whatever she could, with help from her mother.
In the evenings, her family would huddle by the small, stone stove, and listen to the stories from their mother. ‘Baba Yaga’ and the ‘Wild Maiden and the Lord of Winter’ were of her particular favourites. Every evening, a story, before a stubborn supper, and then the dark perilous sleep. Seeing who makes it through the night is a particularly common observance in the morning.
At least, she should have stayed inside that day.
Once the sun had just reached its peak, and was hastily making its descent, an abnormal, warm wind caressed the side of Ivanna’s face. She looked towards the open door, left ajar by her senseless brothers. Longing gripped her body, and he shook her with such strength she struggled to control herself. The frozen grass, underneath the spotless blanket of frozen cerulean did not move, even in the strange wind. She looked towards her washing; the water already ice-cold, even after being heated to scalding point, then back to the open door, and the day beyond it. How she wished to be out there, running with the wind on her shoulders, dancing between the molehills and rabbit hovels, howling as the air rushes from her lungs and out in to the numb air beyond.
In one swift movement, her hands were out of the filthy water, her overcoat, or what was left of the shabby one she owned, was on her back, the hole-ridden cotton mittens stuffed in to the side pocket. Her legs moved underneath her, pushed on by muscle memory and… she was out.
The biting winter air froze around her wet hands, and she quickly rubbed them on her sarafan before packing them into her gloves, although they did not do much. Her feet started running, she did not will them to stop gaining speed until she, herself, was whipping through the rocky earth. The wind stung her cheeks, and her ebony hair escaped her hat and curled around her pale, small face.
She reached the edge of the field and turned around to see her small cottage in the distance with smoke curling around the chimney. Looking to the sky, and where the sun was, Ivanna decided she had enough time. So, she turned around again, and let out a yelp of joy, before jumping off the small mound, and tumbled in to the forest beyond.
She thought of nothing… smelled nothing… became nothing as she ran through the trees.
She dodged this way and that as the dark, obsidian trunks crossed her path. She heard only the cracking of twigs and the occasional bark she gave off.
Finally, Ivanna Kozlovsky reduced to a stop, against her willpower.
What was the time? Where was the sun? These questions were racing through her mind as she glanced around. She knew where she was, maybe. She should be just a few moments from the edge of the wood, maybe. Or was she out by the back of the church? No, there was the tree with the carving Ivan Orlov and she had scarred at the age of nine. She walked towards it, to see the familiar initials and swirled patterns.
She moved until her face was almost touching the bark. But nothing was there. It had been a figment of her imagination. False hope. Panic rose up her chest and threatened to choke her. The sun had reached the distant horizon and abandoned her, as had the Gods, and within the canopy of leaves, blackness had swallowed her whole. It wrapped around her like a blanket, swallowing up any remanence of optimism she had left. The dark eternity slithered in to any pocket of light visible, until all she could see was the blank, untouched canvas of the shrub before her.
Ivanna called out in to the darkness, having lost her sense of direction. Which way had she come from? “Is anyone there?”
“Is anyone there…” Came a reply, the same voice, the same sound.
“Help me!” She cried.
Again, only her echo responded, “Help me…”
Ahead of her eyes, she saw the first snowflake fall to the ground.
Followed by another
And another.
And another.
Until the ground was lined with a mat of snow. The temperature had dropped to below -30ºC.
Ivanna Kozlovsky would not survive the night.
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