NAVIA - CHAPTER ONE
The Night of the Ancestors
by Grzegorz Gwoźdź“Throw them the fuck out of the club," he hissed through clenched teeth, nervously tugging at his gray beard. He was absolutely furious. He gazed into the club through the Venetian window of his office, wondering how anyone could be such a moron as the guests in the VIP lounge. Most of the partygoers were in costume. On the dance floor, scantily clad rusalki writhed to the pounding music, occasionally groped by huge, steroid-pumped werewolves. Topielce were doing lines in the bathroom, constantly glancing over their shoulders. Behind the DJ booth, some girl was blowing a leshy. Even she was wearing a mask. In his club, in Nawia, you could get away with a lot, but on October 31st, on the Night of the Ancestors, even the Pope would wear a karaboszka here.
Karaboszki—ritual masks—were extraordinarily important on this day. On the Night of the Ancestors, the boundaries between Nawia—the spirit realm, after which Weles had named his club—and Wyraj, the mortal world, became gossamer thin. Thanks to this, the dziady—the souls of ancestors—could visit their loved ones that day, warm themselves by the fire, bask in their company, and repay them with good advice, usually delivered as prophecy or dream. On the other hand, the mortal world was just as easily haunted by envious souls, evil and vengeful, and a whole horde of demons of every kind.
That was exactly why at Nawia—the most popular and simply the best club on the Baltic coast—everyone wore a karaboszka on this day. No one in their right mind wanted evil spirits escaping from Nawia, spreading curses and pestilence, and certainly not him—Weles, Lord of the Underworld, who would have to herd the whole pack back, risking the sulks of his beloved daughter Marzanna, mistress of winter, lady of death and rebirth, and the most spoiled teenager that earth and the afterlife had ever known.
For some reason, however, the gang currently occupying the VIP lounge had decided the rules didn't apply to them.
"Boss, are you sure?" spoke up the guard standing nearest. "They left about a hundred thousand zlotys in offerings at the bar today," he continued with a note of hesitation in his voice.
"Yes, fucking hell, I'm sure. They'll bring a shitload of souls in here and I'll be escorting them back through the veil until that meathead Perun's feast day. Marzanna will be pissed again that I don't have time for her and she'll freeze all our asses off. Throw them out. I won't accept such an offering!"
The guards still stood in place, not quite knowing what to do with themselves.
"But sir, they brought steaks!" blurted out one of the guards, clearly younger than the rest.
"Is it really that easy to tame you now?" he asked in disbelief, smiling slightly to himself.
"But it's wagyu!" the guard continued. "They also brought you a pouch of poppy seeds!"
The bearded man slowly rubbed his temples and smiled despite himself. Sometimes he forgot that beneath their human forms hid his ancient wolves. They were fierce and infinitely loyal protectors, but sometimes their instincts got the better of them. Especially when it came to steaks—and wagyu at that. He shouldn't forget their animal nature, even if his wolves had grown very fond of their human form.
"Warn them one last time, and if they don't put on masks immediately, throw them out. You can be nice about it. We wouldn't reject such an offering, would we?" he finished with a smile.
"Hell fucking no!" the young one cheered. "I'll personally see to it!"
The guard headed to the VIP lounge, bristling his wolf mane, which had only grown a few weeks ago. He was incredibly proud of it. In human form, it manifested as a wolf-fur-trimmed collar on his blazer and looked stunning. He wasn't surprised that people coming to Nawia had started imitating this—as they themselves called it—style. Humans were strange. And smelled funny.
He walked up to the VIP table and cleared his throat.
"Lord Weles does not wish for anyone to remain in his club on the Night of the Ancestors without a karaboszka. This is essential for hygienic reasons. You must all put on masks or leave immediately," he recited the memorized formula smoothly.
"Shut your trap, mutt," retorted the largest and most wasted of the guests gathered in the lounge.
"Your bitch was licking my face yesterday!" the Young One shot back, half speaking, half growling. The wasted meathead smashed his mug, making a jagged weapon, and began clumsily getting up. That's when the young one's eyes blazed gold. His mane bristled, making him appear larger. Through slightly parted lips, unnaturally long fangs were visible. From his throat and the throats of the other wolves, who had appeared behind the young one at some point, came a piercing, guttural growl, audible despite the loud music. It's good to be part of the pack, the young one thought. He leaned forward, bent his legs slightly, bared his fangs, and was about to lunge at the idiot's throat when someone decided to ruin what promised to be an excellent brawl.
