The Whisperer's Gift

After the call ended, Jaga slipped her phone into one of the many pockets hidden in the folds of her skirt. She loved it dearly. The most talented Whisperers from Podlasie had sewn it for her as a gift. The skirt was made of delicate yet incredibly strong material that felt to the witch like the skin on a days-old calf's nose. The women had covered the garment with an intricate embroidery, stitched with threads dyed nearly black in Podlasie blueberries. The pattern wrapped around Jaga's slender but strong waist and wound down to the hem of the skirt. Thanks to this, the garment was not only beautiful but practical. The Whisperers had woven their good intentions into the embroidery, which meant nothing ever fell from the pockets and the fabric never got dirty. On top of that, a breeze always gently ruffled the skirt. In summer, it was cool and provided relief in high temperatures, while in colder weather it became warmer and wrapped around its owner to keep the chill at bay.

She had just finished making offerings to the Ancestors and Veles with Wanda, though she hadn't expected a call from the old deity so soon. Wanda, who accompanied Jaga, was one of the oldest and most experienced Whisperers in Podlasie, if not all of Poland. Though the woman was nearly 90 years old, Jaga remembered well when she had trained Wanda first as a Babushka, then as a Whisperer. The old woman was responsible for the exchange of information between all the Rural Housewives' Circles throughout Podlasie, healed unusual cases that baffled doctors. She helped when crops wouldn't grow, and when necessary, she handled curses quite well.

"Wanda, Lord Veles has a new task for you..." she began to say when the cottage door burst open with a crash. A man rushed in carrying an unconscious boy in his arms. Behind them, a tearful mother stumbled into the room.

"Mrs. Wanda, help! Little Mike collapsed again. The ambulance won't be here for an hour and a half. Please help!"

"My name is Jaga. Do you know who I am?" the witch interrupted her.

"Yes," the mother replied briefly, turning slightly pale.

"What's your name and what's wrong with the boy?" Jaga asked.

"Helena. Mike has had a bad heart since birth. He takes medication but it doesn't help much. Recently they said..."

"Helena, brief and precise—what diagnosis did the doctors give?" Jaga interrupted her.

"Ventricular arrhythmia and heart failure. Mike needs surgery."

Jaga pressed her ear to his chest. She heard irregular, weak heartbeats. She noticed his ragged breathing and slowly blueing lips.

"The boy won't make it to the ambulance." Jaga looked at the pale face of the child, gently stroked him, and softened. "We have to help him."

"You—" the witch pointed at the man who had carried the boy in, "—run and get the Kumoszki. I need at least six of them here immediately. Now!" she shouted, snapping the father out of his shock, and he immediately ran out of the room.

She leaned down to the boy and gently stroked him.

"Hold on, Mike. We'll help you," she whispered in his ear.

Jaga retreated to the entrance and grabbed her staff from the corner by the door. She returned to the boy, sat on the bed, and closed her eyes. She struck the floor twice with the staff. She kept repeating the motion until the thuds of the staff against the floor began to resemble a heartbeat. The witch began to sing in a beautiful, melodious voice. It was hard to make out the words of the song, but it evoked a storm interrupted by regular thunderclaps, and the rush of a forest battered by wind and rain. Whisperer Wanda joined in the singing, reinforcing the rhythm with powerful chants. More housewives began entering the room. More voices strengthened the song. One joined with a drum, another with a rattle. The song was powerful, melodic, and very rhythmic.

"Massage his heart," she ordered the father when he entered the cottage behind the last Babushka.

The man positioned himself beside the boy. He placed both hands on the boy's sternum and prepared to press down on his son's chest.

"Gently, you idiot!" the witch hissed through her teeth, then returned to singing.

"Keep the rhythm!" she corrected him after a moment. "Yes, good!"

Without interrupting her song, Jaga reached for a slim black motorcycle backpack and pulled out a bundle of greenish-gray herbs and yellow flowers, a silver lighter, and a small candle. She lit the candle and held the bundle of herbs to it. A bluish trail of smoke began spreading through the room, carrying the scent of mugwort, southernwood, and wormwood. After a few minutes, color began returning to the boy's face. The ritual was interrupted by sudden pounding on the door and shouting from outside.

"Leave the boy alone! You'll kill him with your heathen rituals!" someone kept yelling behind the door.

Jaga opened her eyes. Her pupils blazed with fury.

"Who the hell is that, for fuck's sake," Jaga swore. "Don't stop!" she ordered briefly.

