In Pustelniki, summer smelled of strawberries and the tar of the heated road. Behind Janina's grandmother's barn a forest began, so thick that even the wind slowed down to pass through the mosses and ferns. People referred to it as the old forest, and the elders whispered - the sacred grove. Zosia had known this whispering almost forever. She was eleven years old, her hair tangled in the winds and a notebook in which she wrote down things 'to remember': strange clouds, bird sounds, her grandmother's sayings. Cuba, a year older, liked to draw maps, build slingshots and see how many dewdrops fit on one blade of grass. They both spent their holidays with their grandmother Janina, who knew songs, the names of herbs and stories at which a shiver ran down the back of the neck, but without the fear that spoils sleep. - 'Leszy isn't bad,' Grandma used to say, stirring the jam until the kitchen smelled of forest berries. - She makes sure you remember where your field ends and someone else's begins. If you enter without asking, he clutters the paths. And the housefly? This one watches over the house and sometimes plays tricks so that the host knows who to bow to in the morning. Rusalki love to sing, wiles like the wind, and miscreants show the way... or hide it, if you're a pygmy. - And the fern flower? - queried Zosia, as the word in her notebook already had three exclamation marks next to it. - A flower that shouldn't bloom - smiled her grandmother. - If it blooms, you will see what comes to you before you think. But remember: not everything that tempts with brilliance is for us. On the morning of Kupala Night, something small but strange happened. On the table in the hallway, someone had arranged an arrow made of dried ferns that pointed to the door. Tiny barefoot footprints were imprinted in the flour scattered on the bench, and the wooden spoon that Grandma usually put away in the same place sat clutched in a garland of chamomile and giggled... I mean, that's what it sounded like when a draught hit it. - 'Domowik's in a good mood,' muttered the grandmother. - Get him a saucer of milk in the chamber. And don't tease him, so he won't mess you up either. Zosia and Kuba looked at each other. Someone else might have passed by such trifles, but they had eyes attuned to unnamed things. They set the bowl of milk in the shade of the chimney, next to the bunches of garlic and the linen bags of flour. When they returned, the bowl was empty, and someone had left a microscopic bouquet of vermilion at the bottom of it. From early in the morning, the whole village had been weaving garlands. Zosia was picking daisies and marshmallows, Kuba was tangling ribbons, although he preferred to pretend he was just holding them. Wooden troughs were set up by the Srebrnica river, smoky bonfires were burning, and the cool current was muttering something under its breath, as if remembering the words of an old song. - 'Watch out for the banks,' the grandmother warned, pressing a linen handkerchief into Zosia's hand. - And remember: when you come back by the grove, bow to the forest. It is always better to bow once too much than once too little. The sun bent over the meadow and the first skylights lit their tiny lanterns. Girls threw garlands on the water, boys tried to fish them out with sticks, someone sang an old tune in which fire was spoken of as a friend. Zosia, with a heart full of warmth, placed her garland on the river. The ribbons twinkled, the flowers danced and then... the garland twitched, twisted in place and marched sideways, against the current, lightly, as if guided by an invisible hand. - Did you see? - she whispered. - 'I saw,' replied Cuba, already almost smiling, and then immediately wrinkling his eyebrows. - 'We shouldn't... But along the shore, between the alders, vicious fireflies twinkled. They didn't look sinister. More like curious, mischievous children saying, "Come on, just a little!" And then there was something else: from the dense ferns on the other side of the river, a streak of brightness came out. Not like from a campfire, not like from a lamp. It was a breath of light. - 'Just to the bridge,' Zosia decided, as if making a decision on behalf of both of them. - And we're going back. I promise. - Only to the bridge - repeated Kuba, grabbing a torch and a thin blue ribbon. - And if we go a bit through the forest, I'll tie signs. So that we don't get confused. The bridge was old, crusty, like a slice of bread his grandmother had toasted on a cast-iron slab. On the other side began a path leading into a thicket. The light extended