So at the beginning of The Shadow Aspect I'd originally written a Prologue titled "The Clarion Call." As my team worked on this novel, we decided it needed to go. Many thanks to Becky Stephens and Naomi Clewett for helping me make that call.
"The Clarion Call" was the backstory on Grandma Petrovich (still one of my favorite characters) and WHY she'd come to America in the first place. It's an interesting tale, but not one that needed to be part of The Shadow Aspect.
I released a version of this story more than a year ago, but I thought it was time for an update. While "The Clarion Call" isn't in The Shadow Aspect as I originally planned, you can read it here! Enjoy.
The Clarion Call
Prologue: Vasilisa
Soviet Russia, 1957
Vasilisa walked down The same path
from her family’s farm to town every day for as long as she could remember. She
was barely strong enough to carry the packs of freshly harvested roots and
herbs when her mother tasked her with the job. But Vasilisa never complained. What
was the use? Now that she was a young woman, her daily routine seemed as
automated as breathing: wake, wash her face, dress, feed her younger siblings,
comb out her wheat-colored tresses, and then harvest herbs to take to the
distillery. Only now she could carry more. Only now her mother was dead.
With
her eyes on the pebbly path below her feet, Vasilisa walked from her farm,
through the field, and into the woods. It was a ten-minute walk to the road. If
she was lucky, someone would give her a ride to town. If she wasn’t, it would
take thirty minutes to walk there. If she was really lucky, Sasha Petrovich
would drive by in his rusted truck and give her a ride. Vasilisa’s heart picked
up a pace when she thought of him.
Sunlight
shone through the canopy of green. Vasilisa stopped beside the old spring and
took off her packs. Long ago someone had shifted the rocks to make a natural
basin. She dipped her hands in the water and took a drink. The fresh spring
water had a sharp, metallic taste. Vasilisa splashed water onto her face. That
year the Soviets had sent a satellite into space, yet Vasilisa walked the same
path her ancestors had followed for hundreds of years. She performed the same
work they did in the exact same way. She knew this because they told her so. The
spirits of her ancestors sometimes clustered around her so closely in the
family home that she felt claustrophobic. They were a noisy bunch. Vasilisa’s
grandmother, the stubborn matriarch who’d passed on her psychic gift to Vasilisa,
was always the loudest. Sometimes Vasilisa felt like she was lost in time. As
she dug in her pack to leave three cubes of sugar at the side of the spring, a
gift for the forest spirits, she felt the crush of her discordant world:
ancient and modern in one jumbled mess.
She
picked up her packs and headed back toward the road. To her luck, a truck was
passing just as she emerged from the woods. But it was not Sasha. Vasilisa
waved, and the truck slowed. With a nod to the driver, she crawled into the
back of the pickup and sat with the family dog. She dangled her feet off the
back of the truck, smelling the exhaust, as the truck rumbled toward town. It
didn’t take long.
Vasilisa
hopped off the back of the truck as the driver slowed to let her out. She waved
in thanks as the truck sped away. Vasilisa turned toward the town square but
first stopped, dug into her pocket, and pulled out the only tube of lipstick
she owned; it was cherry red. She twisted the gold casing, carefully applied
the lipstick, and then trudged to the distillery.
The
distillery was on the far end of the market square. The square was bustling in
its grim, drab way. There were no longer any breadlines. That was a thing of
the past, but the townspeople still looked miserable. They carried their
baskets and sacks of produce, their faces blank, their feet scurrying.
The
sign above the distillery door squeaked as it rocked in the wind. Its sound
carried on the wind. Vasilisa pushed the door open. As usual, Yuri was in the
front office laboring over heaps of papers, the room a blue haze of cigarette
smoke. Crates of vodka bottles were stacked to the ceiling. The clear glass
bottles twinkled in the morning light.
“Good
morning,” Vasilisa said.
“Good
morning,” Yuri replied absently. He didn’t even look up. Why would he? The
routine had become mundane.
Vasilisa
took her packs to the scale on the other side of the room. She set them down,
noted the weight, and picked up the empty bags from yesterday’s delivery. The
unbleached cotton bags still smelled like the anise, mint, lavender, and basil
they’d carried.
