The Guardian of the Kalinov Bridge

If forty-year-old witches received a copper coin every time someone in the nearby village called them a "cursed outcast," Mila could buy the entire Podlasie region, a good piece of Masovia, and still have enough left for a golden teapot to brew her herbs.

Instead, she had her small cabin, smelling of dried pine and honey, sitting right at the crossroads and surrounded by an ancient, surprisingly friendly wilderness. Contrary to the scary stories told to children in the settlement, these woods weren't dark at all. Through the thick, spreading canopies of centuries-old oaks and pines, gentle, golden sunlight filtered continuously, painting luminous, dancing patches on the mossy carpets. Just beyond her low, wicker-woven fence, towering, moss-covered rocks rose into the air. Nature had arranged them into strange, deep labyrinths, crevices, and narrow corridors that looked as though they had been carved out of the earth by the hands of long-forgotten giants. Somewhere between those stone walls, in the cool shade, an invisible, ice-cold stream murmured ceaselessly, filling the entire yard with the soothing, sleepy sound of flowing water.

This was her oasis. Her own piece of the world, fought for tooth and nail, even though this morning had started with a small domestic war

."Listen to me, my dear little one," Mila sighed, setting down her wooden spoon and wiping a purple, sticky smudge from her forehead. "If I get hit in the face with a boiled wild blueberry one more time, I will personally pack you into a wicker basket and give you away to the village women to raise. You’ll find out what it means to wash trousers in an ice-cold river from dawn till dusk, and you’ll face a total ban on eating honey for the next month."

From behind the grand, tiled stove, which took up nearly a quarter of the room, came an angry, high-pitched hiss. The Domowik, looking like a cross between a gnarled oak root and a wrinkled old man the size of a full-grown cat, covered himself with two linen, grayish rags and ostentatiously began rearranging clay pots with a loud clatter. In his opinion, the morning oatmeal was clearly not sweet enough today, and this little house spirit could be more fastidious than a royal governor.

Mila smiled under her nose, hiding how much this little creature amused her. She took a sip of a steaming brew of wild mint and wild thyme from her clay mug, then instinctively adjusted her thick, dark braid. She tossed it over her shoulder, looking at the single, silver strands that had recently begun to show clearly near her temples. Her father, back when she was a teenager and refusing to obey, used to repeat with fury that a woman without a husband, children, and a strong male hand would perish in the thicket before the arrival of the first harsh winter. Well, her thirty-ninth winter was just passing, and Mila still had all her fingers, a tough character, a warm roof over her head, and a pretty good sense of humor. Rejecting traditional village life, escaping from her own wedding, and choosing solitude were the best decisions she had ever made in her mature life.

Suddenly, a soft, melodic fluttering of wings sounded by her right ear. On the edge of the table, right next to the bowl of oatmeal, sat a small, nimble swallow with a shiny, blue-black back and a snow-white belly.

"Oh, hello, my beautiful one. My sweet Zazulka," Mila whispered softly, all the irony instantly evaporating from her voice. She extended her finger and, with incredible gentleness, stroked the little bird's head, while sliding a crumb of fresh poppy seed bread toward it. "How are things down by the marshes? Is the drought still burning the grass?"

The swallow tilted its head, looking at her with its bright, bead-like eyes. Instead of eating the crumb, it let out a soft, low, almost mournful chirp, and then three times, methodically and loudly, tapped its small beak against the wooden tabletop.

Mila froze, her hand hovering in the air. Three taps from Zazulka meant only one thing: guests. And not the flesh-and-blood kind who needed ointment for aching joints, onion syrup, or comfrey root. These were guests who left no tracks on the moss.

Before she could rise from the bench, a massive, bright shadow completely cut off the cool light pouring through the cabin's open window. Across the wide windowsill, with incredible grace for his size, Luty leaped onto the floor. He was a huge, silvery-white wolf with a powerful chest and eyes the color of liquid, pure gold. Ordinary mortals shook at the mere sight of him, grabbing pitchforks or running away screaming, beating holy trees and shouting about the cursed beasts of the god Weles. To Mila, however, Luty was someone entirely different. In her eyes, he was still that same small, frozen, fluffy ball she had found in a deep snowdrift after a February blizzard nearly a decade ago. She remembered spending three nights by the stove, massaging his tiny belly, feeding him goat's milk through a piece of linen cloth, and whispering away the chill of death.