"Sit your ass down and respect Lord Weles's rules," said one of the VIPs, already wearing a karaboszka, pulling his drunk friend back onto the couch. "I apologize for my colleague," he added. "He's not from around here. We'll be leaving now, I have the impression we've overstayed our welcome anyway."
A moment later, the guests stood up and headed for the exit through the dance floor one level below. They hadn't all managed to push through the crowd when they suddenly turned pale, collapsed to the floor, and curled up in the fetal position.
"Fucking hell!" the young one shouted, seeing what was happening. He waved to the DJ to kill the music. He looked around nervously. "Get the priest!" he called out briefly.
The bartender pulled a sheepskin from under the counter and threw it over his gleaming black shirt. He grabbed a staff hidden above the bar, a pouch of spices, drained his drink, slapped the ass of a girl draped over the bar right on her embroidered Kociewie pattern, grabbed a bottle of mead, and headed toward the people curled up on the dance floor.
"Write down your number and leave it behind the bar!" he called out as he left, in case his potential companion was about to wander off. It didn't look like he'd be going home from work alone, though.
"They weren't wearing karaboszki and something got them," said the young one when the bartender joined them.
"Again, for fuck's sake," the bartender replied. "If this keeps up, people will start demanding shows like this. Don't they teach this stuff in school?"
"How should I know, have you ever seen a wolf in school?"
"Fuck it. Get a few people and form a circle around these idiots."
The young one summoned a dozen of the least drunk people he could find. The other wolves brought the accessories needed for the ritual, like a small metal bowl, wood chips, water, incense, a handful of hay, and so on. They lined people up in front of the bartender. He censed each one in turn and admitted them to the circle.
"Wash your hands, your face, take a handful of hay, rub yourself with it, cast it away, and enter the circle," he said to each one. He arranged them into something that, with a lot of goodwill, could be called a circle. He walked around the circle, singing something under his breath and pouring alcohol behind him.
People began joining hands. When the bartender finally joined them, one of them tried to grab his hand.
"Get that paw away from me. This is a proper ritual and a proper club, not some fucking kindergarten. Although you're all about to sing beautifully now. Repeat after me!" the bartender ordered and pulled a flint from his pocket. He leaned over the metal bowl and arranged a few sticks in it. And began to sing:
Burn, burn bright, so it won't go out!
Burn, burn bright, so it won't go out!
Burn, burn bright, so it won't go out!
Burn, burn bright, so it won't go out!
Meanwhile, still singing, he lit a small fire. Finally, he called out:
"Burn, burn! Welcome, guest in the red cloak."
The bartender began to speak:
"Weles, Lord of Nawia! We welcome you on this special night, when the ancestors wander the earth and the boundaries between Wyraj and Nawia blur. Ruler of the underworld, lord of magic, secrets, oaths, and wealth, guardian of cattle—both horned and mechanical—surround us with your protection and let the souls of ancestors warm themselves by our fire and be nourished. In your honor, we pour vodka, scatter poppy seeds, and melt a golden coin, asking you for the safe passage of our ancestors."
"After me, three times, Glory to Weles!"
"Glory! Glory! Glory!" the people in the club repeated after him.
The bartender poured a shot of vodka into the bowl and scattered a handful of poppy seeds. He reached into the pocket of the meathead lying on the floor, pulled out his wallet, took out a sizeable stack of banknotes, and threw it into the fire. He looked toward the Venetian mirror, two floors up, behind which Weles's office was hidden, and bowed deeply.
Behind the glass, Weles paused from eating his steak, cooked medium rare with a touch of rosemary and garlic butter, brought by the VIPs now curled up on the floor of his club. He reached into a desk drawer for a horn. Though it seemed empty at first, Weles still raised it to his lips and took a swig. He felt the characteristic warmth spreading through his body, like drinking mulled wine in the frost. Still holding the horn, he walked close enough to the window to see what was happening below. He felt the pleasant warmth of the sacrificial vodka poured in his honor spreading through his body.
After a moment, the bartender began summoning the ancestors.
"Dear ancestors, who wish to visit us today. Draw near to the fire and warm your frozen souls. Nourish yourselves with the mustard and vodka we cast into the sacred fire for you. Bestow upon us your protection, advice, and wisdom, which some of us so desperately need, and protect us from all creatures that wish to harm us."