“Five
and a half kilos,” she told Yuri.
Yuri
never looked at Vasilisa but turned to the till and started counting bills.
As
he worked, Vasilisa noticed she was there again. She stood beside Yuri,
watching him work. The spirit of Yuri’s sister often came around him, but she
rarely spoke. Vasilisa saw her and saw through her all at once. It seemed to
Vasilisa her shade seemed cloudier today, her facial figures less distinct than
they had been on other days.
The
shade looked at Vasilisa. “Tell him to stop smoking,” she said then dissipated
back into the ether, her cloudy, spiritual form slowly fading until she was
there no more.
With
a nod, Yuri handed Vasilisa her pay. He was about to go back to his work when
Vasilisa asked, “Can I have a cigarette?”
He
shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and quickly rolled a cigarette for her. His tin and
papers had been sitting open on his desk.
“I
think you smoke too much,” Vasilisa told him as she set the cigarette between
her lips.
Yuri
leaned in and lit the cigarette.
“You’re
probably right,” he replied with a nod. “Drink?” he asked then, looking
Vasilisa over as he sometimes did when he stopped long enough to pay attention
to her.
Vasilisa
waved her hand. “Tu-tu-tu, it’s early.”
“It’s
never too early.”
She
shrugged. “See you tomorrow.”
Yuri
nodded and turned back to his work.
Vasilisa
crossed the street to the grocer. In the small, cramped shop, she went to the
metal cooler and pulled out a chilled Coca-Cola. The cold glass bottle made her
hands throb with chill. She popped the metal lid off the bottle, dropped some
coins on the counter, and then headed outside. She leaned against the building.
Tapping her heal into the ground, she finished off the cigarette and waited. After
thirty minutes, Sasha still had not come. Maybe he had gone to the city.
Vasilisa sighed. It was time to go back. She knew the little ones would be
waiting. Her father would already be working in the field. She left the town
center and headed back to the road.
She’d
been walking for ten minutes when she heard the familiar purr of Sasha’s truck.
She grinned involuntarily. As the truck pulled alongside her, she dropped her
smile and tried to look annoyed.
“I’m
late. I know,” Sasha said as he leaned across the truck’s cab and opened the
door.
Vasilisa
gave him a serious look.
“Come
on, beauty. I’m sorry. The truck wouldn’t start.”
Vasilisa
sighed and got in, pulling the truck door behind her with a heave. She slid
across the seat and nestled under Sasha’s arm.
“I
thought maybe your mother had you visiting Irina again.”
“My
mother knows I have eyes only for Vasilisa.”
“That
doesn’t mean she cares.”
Sasha
shrugged. They rode in silence, soaking in each other’s presence, until Sasha
pulled the truck into the small alcove at the forest path leading back to
Vasilisa’s farm.
“Your
father should clear a road. I could drive you all the way to the house.”
“We
prefer it like this.”
“We?”
Sasha looked closely at Vasilisa. He reached out and touched her pouty lips,
the lipstick now faded. He stared deeply into her green eyes. “Well, it does
provide privacy, doesn’t it?”
Vasilisa
smiled knowingly then turned and slid onto Sasha’s lap. They kissed with
desperation. Their time together could only be brief. Most of their moments
were stolen. Vasilisa slid her hands around Sasha’s neck and kissed him
desperately. His lips were warm and his mouth tasted like raw sugar. The sharp
scent of milled soap perfumed his freshly-washed skin. Vasilisa nestled her
head into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, then sighed.
“I
won’t be late tomorrow, my love,” he whispered in her ear.
“Good.
Don’t be,” she said with mock firmness then kissed him quickly. She slid off
his lap onto the seat, angled the rearview mirror to catch her reflection, and then
smoothed her hair. Wordlessly, she kissed Sasha one more time then got out of
the truck.
Sasha
sighed heavily. “Be careful,” he called, gazing toward the forest.
Vasilisa
laughed, waved, and then turned toward home. As she receded into the forest,
she heard Sasha’s truck maneuver onto the road. She listened as he drove off.
