Prologue
Jawia, that’s what they called the place of the living. Their world was not that. Nawia was their world, the world of those who had already passed. Every human who did any good in life came here. After they crossed the bridge and wandered on for 40 days, they would enter a world of beautiful, sprawling plains. Endless fields and forests, in which their souls could live in peace. If they crossed to, they could even return to their loved ones in the shape of a bird.
Pity was all that she could feel as she laid eyes upon the beaten woman stumbling through the abandoned streets of Velija. Blood ran down the left side of her face, the wound would most definitely get infected. Her hair looked disheveled, crudely cut with blunt scissors. Her walk was uneven, and one of her legs appeared to be broken multiple times. Still, she shambled on. The wounded didn’t seem to care about her injuries whatsoever. All she was conscious of was the small leather pouch, clutched to her chest. In it was what little money she made from allowing these filthy men to use her holy body. The body she herself created, the vessel that would soon bear the child of her most sacred sister.
Desislava was chosen from birth, and none of the worthless animals lusting over her were able to see her destiny. Fate was cruel to Desislava, beautiful, strong Desislava. Milija was with her ever since the human was ten years old. She was with her when the demon who fathered
her made her begin selling herself so that the family could eat, yet instead, he spent it all in another drunken stupor. If it weren’t for his habits, the family wouldn’t need to be poor. He made good money as a carpenter, yet he saw no need to feed his wife and many children.
At twelve, the poor child fell pregnant from a man she did not know. Her mother gave her a mixture of mugwort, rue, and pennyroyal. She drank the bitter tea every morning and night. Her mother held her mouth closed after every cup so that she could not spit it out. It was obvious to anyone that the mother looked down on her child and, in turn, often defended her husband’s actions.
The baby was lost, and Desislava suffered. Cramps ripped apart her abdomen, she bled for days, and grew more feverish as time went on. An unstoppable flood of never-ending burgundy liquid dirtied her clothes and linens more often than she could bear to clean them. What little clothing she owned was dear to her, and she wept at the sight of the spoiled garments in fear of her father’s reaction. The demon cast her out and away from her mother. Abandoned his child, as though he could not care any less.
The saint was glad that she did not have one such useless male figure in her life. She was Milija, daughter of the goddess of winter. Her mother reigned over that coldest season of the year as well as the new beginnings it entailed. After her death, Milija became a protector of all mothers and women of the Slavic tribes. For this reason, they called her zime kcer, winter‘s daughter.
Bile rose in Milija‘s throat every single time that another pig touched the young girl. Nearly every day, Milija stormed up to her mother’s palace where the Kalinov bridge connected the banks of Smorodina. The river stank badly. The majority of it was graded specifically as one of the many dragon or serpent-like creatures that her mother liked to keep. Kind animals they were, though they by no means appeared to be friendly to outsiders. They rarely ever tested the souls traversing their territory, and in general, served to be protective instead.
Through the mirrored halls she hurried, white and red robes billowed behind her as she marched on. In death, she still chose to wear the habit of her monastery, Trevskavec. There, she intended to have her ward sent so that she might avoid any further suffering. She was in the same situation as Desislava not long ago. She couldn’t bear to see her have such a hard life.
Eventually, she found her mama in her chambers, where she sat at her desk and was busy staring into her looking glass. It was rather a special one she made herself. The glass covered nearly the entirety of the wall and was set upon the darkened pathways of Sarajevo. It allowed her to see all that occurred in Jawia. In the glass, Milija recognised the familiar beaten face of her poor ward. Blood poured from her nose and a seven-centimetre-long stab wound underneath her left eye.
Anger made her voice sound cold, emotionless and flat. Her mother was all rage and uncontrollable fury, she in turn was the cold bite of winter when angered.
“It can not go on. Mother, send the child to her immediately.” Morana turned, facing her daughter. “Yes, child, I see now that I must. There is no other way to keep your dear one safe on the outside. Not to worry, beloved daughter. Soon there will be a child, and Desislava will be safe in the house of your worship.”
The women embraced each other. Morana kissed her daughter’s forehead and smoothed her tangled hair over with her palm in adoration. The younger woman’s anger went quiet at that. The same tactic that calmed her as a child still worked, now that she was too ancient to count. After she returned from Jawia and recovered from the injuries, she and her mother spent plenty of time gazing into the looking glass of pure obsidian. In this way, she found and took a liking to Desislava. A poor child, born centuries after she set foot on earth, whom she loved like her own daughter.
Chapter 1
Desislava was brought to Treskavac in the ninth month of her pregnancy. She knew little of who brought her there, nor did she know the father of her child. The sisters were kind to her. They gave her clothes, helped her to a bath twice weekly, and fed her. As the time of her birth grew nearer, they stood by her side. Nevena and Heruvima, the two nurses, as well as Magadlina, the herbalist, helped her most in a safe birth. In the days before, they also soothed her dreams.
