Hares on the Mountain

by Aggie Novak

Minodora left in the mid-afternoon. She would have preferred to slip out at night, hidden in the safety of darkness, but she did not trust she could find her way in the woods without some light to keep her to the snow-covered path.

So she walked the village as she always did when running errands, dressed in a thick blue sarafan with bands of red around the neck and hem, embroidered by her own hand with bright yellow flowers. A splash of spring to honour the equinox. She carried her basket, a loaf of dark rye secreted under the folds of fabric displaying her intricate needlework. A small purse hung from the sash belting her waist, with no more coin in it than usual. Next to it, the eyeglasses Minodora needed for embroidery work were slipped under the fabric. She passed Stanislav Daniilovich, lugging armfuls of firewood into his home.

“Dobriy Den,’ Minodora Arkadyevna. I am glad to hear of your betrothal. A fine match.”

“Thank you,” said Minodora, not meeting his eyes. “I am fortunate.”

“Stay warm,” he said, pushing open his door with a foot. “Spring is late this year.”

“Of course.” Minodora hefted her basket. “Just dropping this off to Lada Ivanovna and then I’ll be right home.”

But Minodora hurried straight past Lada Ivanovna’s house—she’d dropped off her new rubahki yesterday—and on towards the church at the edge of the village.

Certain she was unobserved, Minodora ducked behind the squat, timber building, its lone dome with a cross perched on top. The fast-fading sunlight lit the silvery aspen dome like a moon, a bright eye in the sky watching over her. A prayer—an apology, a plea for salvation—would not be amiss, but Minodora found she had nothing left to say to the Lord.

The path, though it barely deserved to be called such, lay thick with snow. Minodora’s feet sank through the top, powdery layer before meeting the packed ice beneath. She had barely lost sight of the watchful dome, when a small figure, oddly shaped, darted onto the path ahead.

Minodora squinted, eyes struggling to make out what it was in the gloom. A fox; rusty red fur dusted with snow, its black paws and nose stark against the white. From its jaw dangled a hare. The poor creature’s rear, its powerful feet, were winter white, but its top half—its long ears, and small front paws had already shed to the mousy brown of spring. Tricked into losing its camouflage by an early thaw followed by a late snowstorm, right before the vernal equinox.

Minodora stepped closer and her leather shoes crunched against the snow. The fox startled, darting across the path and into the forest. In its wake it left a spattered trail of blood, like a gory wound against the pristine snow.

Soon the hem of her sarafan and her wool stocking beneath were sodden and freezing. She had made the walk to Zaychiha’s cottage before, but never in such weather and never alone, and the way stretched much farther than she remembered.

Under the branches of snow-laden fir and spruce, night came quickly. She began to fear she might lose her way in the encroaching dark, or that the increasingly uphill climb of the path would become too much for her. But then, the crowded trees began to thin.

With renewed energy, Minodora pushed on, and finally a clearing opened ahead.

Zaychiha’s cottage stood in the middle, comforting curls of smoke drifting from its chimney. Behind, the forest rose up, climbing the base of the mountain Kachkanar.

She hesitated at the door, one hand clenched around the handle of her basket, the other raised in a fist.

Zaychiha’s voice, free and wild as a warbler’s, sang out from within.

If maidens could run like hares on the mountain,

How many young men would take guns and go hunting?

If maidens could run like hares on the mountain,

Oh all the young men would take guns and go hunting.

Of course, Minodora had met Zaychiha before, everyone in the village had. She was their best midwife, the one to call when a child had a fever that wouldn’t break, or a wound began to fester. Many times, she had watched Zaychiha at work, slender fingers sewing a cut as deftly as Minodora sewed linen and wool, chestnut hair glinting in the firelight. She knew that Zaychiha bit the left side of her lip when concentrating, that she revealed stress in the set of her shoulders. She knew Zaychiha didn’t pray with the others over the infirm; though she would clasp her hands and kneel, she kept her eyes open, and mouth pressed shut.