With
the taste of her lover’s mouth still ripe on her lips, Vasilisa walked happily
through the woods, planning her chores for the day, savoring her memories of
Sasha. She stopped once more at the spring. She took her time washing off the
lipstick and drinking the clear water. Vasilisa was so lost in her thoughts
that when hear ears started to buzz, her head ring, she was surprised. Dreaming
of Sasha, she hadn’t even heard the other person join her at the spring, not as
if they ever made any noise. Vasilisa
stiffened and looked up. An old woman stood at the side of the spring and was
looking intently at Vasilisa. Her clothing, no more than tattered black rags,
brushed the ground. Her hair was long, gray, and matted. Her face, however,
hinted that she’d once been beautiful, even though she was now very old. Her dark
blue eyes studied Vasilisa.
Vasilisa
knew she was in trouble. This was not one of the departed. She was one of those
from the otherworld. The woman travelled through the thin places, coming from
the other realm, to join Vasilisa. Cautiously, Vasilisa leaned toward the
spring and lifted the copper cup that dangled there. She dipped the cup into
the water and offered the drink to the stranger.
“This
spring is older than your town,” the woman commented wryly, taking the cup from
Vasilisa’s hand. “But the water is still fresh—unlike the rest of your world.”
Using
her peripheral vision, Vasilisa eyed the old woman over. This was no common
spirit, rusalka, or leshi. Though she wore the clothes of a beggar, the woman’s
stern authority, power, and presence made her identity obvious. There was not
one child in Russia who didn’t know the name of the wise woman of the forest,
the name of the powerful and terrible Baba Yaga. And Vasilisa knew, without a
doubt, that it was this ancient matriarch who was staring at her. What did the
ancient one want from her? How many lusty leshi men had Vasilisa turned away
since she learned to recognize the other beings in our world? How many near
misses had she had with the dark fiends of the night? But Baba Yaga was
something different, something rare and powerful.
The
old woman took a sip then handed the cup back to Vasilisa.
“You
must leave Mother Russia and go to America,” Baba Yaga said then.
The
randomness of the directive startled Vasilisa so much that she stared Baba Yaga
in the face. The ancient matriarch’s hard gaze told her that this was not a
debate. It was a command.
“Why?”
Vasilisa asked.
The
old woman laughed.
Vasilisa’s
cheeks reddened. The moment the word left her mouth she knew she should have
taken a more respectful tone. But the United States? She and Sasha had talked
about going to America, about starting a new life there, but to leave Soviet
Russia was difficult and relations between the United States and the Soviets
were not good. She also had her family to consider.
“Because
you must,” Baba Yaga said seriously.
“Because
you said so?”
“You
question me?” Baba Yaga replied, her tone precariously balanced somewhere
between warning and amusement.
Vasilisa
shrugged. “One should never follow blindly.”
Baba
Yaga seemed to like this answer. “If you value life, if you value the heart
that beats within you, the blood in your veins, then you will go. You will be
needed, and you must go to America to fulfill your role.”
Every
hair on the back of Vasilisa’s neck had risen, and her skin chilled. “But, I
have a life here, Sasha . . .”
“What
matters is that you go to America.”
“For
my important role,” Vasilisa replied smartly, but this time she saw that Baba
Yaga was losing her patience.
The
old woman’s lips curled. “No more questions. If you can really see, you will
know I am right.”
Behind
them, a flock of crows cawed, fighting one another over the remains of an
animal carcass lying on the forest floor. Vasilisa turned to look. When she
turned back, Baba Yaga was gone.
Vasilisa
sat down on the ground beside the spring. She rested her head on the cool
stones. Her heart was beating wildly. Could she trust the word of the ancient
matriarch? Could she trust the witch in the forest they had all grown up to
fear? Surely Baba Yaga had taken pains to cross the border between the worlds,
but why? And why Vasilisa? What could Vasilisa possibly do that would be so
important?
She turned again to the cawing crows. They pecked and
danced as they fought over the bloody carcass. With their sharp beaks, they
pulled at the pulpy, blood-covered sinews of meat. Their battle looked more
like ballet than argument, but their caws rang loud and long and filled the
forest with their clarion call.
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