In them, Desislava saw a woman dressed in a nun‘s habit, that looked eerily similar to the ones worn at Trevskavec. The tall woman looked like she was made of ice, still Desislava did not feel any discomfort as she walked straight into her arms. They locked around her or and for the first time in her life she felt truly at home.
Even if they could not help, all of the holy women were in her presence, as a most beautiful girl came into the world. Mother Superior Jefimija hugged and kissed Desislava with such joy that any outsider might have thought it was her very own daughter giving birth. They held the little being for an equal amount of time after the mother superior had washed and wrapped her in a blanket, and all together, they decided on her name. Teofana, the monastery’s keeper of scripture, made a fuss about the topic in the days before the birth, wanting to be sure that indeed, the most perfect name would be chosen. She was to be called Svetlana – bright one or enlightened woman. As night fell, the sisters of the choir sang hymns and bestowed blessings upon their youngest. Their hearts were filled with such love and adoration that many of them cried, feeling as though they all became mothers. Unbeknownst to them, this was no ordinary child. Their little girl would be the holiest on earth.
Svetlana was a daughter to every woman in the monastery. They all loved and cared for her so much that she did not know the identity of her real mama, nor did she care much to know. Once, she remembered, they must’ve told her, however, through the uninhibited love and care of the 15 nuns, she forgot again soon. All of them were “mother” or “mama” to her. The younger sister, in particular, doted on her, as the older nuns were often too busy or tired to do so. Still, whenever Svetlana asked them, they sat down to play games with her. Those who had learnt a trade at the monastery were eager to teach the little girl all that they knew, and some even acquired books worth previously unfamiliar information regarding a certain subject just to be able to teach Svetlana more about life.
From her early childhood onwards, she received a highly detailed education in matters of reading and writing from Teofana and Pelagija, herbalism and medicine, mainly taught to her by the nurses and Sister Magdalina, whose excellent herbal medicine helped Desislava to bear the pains of childbirth. Then whenever Dobravka, the baker, had time on her hands, she would show her what to make of the marvellous fruits, vegetables, and herbs growing in the garden.
Saturday was little Svetlana’s most beloved day at the monastery, as well as Sunday, of course. On the days before the Sabbat, there was always rather a busy atmosphere to be felt all over the monastery. Everyone was busy going about preparing Sunday’s lunch, which they would have after mass together with the village people. Zimrin and all her other cooks were hurrying around the gardens and kitchens to finish baking breads of all different kinds and
from all the kinds of grain that the gardens made available. They made rye loaves and flatbread. Sometimes, there was even enough corn to make bread. In summer and autumn, they collected the walnuts from the trees surrounding the garden and made them into sweets or again added aroma to their breads. The vegetable garden provided them with cabbage, leeks, turnips, onions, garlic, and carrots. Next, those beds stood, high and proud, plum, apple, and fig trees, besides which was an area for various herbs. Chestnut and walnut trees lined the grain fields.
Every year, whenever the new lambs were born, Svetlana would aid in their care so much that any meat needed to be brought down from the village. The young girl could not stand the thought of one of her beloved animals dying, and the sisters, in turn, could not fathom the thought of an upset Svetlana. Usually, Dobravka and Zimrin embarked upon the long walk down to the village with her. Although Svetlana quickly grew exhausted at first, the three adored their bit of time together. The sisters told their child stories of local folklore, fairies, and nature spirits who protected the beauty surrounding them, and often, they sang hymns to praise the subjects of their stories. Svetlana soon sang along and felt quite content, even in the most intense heat of summer and the freezing cold of winter.
Thanks to her friendly nature, the three soon did not have to walk the way back from the village anymore. Little Svetlana made friends with one of the boys at the market who always went there in order to assist his grandmother. Vidosava was the village elder, and her grandchild, Pribislav, was the most kind and interesting boy the little girl ever met. He owned several horses, which were strong enough to carry the two older women up the hills yet again. For Svetlana, however, he always brought what she deemed as “her horse.” It was a small
pony with a deep brown coat and wonderful golden eyes. The girl named him Dubac, as he reminded her of a tiny and very sturdy oak. These walks only added to Svetlana’s love for Sunday lunches. During summer, they all sat and ate in the courtyard. The children played joyfully as the adults enjoyed the warm sun and homemade meals. By emptying their plates without exception, they honoured all the hard work that went into the day before.
After Svetlana turned seven years old, the sisters allowed her to go down to the village alone with only Pribislav to accompany her. Over the years, she sadly outgrew her beloved companion and instead had to opt for the much taller Javor, who had hair that shone like maple syrup. By now, Pribislav did not walk alongside her anymore. He sat on the back of his own horse and went with her, wherever she chose to go. The girl loved the picturesque landscapes and in between blossoming cherry trees and harvest season, she spent so much time there, that all of Velija‘s people knew her.