She also knew, from seeing Zaychiha appear or disappear on the forest path to her cottage, that the other woman loved nature. She smiled freely, where most of the villagers were serious, offering a grin to spring flowers and flitting squirrels alike. She walked with a cheery bounce to her step, out of the eyes of the town, seemingly as unburdened as a child.

But Minodora couldn’t claim to know the woman, though they were close in age, for Zaychiha lived apart, as her mother had before her. While welcome when called for, whispers surrounded Zaychiha—pagan, witch, dangerous—and she was not the sort of person it was proper for Minodora to socialise with alone. And that was why she fled here. She knew of no one else who could be counted on to aid a woman fleeing a perfectly legal marriage arranged by her father, and a good match no less. But maybe Zaychiha could be. Maybe she was the best Minodora had.

She could turn back—to the village, to the marriage she should want. Minodora pictured Dmitry Igorevich, thought so handsome for his hair as fair as straw and his lake-blue eyes. His thick arms, his sure smile, still full with white teeth. She thought of him returning from the hunt, dressed in wolf pelt, the bloody deer carcass slung across his horse.

Minodora knocked.

“Minka!” Zaychiha greeted her like a friend, smiling widely and ushering Minodora to a stool by the fire. “Let me take your basket and your cloak. Come, stretch your legs out, you’re like an icicle.”

Minodora obeyed, too startled by the other woman’s open friendliness to do anything else.

“So,” Zaychiha said, as she set water boiling for tea. “I assume there is something I can help you with?”

“I brought bread,” blurted Minodora. “In the basket, under the fabric. For you.”

Zaychiha breathed out a soft laugh. “Thank you.”

She prepared the rest of the tea in silence. Then she fetched the dark loaf and cut off two thick slices, and slathered them with pale butter.

“Now,” she said around a full mouth, “I’m certain you didn’t wade all the way here in that snow for nothing.”

Minodora gulped her scalding tea and winced. “You’ve heard I’m to be married?”

“Dmitry Igorevich.” Zaychiha said it like a curse, lips pursed as if she tasted something unpleasant.

“Everyone says he will make a good husband. I know he is a fine match. But…”

Even here, to a woman such as Zaychiha, it was hard to say the words.

“But you don’t want to marry him.” She said it as if Minodora’s reluctance was normal, understandable.

Minodora clutched at her mug of tea, warming her frozen fingers, focusing on the burn of the heat against her skin.

“I knew I would be expected to marry eventually, but then it was announced so suddenly and…” she thought of him, his bloodhounds howling, hands stained from slaughter, and shuddered.

“Do you know what you want to do?” Zaychiha watched her with serious, dark eyes, as if she would accept whatever answer Minodora chose to give.

“I…I don’t know. But I thought, maybe, I could stay here a while.” She stared into her tea. “If that’s okay, Zaychiha. I mean, no one knows I’m here; I was careful.”

Zaychiha stared for a moment, into the light of the fire, then turned to Minodora, her smile as free as her singing. “Of course. Call me Zaya.” Zaya. It meant little bunny. The pretty, childlike name suited her. Zaya sprung to her feet and stretched out a hand. “Now come, it’s time to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“It’s Komoeditsa. Spring is here, and we must welcome her.”

“Komoeditsa?” Minodora slid her fingers against the other woman’s smooth, warm palm, and let her pull her from the stool.

“First, we dance. Then, we will make blini with honey.” She skipped to the door, and lifted a coat made from the white winter furs of the snowshoe hare. “Here, this will keep you warmer.”

Minodora slid into the offered garment, the downy fur soft at her throat.

“Th-thank you.”

But Zaychiha—Zaya—was already out the door and into the frigid night.

“Come on,” she called back, “we must build the fire.”

Under the light of a single lantern, they scraped a circle of earth free from snow and ice. Before long, Minodora, more used to the labour of stitching and mending, was sweating and aching. Next, they piled dried logs and pine branches, until they had a roaring bonfire, the flames licking as high as their heads.