The bartender looked at the people curled up on the floor and muttered under his breath:
"Fucking idiots..."
He raised his eyes to the people in the circle and called out:
"After me, three times, Glory to the Ancestors!"
"Glory! Glory! Glory!" the people in the club repeated after him.
"Now you, spirits who came here not to warm yourselves and feast with us, but to harm those who did not respect our traditions, who showed their faces and invited you to leave Nawia—be sated with these gifts and leave these wretches be. Here for you is vodka, poppy seeds, mustard, and a handful of flour." He then threw the gifts into the fire and doused them with vodka. Everything burned beautifully.
The unconscious guests curled up on the floor began slowly coming to. They looked around at the partygoers gathered in the circle with dazed expressions.
"We'll be going now," said the first one to wake up.
"Glory to the spirits of the ancestors!" called out another, getting up clumsily.
"Glory! Glory! Glory!" the people in the club repeated after him.
After the final call, he dissolved the circle and shouted:
"Gods are pleased, ancestors are pleased, time to restore our feast! Come to the bar and I'm counting on awesome tips. DJ—music!" the bartender finished, slid the sheepskin off his shoulders, took a swig of vodka, and headed to the bar, where his companion was unfortunately no longer waiting.
"Damn," the bartender muttered under his breath. "I wonder if she was even alive."
Two floors up, Weles watched the whole event with displeasure:
"Yeah. Gods are pleased my ass. And Marzanna is going to be absolutely thrilled," he muttered to himself. He sat down at his desk again. He pulled from the drawer a black velvet pouch the size of two fists. Its contents rattled pleasantly with each movement. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and focused his thoughts on the evening's events. He slowly reached into the pouch and closed his fist around its contents. With a slow motion, he pulled out the contents, extended his arm so that his clenched fist was over the center of the desk, and relaxed his hand. Animal bones covered with runes fell onto the gold-decorated oak surface. He examined them carefully, took a deep breath, exhaled, and said briefly:
"Fucking hell."
He pulled out his phone, opened his favorites list, and clicked the phone icon on the first one. A melodious female voice answered from the other end:
"Jaga here. What's up?"
"Souls escaped from Nawia. Ziemek sent most of them back, but a few got away. The divination says there'll be trouble."
"Go on," Jaga encouraged him.
"Some poor girl was drawn to our Ziemek's warmth. A few idiots weren't wearing karaboszki and the kid had to save them. Meanwhile, a zmora latched onto the girl and carried her off into the night. I'm guessing it'll use the girl to get to new victims. Spread the word and find out as much as you can."
"I'll notify the Szeptuchy, let them spread the word. We'll need to organize a festival. I'll send the invoice by email. Anything else?"
"Give them some of my poppy seeds. They'll work faster," Weles decided.
"Ooh, thank you, Old Man!" she replied.
"That's 'Thank you, Lord and Master,'" he corrected her.
"Piss off, old fart!" Jaga laughed.
"Piss off yourself, Witch," Weles laughed. Jaga was brazen, mouthy, and incredibly intelligent. He adored her and let her get away with a lot. More than her predecessors, anyway.
"Should I cast some juicy curse on those idiots?" she asked before hanging up.
"Yes. Nothing dangerous, but make them remember it," Weles added briefly.
"Mosquitoes and nettles?" she suggested with undisguised glee.
"Perfect. But don't waste too much energy on them. Take care."
"Take care, Bull Boy!" Jaga said goodbye.
"With respect, Witch," he admonished her.
"Farewell, oh Lord, Ruler of Nawia, Master of Ma—" Jaga recited through laughter.
"Okay, okay, get lost," Weles interrupted her.
"Bye," she said briefly and hung up.
Weles wondered for a moment why he was so lenient with her, but he knew perfectly well. She was the best. After all, he had taught her everything himself.
He swept the runes back into the pouch and put them in the desk, then locked the drawer. He stood up and smoothed out his black, gold-embroidered vest. He grabbed the jacket hanging on the back of his chair and threw it over his shoulders. He turned toward the wall behind the desk and spoke a spell. The wall parted to reveal a medium-sized safe. He pressed his thumb to the reader and the safe door opened with a metallic click. He took out a vial of golden-shimmering poppy seeds and shook it gently. The contents began to sparkle softly. He grabbed two more vials, closed the safe, and headed for the exit. On his way out, he took a flat cap and coat from the rack. In the elevator, he made sure his horns were hidden under his headwear and the car keys were still in his pocket. When he reached the ground floor, he nodded slightly at the DJ.
