On Kupala Night in Dębowica, Szymon and Jagna slip to the river and find something waiting in the dark that no village story had prepared them for.
The forest around Dębowica was black and dense, the kind of darkness that swallowed sound and sent it back changed. On Kupala Night, even the old women spoke more softly. Smoke drifted over the village, wreaths hung from fences and doorways, and the river beyond the fields shone like a strip of torn silver under the moon.
Szymon had been waiting for the celebration to end all evening. At fifteen, he was too old to believe every tale whispered by the stove, but not old enough to stop listening when the talk turned to rusalki, drowned souls, and lights that moved where no lantern had been carried. Jagna, who knew the forest better than anyone in the village, had rolled her eyes at his questions and still come to meet him behind the last barn, a bundle of herbs tucked under one arm and a small linen pouch hanging from her wrist.
“You brought the amulets?” she asked.
Szymon lifted the pouch at his belt. “I’m not stupid.”
That earned him the quick, crooked smile she only gave when she was nervous.
They left the village path and followed the trampled grass down toward the river. The singing from the bonfires faded behind them, replaced by the rush of reeds and the hush of water sliding over stones. Jagna moved ahead without hesitation, but Szymon could tell she kept checking the dark on either side of the path. Every so often she reached into her bundle and touched the dried sprigs inside, as if counting them made the night safer.
At the bank, they stopped.
Girls’ wreaths floated on the current, little circles of flowers and candlelight drifting downstream like lost stars. The river smelled of mud, crushed nettles, and something older beneath it, something cold enough to raise the hair on Szymon’s arms.
“My mother said not to stay here long,” Jagna murmured. Her voice was barely louder than the water. “Tonight the old powers listen.”
Szymon tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. “Then maybe they’ll be impressed.”
A soft light moved above the river.
At first he thought it was a reflection caught in the mist, but it rose instead of fading, greenish and pale, hovering just over the black water. Jagna went still. Her fingers closed around her pouch so tightly that the cord bit into her skin.
“That shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
The wind shifted. Wet earth, river reeds, and smoke washed over them in one breath. Somewhere in the reeds, something stirred.
Then the singing began.
It was quiet at first, so clear and beautiful that Szymon forgot to breathe. The notes seemed to slide across the water and into the trees, and the world around them felt strangely thin, as if one wrong step might tear it open. The glowing figure turned slowly toward them, and through the mist another shape began to rise from the far bank, taller this time, wrapped in white haze.
Jagna looked at Szymon, fear and wonder flashing at once in her eyes.
Neither of them moved.
The singing grew closer.