Then Zaya sang. She sang without words, bright and loud. And as she sang she danced, twirling so that her hair, loose of its braid, fanned around her, and stamping her feet to the ground in an energetic beat. The melody tugged at Minodora, but she held back, reluctant to break the beauty of the moment.

But Zaya grabbed Minodora by the hand and dragged her into a wild jig. The steps were unfamiliar, but soon Zaya’s mood infected her, and it didn’t seem to matter how she moved, as long as she did.

Something crunched underfoot, and Minodora lifted her boot. Her magnifying eyeglasses. The ones her father had bought for an extravagant sum from traders, the ones she needed for her best needlework. The lenses were crushed beyond repair, glittering like shards of ice beside the orange flames.

Minodora stared at them, frozen in horror, anticipating her father’s rage. Then she laughed—compared to running off to spend the night in the woods, the glasses would be forgotten. This time, it was her who pulled Zaya into dance.

“You’re alright?” she asked.

Minodora grinned and unwound the scarf from her head, so that her braid might fly free. “I don’t need them anymore.”

They spun together.

“Sing something, Minka,” Zaya gasped between breaths. “Go on.”

Minka could hardly remember the last time she sang something that wasn’t a hymn, but there was a song that her mother used to sing when they went berry picking in late spring. She’d taught Minka the words, and would hum the tune for her.

In the field, a birch tree stood

In the field, a curly birch stood

Lyuli, lyuli it stood

Compared to Zaya’s, her voice sounded high and thin, but the other woman didn’t care. She vocalised alongside Minka. Her wordless harmony added a depth and beauty the song had never held before.

No one to break the birch tree

No one to break its curls

Lyuli, lyuli break

Together they twisted and twirled and sang and laughed. Until the song was finished, then another, and another. They held each other closer and closer as they moved. Until Zaya’s arm wrapped around Minka’s waist, and Minka held on to Zaya’s shoulders.

They stopped like that, panting breath mingling, Minka’s heart thrumming. Zaya’s cheeks flushed pink in the glow of the flames and strands of her loose hair clung, damp, to her forehead. The same heat burned under Minka’s skin.

Time stretched, heavy and silent. Minka could have pulled away, turned her face. But she didn’t. The longing in Zaya’s gaze made Minka wonder if—hope that—her lingering looks when Zaya visited the village had been returned.

Then Zaya’s lips were on hers, hot and insistent. Minka couldn’t do much more than cling to her and follow her lead.

“Come with me.” Zaya stepped back, but only a little, and twined her fingers with Minka’s.

She led Minka back to the cabin, Minka’s attention torn between the warm presence at her hand, and not tripping over her own, suddenly clumsy feet. In the warmth of her cottage, Zaya shook off her own hare coat, then tugged Minka’s from her. Minka pulled off her boots and rolled down her still-damp stockings. She stood, still as stone, as Zaya untied the sash at her waist, and lifted Minka’s sarafan over her head. Minka watched, awed by her natural grace, the gleam of her pale, sweaty skin, as Zaya took off her own sarafan—a simple brown one. They took each other in, both in their long, linen rubahki.

Zaya closed the distance between them, but she didn’t embrace Minka again. Instead, she took Minka’s braid and unwound it, running her fingers through it. Between the sensation of Zaya’s hands in her hair, against the nape of her neck, the heat of their skin, so close between their thin shirts, Minka found it hard to breathe.

“Are you afraid?” Zaya’s mouth brushed against her ear.

“Yes—no.” Minka’s heart raced as if in fear and nerves ate at her belly, but it felt good, like she was alive. “I’m not sure.” Zaya laughed and pressed a kiss to her jaw, another to her cheek. “Maybe a little.”

“Do you want to stop?” Zaya asked, moving to meet Minka’s eyes.

Minka laced her hands behind Zaya’s neck and pulled her close. “Never.”