Svetlana was always eager to help the farmers with their animals and paid visits to those who were ill. She also always looked in on mothers who didn’t have husbands. Sister Desislava had instilled it in her that she always ought to look out for those women in particular. The elderly and ailing village folk welcomed her company. It was well known that whoever the little girl visited would soon be rid of their pains.
Vidosava was an infinitely wise woman. If Svetlana was brought up in any conversation, even merely in passing, she mentioned that the little girl always reminded her of the warm first rays of sunlight in the morning. If there was time at all during her visits, the two would sit together under the apple trees in the Center of the village. There, Vidosava made lovely braids of
Svetlana‘s blonde hair and told her stories. The woman was so old in fact, that the little girl guessed there wasn’t a time where she wouldn’t have been alive. On one such occasion, as they sat together Vidosava began telling her the story of her home, the monastery looming protectively over velija.
Long, long ago, before the Romans became catholic, there lived a tiny community of early Christians to the north of the ancient city. Then, they were not very well liked by the emperor and were therefore cast out. They came to where they lived now after years of travelling and suffering great pains to be able to freely believe in their God. Their people were peaceful and accepted whatever religion was practiced where they traveled. Indeed, they even took on some of the local beliefs of those who surround them. Velija was settled only 100 years after they left Rome. In the beginning, the village was merely a small collection of houses built into the side of the mountains. Vidosava went on to say that after the first houses were built, it only took another 200 years for their beloved Trevskavec to be finished.
Ever since then, nuns have lived peacefully in the walls of the monastery. They practiced their religion away from the prying eyes of the Vatikan. Indeed, what they believed would not have been acceptable to church officials. The chapel not only displayed beautiful statues of Jesus and Mother Mary, it also held depictions of Morana, Perperuna, their domovoi, the Zorya Utrennya with her sister Zorya Vechernyaya, and Milija.
Morana was their dearly beloved mother of winter. What mattered most to the sisters was that with winter, there came a break. Nature, humanity, and even the gods slowed down during the
time of her reign, allowing for rest and peace. After winter, there would always be a new beginning.
Perperuna brought them rain and a good harvest. The pregnant women of the village would take the walk up to the monastery three times while with child to say a prayer before her statue. With the Amen they’d lay their hands upon the deity‘s stomach in order to ensure a safe pregnancy. She also brought them rain and storms, so that their harvest was always in good hands.
The morning mass was dedicated to Zorya Utrennyaya. She was the morning star, opening the gates each morning to allow the sun to shine down upon the monastery. They said thanks to her for announcing the return of the sun for yet another day. Her sister, Zorya Vechernyaya, they honoured in the evening. She closed the gates of heaven at night, locking away the sun and letting out the moon. She allowed the sisters time to rest and protected their dreams.
Saint Milija was special to the monastery. Outside of the village, nobody knew of her. Vidosava so loved telling Svetlana about the beautiful saint. Milija, then Sister Milija, lived in the monastery 600 years before Svetlana’s time. She was very quiet, never spoke a word. The villagers told each other stories that her tongue was frozen to the roof of her mouth. Others said that it was stolen from her by the mountain spirits. Milija had stumbled into the monastery much like sister Desislava had. She was even in a similarly miserable situation.
She never wore any winter clothing, even if the sisters provided her with the most beautifully made fabrics and patterns, she never wore them. Instead, she worked them into quills and coats for the village‘s newborns and their mothers. Whenever a new piece was finished, she walked
down to the village to stay with the mother and her baby until winter was over and both of them were safe and healthy. Those who were around her always felt warm, as though the sun had chased away the bite of frost and winter. At this time, the sisters visited her twice weekly during this time. With them, they brought prepared meals and handmade presents of use for both of them. Upon one of these visits, they didn’t find Milija with her ward. The mother told them that the nun had left them days prior, as by now well as with the child.
Only minutes after leaving the house and walking in the direction of the village elders’ residence, they found her. She lay dead in the snow, her lips purple and blue. Her skin was marked by frostbite. They ran what remained of the way to the next house. There, they sent for four man and a carriage to return their beloved sister to what would be her final resting place. The mother superior fell into such shock as she heard of the news that for days she remained kneeling in the chapel and at Milija‘s bedside.
She cried, downright fell apart. Her hands clasped the black headscarf covering her hair as she sobbed, kneeling before the statue of Morana. “Morana, what have we done to deserve this? Why, oh, just why did it have to be her? Why, holy goddess of winter, why did it have to be my child?” Her voice broke with every word she spoke. After a while, her words were entirely swallowed by the gut-wrenching sobs escaping her. The cries echoed through the chapel, casting their haunting sounds over the entire village. The statue stared down at her, cold and unfeeling. Yet in her palace, Moorana too was crying. The sisters were so devoted to her, only to see one of her very own dead.