The young man behind the console quickly packed up his laptop, shoved enormous headphones around his neck, and hurried toward Weles.
"Good evening, boss! Did you see how they partied tonight? Folk trance is the discovery of the season and it started right here with us. Heavy drums, horns, melodic electro, and white singing all mixed into one huge—pardon my language—clusterfuck. There's power here, boss, there's—"
"What's your name?"
"Lucio!" The young man proudly puffed out his lean chest, clad in something between a hoodie and a coat in a deep black color. The sleeves and excessively deep hood were covered with patterns that were a mix of runes once used in Scandinavia. They made absolutely no sense, but they looked nice together. On his legs, he wore black jeans cut like motorcycle pants and white high-top sneakers.
"I know you from somewhere else, don't I?" Weles asked when he finished sizing up the kid.
"That's right. Music is just for fun and sometimes I make some extra cash... During the day I work for you at Poppy. I do infosec and a bit of server administration. I'm the youngest expert in the company's history," the young man puffed out his chest even more, though it didn't seem possible.
"That's thanks to Marian. He taught me everything I know and he still looks after me," the young hacker praised his mentor. "I'm very glad you take such good care of him. He's getting on in years and I'm happy we can all benefit from his experience."
"We must take care of our elders, don't you think?"
"That's true. I've been rambling, how can I help?"
"Have you been drinking?"
"At work? Never. Well, at least not tonight," the young man smiled.
"Alright then. Catch. We're going to the office."
Weles tossed the young man the car keys. Despite his surprise, the young man caught them deftly and his eyes went wide.
"Is this The Growl?" he asked timidly.
"You bet," Weles smiled.
Lucio grinned so wide it looked like his smile might wrap around his head. The Growl was one of Weles's favorite toys from modern times. He had liked cars ever since they first appeared in the world. They reminded him of oxen, of which he was still the guardian. Those no longer served humans in daily life. So the god decided that, as in many other areas, one must move with the times and adopted motorization as his domain, especially all kinds of work vehicles, and most of all pickups and off-roaders.
His beloved Growl could, with a great deal of goodwill, be considered a work vehicle—though that would require a tremendous amount of goodwill. This beloved toy of the Slavic deity was known among the employees of his companies as the most magnificent, coolest vehicle they had ever seen. Some of them had even had the chance to drive it when Weles decided he wanted to make someone happy.
The Growl had started as an intensively modified Ford Ranger. All limitations were removed, the engine was tuned, the body and suspension were adjusted. As a result, the vehicle reached over 500 horsepower and was capable of traveling on both asphalt and off-road at speeds exceeding 200 km/h. The only problem with the vehicle wasn't even its fuel consumption, but the fury of Mokosz, who absolutely and categorically demanded reduced emissions, no driving over green areas, meadows, fields, and forests, and generally getting control of "that smoke-belching monster," offering as an alternative "smashing Weles's companies with the power of all national and European institutions" that Mokosz knew. As a Member of the European Parliament and representative of the environmental protection committee, the agriculture committee, and who the hell knows what else, she knew many of these institutions and could deploy them with the overwhelming force that only a furious ex-wife can muster. Not wanting pickets of angry farmers outside his headquarters, which his ex would undoubtedly send after him, Weles agreed to do something about it. He solved the problem in his typical effective and spectacular way and infused the car with magic. The vehicle became even more powerful, even faster, and ultimately consumed only a pinch of poppy seeds per 1000 kilometers, growling ferociously all the while.
Weles rode down with the young man to the underground garage. They approached a large black pickup with golden horns embossed on the hood. The god opened the tank, poured in a pinch of poppy seeds, and then stroked the car's hood. It might have been just an illusion, but the young man was certain the car was pleased. He was literally waiting for it to start rubbing against his boss.
Weles got into the passenger seat and ordered briefly:
"To the office. Floor it. The Growl needs a run."
"Yes, boss!" Lucio called out, nearly stomping in place with excitement.
They drove out of the garage, the young man hit the gas, and the car roared off into the night with an engine roar that brought an ever-widening smile to the already grinning face of the young programmer.