She stood up, walked to the door, pushed aside the white, finely woven curtain, and saw through the window a priest waving his arms. She opened the door and stood in the doorway.

"What do you want? I have more important things to deal with than arguing with some priest. Leave while you still can walk on your own."

She turned around and closed the door.

"I am the parish priest of this distinguished village and no witch is going to dismiss me like some fledgling acolyte. With the power vested in me by the Church, in the name of the Lord, I command you to—"

Jaga didn't let him finish. She spun on her heel, swung the door open with force, hitting the priest square in the forehead with the edge of the door, where a large purple bump instantly bloomed. The witch's eyes blazed with fury.

"Get lost while I'm still being nice! You will not order me around. The best you can do is tell your housekeeper what cake to bake, and only if that poor girl feels like listening to you."

Though the weather had been perfect just moments ago, the sky suddenly filled with dark clouds. Heavy rain began to fall. In the distance, the first thunderclaps could already be heard, and lightning began to split the sky in the distance. The priest kept jumping around in front of the door and screaming.

"Get out!" the witch shrieked at length.

"You'll regret this, you harlot, you wh—"

Jaga burst through the door. She deftly twirled the staff in her fingers, pointing the heavy end, clad in runic steel, toward the ground. She spun around her own axis, the folds of the red skirt fluttered, her long red braid whirled. At the end of the spin, Jaga thrust the steel-clad staff straight into his stomach and followed up with a sweeping leg sweep.

The priest fell backward into the mud that was slowly forming from the downpour, rolled heavily onto his stomach, and vomited. After a long moment, he got up and coughed. His cassock was covered in mud. He had lost one shoe in the muck. His sparse hair, wet from the rain, clung to the side of his head. Drops splattered on the bald spot in the middle of his head. His face was flushed with rage.

"Leave that boy alone! You'll kill him! You witches! You stupid women! We used to burn idiots like you at the stake!" the priest was working himself up.

Jaga stood facing him with her head held high, gripping the staff with both hands, its base resting on the softening ground. Her favorite skirt and elegant blouse, soaked by the streams of rain, clung to her body, accentuating her perfect figure along with the black corset. Long boots reaching to her knees and high heels surprisingly protected her well from the mud. She looked stunning and dangerous and knew it well.

"You bring people only suffering, while because of women like us, this boy will live," the witch hissed.

She looked up at the sky and called out.

"Veles! Perun! Hear my call and make this pathetic fool GET—THE—FUCK—OUT!"

With the last syllable, the sky lit up and a powerful lightning bolt struck the bell tower of the nearby church, shattering the tower to pieces and setting the rectory on fire. The terrified priest hitched up his cassock and fled, slipping in the mud.

Jaga returned to the cottage. The boy was pale again and wasn't breathing. The father, with tears in his eyes, was pressing on the boy's chest. The terrified mother didn't know what to do with herself. Jaga approached Helena.

"You have to guide him," she said, placing the woman's hand on the staff.

"I don't know how. I can't, I don't understand. I'm not even a Babushka."

Jaga slapped her hard across the face.

"Get a hold of yourself, woman! Your son needs you. If need be, you'll become a Witch right now. Grab the staff!" Jaga scolded her.

Helena clumsily grabbed the staff. It was warm to the touch and very smooth.

"You carried Mike under your heart for nine months. You know how his heart beats. You know how it should beat."

Jaga placed her hands over Helena's.

"Close your eyes and guide him," said Jaga, and then both women raised the staff together and struck it against the floor of the room.

Helena focused on her child and his heart. She remembered well how she felt Mike's little heart beating in her belly in rhythm with her own. She recalled how she first heard the heartbeat together with her husband at the doctor's office, and how that big oaf tried to hide his tears of emotion. She remembered the terror when they learned about the heart defect. Why wouldn't Mike's heart beat properly? She could feel it, after all, and knew how it should beat. The staff fell again and again to the floor in the rhythm she had felt then. Her husband placed their son in her lap and together they held the boy. They grasped the staff together and beat the rhythm. The women sang. Thunder crashed outside the window.

"Mom? Dad? Why are we at Grandma Wanda's?" the boy's voice snapped everyone out of the trance.

"You collapsed, my dear. But everything's fine now. The doctor will be here soon to examine you," Helena replied.

