Though dread sits heavily in my chest, I walk onward. The bag bumps against my hip with every step, my fingertips grazing over the embroidery. It is so lightweight my mind begins to doubt that Ágota is truly inside. I remind myself of the great magic my mother and Ágota can wield. I must have faith that she is secure inside, protected from whatever dragged her out of the sky.
The ominous atmosphere does not lessen as I continue on my trek. The soundless, darkened world feels eternal, and only my lighted pathway gives me any measure of hope. I walk for hours through what seems to be an unchanging landscape until at last I hear the rushing of water. It is the first sound I have heard other than my breathing since my ordeal began. Thirsty, tired, and encouraged, I sprint along the trail.
The path ends at the edge of a stream, water splashing merrily over stones. Relief fills me when I observe sunlight flooding the woods on the opposite side. I maneuver across the stream, stepping on the bigger rocks so as not to soak my shoes. I arrive on the sun-drenched streamside to be greeted by the hum of insects and the song of birds.
Sagging to the ground, I let out a cry of joy. I unknot the drawstrings and open the bag. Placing my hand through the opening, I fear for a moment that I will not find my sister. When my hand settles in her thick dark hair, my shoulders slump with relief.
“What do you have there?” A masculine voice speaks in Magyar, startling me.
Twisting about, I spot a man upon a boulder, staring at me. Sitting in the shade of a tree, he blended into his surroundings until he spoke. His craggy features make it difficult to determine his age and his clothing is ragged and dirty. He looks like a beggar, but I know from my journey that appearances can be deceiving.
I yank the drawstrings taut and lower my hand so it rests close to the sheath hidden in the pleats of my skirt. “Nothing. Go away,” I retort.
“Strange accent. All alone. Young. A runaway.” He says the words to himself, not me. Dirty fingers grip his knees as he rocks back and forth.
“I am on a journey, not a runaway.”
“Surprising nothing has eaten you yet.” He laughs without mirth. “Especially if you came from there.” He points to the murky woods.
Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I ignore the man. I do not like his face or his manner. He reminds me of the men who came to our cottage late at night demanding my mother’s affections. I may not have her power to send him away, but I have two feet to carry me far from him. I face downstream and march along the burbling water.
“What is in the bag?”
I am shocked when fingers dig into my shoulder and whirl me about. Leering eyes peer down at me and rancid breath wafts over my face.
“Nothing but berries. Find your own!”
His broken nails dig into my flesh through my sleeve as he gazes down at me. Fear courses through my veins, cold and paralyzing.
“Give me the bag,” he orders.
“No!”
Anger chases away the chill in my blood and I kick him in the shins. His hand grips the strap of the bag, attempting to wrench it off me. The fire of rage fills me, burning away the remains of my fears. I am infuriated that he dare rob me, a child, of all that I possess. Fueling my fury even more is my need to protect Ágota.
“Give me the bag, or I’ll smash your brains against the rocks and take it anyway,” he threatens.
“Release me, or you will regret it!” I smash my fists against him and strike his shins with the toe of my shoe.
With a gleeful expression, he raises his walking stick over his head, intending to strike me. My hand flies to my waist. I draw my dagger and plunge the blade into his throat. It slides in easily, like a sharp knife piercing raw venison. Blood sprays into the air, splashing my hand and face. Shocked at my attack, he misses my head, hitting my shoulder instead. Pain nearly topples me, but I will not relent. I drag the blade free and thrust it into his flesh again. His hands find my neck as I strike over and over again. I do not stop until he falls to the ground, eyes growing hazy.
Breathing heavily, I stare at the man and feel no remorse. Kicking the beggar over onto his back, I sink the blade into his chest and through his heart. I must make certain he is dead and unable to hurt me or my sister. My fury seeps away gradually as I stare at the man’s corpse. How rapidly he had brought about his demise. Only a few scant minutes have passed since I first saw him upon the boulder and now he lies dead at my feet. I drag the dagger free and stare at the blood slathered on the blade. The coppery scent trails on the breeze.
Victorious, I breathe it in.
Do I feel remorseful? Sad? Sickened?
“No, I do not,” I answer aloud.
Spinning about, I bend over the stream to wash the dagger, my hands, and my face. My wavering reflection reveals a young girl splattered in blood. My dark hair rests heavily on my shoulders and my golden eyes are stern and ruthless. The water sweeps the blood downstream, the red wisps swirling in the water.
Once the dagger is returned to the sheath and my hands are clean, I open the bag and touch Ágota’s forehead. She’s warm to the touch and I feel her breath on my fingertips. Securing the bag once more, I wade into the water, crouch in the shallows, and wash my body and clothing. When I am done, I drink deeply and feel refreshed. The breeze shifts direction and the reek of death reaches my nose. It is time to move onward. I once again turn downstream and begin to walk.
As I journey, I question my lack of remorse or disgust at my actions. Should I feel guilty for taking a life so easily? Should I feel any concern over how easy I killed? All my life I have been told stories of men fighting other men, monsters, and beasts to save those they love, but I do not recall them being guilt-ridden. Yet, my mother always told me life is precious and to be preserved at all costs.
“I do not care,” I state aloud. “He deserved it. Why should I bother feeling anything at all for such a man?”
I have always been the sister most like our mother, but now understand that a piece of me is like my father. He had been a warrior, a ruler, and merciless from the stories my mother told about him. I am not the gentle soul my mother had been. I may have her beauty and charm, but my strength lies in my ruthlessness.