Now, this great, fearsome beast walked straight up to her. He lowered his massive neck, let out a soft, almost cat-like purr, and with undisguised insistence nudged his big, wet nose right under her arm. He leaned against her with his full weight, demanding his portion of morning affection.

"You feel what's coming too, don't you, my dearest? My brave, great Lutek," Mila murmured fondly.

She set down her mug and dove both hands into his thick fur, which smelled of frost and the forest. Zazulka was cleaning her feathers on the railing, and Mila began to tug the wolf's ears and scratch his favorite spot on his neck. The massive wolf closed his golden eyes in delight, huffing softly with approval.

."Have some dignity, you terror of the wilderness," she teased, kissing him right on his white forehead between his eyes. "If the village hunters saw this big, fierce wolf fawning over an old witch in the morning, they’d die of shame. Come on now, let go of my skirt, my love."

Luty, as if understanding her words, licked her hand with his rough tongue, but suddenly straightened up, his ears turning toward the door. The fur on his neck bristled slightly, though the growl he let out wasn't aggressive—it was a warning.

Through the cracks in the wooden door, a thick, milky, unnaturally cold fog began to creep slowly, in waves, into the room. This was the sign that the transitional time had arrived. A moment of suspension when the sun had indeed risen, but the light had not yet managed to fully banish the night. A time when the border between the world of the living and the realm of shadows became as thin as a spider's web.

Mila rose from the bench, smoothed her simple, dark-earth-colored linen dress, and walked to the door. She pressed the handle.

In the fog, just beyond the threshold of her yard, against the backdrop of mossy, rocky corridors, stood a figure. It was slightly translucent, as if woven from the smoke of a dying campfire, and the morning wind gently blurred its outlines. Mila instantly recognized those broad shoulders, powerful hands, and characteristic, bushy mustache. It was Witek, the old blacksmith from their village. The man stood completely motionless, without making a sound. He stared ahead with a hollow, boundlessly confused gaze. He looked around at the tree trunks, parted his lips as if he wanted to say something, but not even a whisper escaped his throat. He shifted from foot to foot, swaying slightly, as if losing his balance in a world he could no longer touch. His funeral had taken place just three days ago, after his heart suddenly gave out at the red-hot hearth, but his silent soul was still wandering through the woods, trapped in a dead end, completely unaware of what had actually happened.

Mila felt a familiar, painful pang in her chest. She had seen this many times before. When death came so suddenly, the soul could not grasp why everything around it had lost its voice and why no one in the village could perceive it.

The healer took a step forward. Her face softened into an expression of deep, pure compassion. She approached slowly, step by step, and then gently knelt before the deceased blacksmith so that her eyes were level with his gaze. She lowered her voice to the warmest, most soothing tones, speaking in a quiet, reassuring voice.

"Don't be afraid, Witek," she said softly, sending him a pale, infinitely kind smile. Her words flowed softly in the morning silence, wrapping around the blacksmith's silent, frightened soul like a warm blanket. "Everything is fine. You don't have to look for the way to the forge anymore, or worry about the fire in the hearth. Your boys will manage; you taught them everything for the best. You can rest now, blacksmith."

The blacksmith's ghost flinched, and in his misty, sad eyes, something like understanding appeared for the first time in three days. He stopped swaying, and his shoulders slumped limply, as if he had dropped an invisible, enormous weight from them.Mila stood up slowly and looked at Zazulka, who at that very moment flew over her head, perched on the porch railing, and chirped softly and tenderly.

"Zazulka will guide you home in a moment," Mila added in a gentle voice, pointing her hand toward the small bird. "Follow her, Witek. Don't be afraid of anything. Everything will be fine. I promise you."

The old blacksmith looked at the shining bird, and then back at Mila. For the first time since his death, deep, true peace was painted on his translucent, tired face. He nodded to the woman with silent gratitude, turned around, and slowly, step by step, walked into the depths of the stone corridors, following the circling swallow.

Luty walked to the edge of the threshold, seeing the departing soul off with a soft, low, respectful whine, and the Domowik behind the stove finally stopped banging the dishes, falling silent in the full solemnity of the moment.

Mila leaned her back against the doorframe, watching as the first strong rays of the sun finally dispersed the morning fog, returning the world to its usual, real shapes.She breathed a deep sigh, feeling an invisible weight drop from her shoulders. She had no idea that this tender, quiet favor for a deceased neighbor was the last peaceful and normal thing she would do this year. The true cosmic storm, which was to bring the wounded, memory-stripped god of the underworld to her crossroads, was just gathering its destructive forces at the very peak of the heavens.