The ambulance arrived half an hour later. The doctor checked three times if they had come to the right address. Their patient was supposed to have a serious heart defect and severe arrhythmia. Meanwhile, the heart auscultation and ECG done quickly in the ambulance indicated that there was nothing wrong with the boy. If he had indeed ever had arrhythmia, for some unexplained reason, it was gone. The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived.

When the ambulance finally left, Jaga sank heavily into the armchair by the fireplace.

"What's your name?" she asked the host.

"Mirek, ma'am," he replied politely.

"Get me a beer," the witch demanded.

"What kind would you like?" asked Mike's father.

"I don't give a damn. Cold. Make it quick."

The host brought her a bottle of his favorite beer from the fridge and a tall glass. Jaga pulled a small knife from her skirt pocket, popped the cap, and took a long swig of beer straight from the bottle.

"Ashtray," the witch demanded.

The host set a crystal ashtray on the table next to the armchair. Jaga pulled a pack of vape cartridges from another pocket and loaded her "pipe." In silence, she puffed clouds of vapor and sipped cold beer. Exhausted by the day's events, she fell asleep right where she sat. Water dripped from her blouse and braid onto the floor, mud oozed from her boots. Even her beloved skirt, though it remained spotlessly clean, was heavy with water. The host didn't dare move her. He added a few logs to the stove, covered the woman with his favorite blanket, whispered his thanks, and returned to his own cottage.

The next day, Jaga woke up late in the morning. She took off her wet clothes and put on a black-and-red leather motorcycle suit. She hung the wet outfit on lines in front of the cottage. She whispered a few words, after which a gentle, warm breeze picked up. After a few minutes, she could pack the now-dry clothing into the trunk on her motorcycle. She walked around the cottage, replenished herbs, and bundled them into incense. She folded the staff like a telescopic baton and stowed it in her backpack along with the candle and incense.

It had been an interesting end to her vacation. Before leaving, she stopped by Helena's.

"Ms. Jaga, I don't know how to thank you!" Helena called out from the doorstep.

"Don't thank me, thank yourself and your husband. You could become a powerful witch someday. Wanda has offered to train you!"

Jaga handed Helena a business card.

"Here's my contact information. Email me your details. In a month, we'll organize a festival in your village."

"Wonderful! Together with the Circle, we'll prepare something amazing. Ms. Jaga—oh, one more thing before you go... We baked you a cheesecake, supposedly the best in Podlasie."

"Just a tiny piece, Helena," said Jaga. She broke off a piece and quickly shoved it into her mouth.

"Holy shit!" Jaga purred, closing her eyes and savoring the taste. "This is so good. Okay, make it two pieces," Jaga said as she somehow devoured half the tray of cheesecake before she knew it. It really was the best cheesecake in Podlasie. Other housewives would envy Helena for months after the next festival. And rightly so. Helena had turned out to have enormous power, healing her son even though no one had ever trained her in the Craft. Jaga had expected them to stabilize the boy enough to get him to the hospital. Not that a woman completely unaware of her power would heal him completely.

Jaga carefully wrapped the rest of the cheesecake and put it in the second trunk. She always brought an empty trunk to Podlasie and always returned with something good in it. This time was no exception. She checked her reflection in the helmet, touched up her makeup, put the helmet on her head, and got on the motorcycle. She started the engine, shifted into gear, and twisted the throttle. The fuel mixed with poppy seeds in the tank of her beloved Ducati hummed. The roadside blurred into a streak of green interrupted here and there by patches of blue cornflowers and yellow tansy. Jaga had nothing before her but the road and her own thoughts.

She was still impressed by Helena. Many a Wise Woman would have panicked in that situation and thrown the boy completely off. This modest village housewife had managed to weave despair, grief, and maternal love into a powerful healing spell. She had shown strength of spirit and composure, and all without any training in the Knowledge. How had the Whisperers not noticed her yet?

The bad news from Veles had deeply unsettled her. An unfavorable prophecy and a zmora running rampant in Pomerania heralded real trouble that would sooner or later befall unsuspecting people. Fortunately, she had her Housewives and counted on them to track down the creature.

And then there was this festival... How do you handle decorated tractors in the middle of a November downpour?

Jaga shook her head, popped up the front wheel of the motorcycle, and twisted the throttle, accelerating sharply. A moment later, the rear wheel also lifted off the ground, and Jaga flew off on her beloved machine at breakneck speed toward Tricity. Both she and Veles had a lot of work ahead of them. A village festival in November. She had to be kidding.