deep into the grove, seemingly nothing, yet so that it was difficult to look away. Zosia could smell the ferns - wet, green, a little like honey mixed with rain. Kuba tied a ribbon around a branch every few steps. - Good morning, forest - said Zosia, even though it was evening. - We came to look and we will go soon. We promise. In response, a branch smote the air as if nodding. To the left, mushroom circles blurred, to the right an old trunk with gouged marks that looked like arrows, knives and fish eyes. After a while, Zosia saw something else: a wooden pillar with four faces, overgrown with moss, which looked in the four directions of the world. One face was smiling, another stern, a third thoughtful, the fourth had its eyelids closed, as if listening underground. - 'It's a pillar,' whispered Cuba, as if afraid not to offend. - Just like in books, but real. They stopped beside it, nodded and went on. The forest whispered. It wasn't scary; more like visiting someone where you don't yet know the names of all the cats. And yet, after a few minutes, the ribbon that Cuba had tied to the bush flashed... in front. - 'After all, I tied it here,' he muttered, looking down at his fingers. - I swear. Zosia remembered her grandmother's words. She turned her waistcoat inside out and corrected her braids. Kuba did the same with his cap, although he now looked as if he had put it on with his foot. - We don't shout, we don't slam branches, we say "please" and "thank you" - recited Zosia under her breath. - And when we get lost, we stand like oak trees. The fireflies retreated another bit. The forest parted slowly, like a cat reluctantly stepping off a windowsill. At last they came upon a clearing they did not know - round, soft, full of ferns so tall they reached Zosia's shoulders. A barely visible stream flowed down the middle, and on its bank rested an old trunk, with a glow smouldering in its crack. Not a fire. Not a lamp. A light as if from inside a leaf as the sun passed through the green. Zosia took a step. The ferns rustled, as if whispering her name. Cuba grabbed her by the sleeve. - Zosia... - I'm just going to have a look,' she replied, although she herself wasn't sure who she was talking to. - It's not bad to look. Something moved on the trunk. A low figure with a moss hat and eyes like grandpa's buttons slipped out of the shadows, squatted down and tapped on the wood three times: pum-pum-puk. Then she looked at the children, and his eyebrows - or were they eyebrows? - twitched, as if he wanted to smile and rebuke at the same time. Before Zosia had time to say anything, the figure disappeared into the crevice of the trunk the way a thought disappears when you try to catch it. The glow dimmed and flickered again. A breeze blew from the depths of the clearing, carrying the smell of moss and a hint of smoke from the river. Somewhere far away, someone sang a dragged note, and the echo answered it twice. When Zosia crouched down, she saw an unbelievable thing: something that somewhat resembled a bud was growing between the curled locks of ferns. It was trembling, as if it were breathing. - 'It's too early,' whispered Cuba, to whom all the grandmothers' stories had suddenly reached him at once. - 'It's not midnight yet... - Maybe it's not time at all - replied Zosia slowly. - Just someone. She took another step. The light brightened and the ferns shifted, making a passage. Someone - or something - had made a choice. Cuba felt the hairs on his forearms stand up. He wanted to grab Zosia tighter, but at the same moment the torch in his hand flicked on and off, as if someone had blown on a flame that wasn't there. - 'Let's go back,' he said, although he knew it was like asking a river to flow upwards. Zosia held out her hand. A drop of light hung in the air, bigger than a skylight, smaller than an apple. As she brought her fingers closer, the drop shifted, as if to touch her in return. Then, from such close proximity that they felt it on their necks, a voice rang out. It was not loud. Nor was it threatening. It was like the shelling of nuts at the cooker and like the gurgling of an old oak tree as it rearranges its roots. - Sophie. Kubo. The trees bent their branches. The ferns trembled. And at the edge of the clearing, between two pine trees, stood a tall figure with shoulders like trunks and hair made of needles, with antlers on which hung the remains of cobwebs. Her eyes glittered like drops of dew at dawn. The figure raised a hand - darkened, scrawny, but human - and pointed exactly at the gleam that trembled between Zosia's fingers.