Later, they lay curled together in front of the fire, and Minka’s fear crept back. She couldn’t return home. Not now. She would not marry Dmitry Igorevich. But she didn’t know what she would do. Hiding here forever with Zaya didn’t seem possible. Still, she might. Just for a while. She turned her face into Zaya’s hair, inhaling its smoky scent. Her stomach grumbled—they’d forgotten about the blini.

Zaya laughed, soft and sweet. “Come, let us cook.”

“It’s late,” said Minka. “You should rest.”

“Nonsense, it’s nearly time to wake anyway.” Indeed, the flycatchers were already trilling in the trees.

Minka kissed Zaya, marvelling in the softness of her skin. “Or we could stay here.”

Zaya wriggled away and got up, beginning to gather the ingredients for blini without bothering to clothe herself.

“Come help me,” Zaya said. “We will need water for tea.”

Reluctantly, Minka left behind the sleepy cosiness of the pelts.

“I—”

The baying of hunting hounds echoed through the forest. Only one man Minodora knew in these parts hunted with dogs.

“Dmitry has come for me.” She hurried to her discarded clothes and tried to pull on her stockings. “I should go to him. I don’t want him to—”

“Do you want to go to him?” Zaya asked the question without fear or judgement. “Do you want to be his wife?”

“No, but—”

“Alright.” Zaya put down the dish of butter and moved to put on her cloak, though she wore nothing else. “Then we must run.”

“But—” It was snowy and cold; they would lose their way; the men would hunt them down.

“Come, we have little time.” Zaya held out the second cloak for her. “Follow me, and all will be well.”

“You’re certain?”

Zaya grinned—the grin of a feral creature untamed and uncatchable. “We will run like hares on the mountain.”

And so they did. In nothing but their coats and their shoes, they ran.

The beginnings of a thaw had set in during the night. The resulting slush was slick and muddy, but easier to run through than fresh powder.

They headed for the woods behind Zaya’s cottage, straight up the mountain slope. Soon, Minka was struggling for air, body sweating under the coat, face and feet freezing in the chill morning. Still, she kept going, not letting Zaya get too far ahead, terrified that if she lost sight of the other woman, even for a moment, she would never see her again.

But no matter how fast they were, the men and their dogs were faster. Minka was certain she heard their voices as the men reached Zaya’s cottage, the words pagan and unholy carrying through the woods. She prayed the cottage would distract the men, that they might stop and hunt for clues, but the hound’s barking never faded.

“We’re not going to make it,” Minka gasped.

The thwacking of branches against horses’ flanks sounded behind them. She didn’t know what destination Zaya had in mind, what path to freedom, but she knew it wasn’t close enough to save them now.

“Keep running,” Zaya insisted. “We will be free.”

With nothing else to do, Minka obeyed.

The men continued to gain on them. Flashes of fur and hoof blurred between trunks. Minka expected at any moment, the dogs would reach them, biting at their heels and cutting off their escape.

Ahead, Zaya’s form seemed to ripple and change in the dappled light under the trees. Almost as if she were a hare herself, not simply wearing their furs. Then, between one step and the next, she was a hare. A snowshoe hare with broad hind feet, and black-tipped white ears, blinking back at Minka with amber eyes.

A shout jerked Minka’s attention away, to the horsed Dmitry now visible behind her. Blond hair tucked beneath his fur hat, bow and arrow drawn and ready.

From his expression, both shocked and enraged, as they met eyes across the slush, Minka knew he had witnessed Zaya’s transformation as she had. Snapping the tense moment between them, she turned and sprinted after Zaya, though there was no way she could match pace with a hare.

An arrow whistled through the air beside her, embedding into the trunk of a spruce not far from Zaya. Minka pushed harder. Another arrow whizzed and pain, hot and all-consuming, swallowed her. She screamed, but it came out as the squeaking cry of an animal.

Minka too, was a hare, her hind legs propelling her faster than her human feet ever had. She chased Zaya, darting and fleet, up the mountain.

THE END