“Bring her back to me! She can not be dead, she was too young! Do you not see how much good she has done for all of us? Do you not see how we are hurting?” Oh, how she wanted to reach up through the glass and comfort the crying priestess. Every time the nun cried, Morana held her child’s hand tighter.
From her death onwards, no child ever died during the winter months. Milija became a saint of the local mothers and one of all women. Her statue was visited near daily at the monastery, and the saint smiled at every woman who said a prayer to her.
Chapter 2
With these stories, Svetlana grew into a young woman. The monastery was slowly abandoned as the sisters aged. Soon enough, the mother superior, whose decision it had been to take in Desislava, died. Autumn turned to winter, and a new mother superior took her spot. She was a most horrid woman and heartless towards all of the sisters. She disliked them so much that soon there were rumours of her being sent to them by the Vatican. Ever since her arrival, Treskavac was burdened by many visits from Catholic officials, which hadn’t happened in 100 years. The monastery changed seemingly overnight and no longer welcomed Svetlana.
She was always in a rage or punishing them for something. On many occasions, she used the church services to lecture the sister about some moral issue that apparently required change. The weekly lunches with the village folk were no more, as the mother superior was now of the impression that it made the monastery too ungodly. Another issue lay with the statues of their gods. Perperuna and the sisters of the stars disappeared without much fanfare. Milija, however, she hated the most. The gorgeous marble statue was taken from its rightful place, and its head was destroyed by a hammer. The remainder of the body was stored away, though none of the sisters knew its location.
Without a true reason, the mother also hated Svetlana. She wanted to see the girl gone from the monastery, and no matter how vigorously the sisters protested, she wasn’t allowed to stay. The place that was her home for 32 years no longer welcomed her. By the beginning of the new year, a husband for her was found, chosen by the mother superior herself. The man and his family were of the same nature as the mother. Upon their first meeting with Svetlana, none
spoke with her. She felt like livestock being sold off rather than a human being. Desa, who seemed to regard her family as more important than god and country, poked and prodded the poor girl’s face and pulled her hair. She found the bride to be too fat and entirely too educated for her own good. Yet the son took enough of a liking to her to agree to a marriage.
Sorrow and pain wafted throughout the walls of the monastery while its inhabitants prepared for their child to be taken from them. On the day of the wedding, Svetlana’s sleep was plagued by dreams of a woman’s face. It seemed to float only centimetres away from her own head, staring with unblinking eyes. The face spoke, yet its mouth did not move. The voice and visage felt familiar. However still, there was something so terrifying about it that made her skin crawl. The face stuck with her, even as those around her went on with preparing her for the special occasion, having her stand to be dressed like a living doll.
A doll is quite what she became in the last months. Her mother-in-law dressed her in robes herself would have never chosen. The fabric was of such poor quality that it scratched Svetlana’s skin. It was dyed in a hurry, the colour therefore ending up looking uneven and patchy. She had not been given the grace of a veil or cape either. Desa remarked that there would not be much worth covering anyway.
Jevrosima, Desa’s daughter, fixed a crown of flowers to her head. It was made wrong and ugly. It was made of horrid, dark blooms. Stinging nettle, yew tree, and helbane were held together by the ranks of a few black roses. From what she was taught as a child, Svetlana knew that these components of her crown would make a deadly brew if measured correctly.
Her sister-in-law fixed it upon the bride’s head, relying not upon a single ounce of gentleness and care. The thorns of the roses dug into Svetlana‘s scalp. Yet she held herself back from wincing in pain, hiding away in her memories instead. She stayed silent, even as she felt blood from her scalp drip down the back of her neck and into the back of her dress.
Within the next two hours, she was married – her hand now tied to a man she did not know, nor love. The ceremony was short and utterly horrid. They had not even given her the honour of marrying in the monastery’s chapel. So totally different from what she had dreamed of. There was no praying, no chanting, no dancing, nor making offerings. Only a hastily done tying of their hands to seal the marriage. The man, whom she now knew was named Gojko, had terribly sweaty hands. They trembled all throughout the ceremony, which made the young bride much more uncomfortable than the look upon his scared face. Her new husband was not much of a man at all, Svetlana quickly decided. He seemed to be lacking any kind of spine or backbone. In the few moments they saw each other before the wedding, she saw his mother and father directing him around as he did not possess a mind or will of his own. His mother still tied his laces for him, as Desislava did for Svetlana before she went to school, yet he did not appear to see anything wrong with the fact. Gojko stumbled about without much plan and thought, indeed, Svetlana began to feel bad for him. Long, stringy hair covered more than half of his face, the remaining part of which was covered by an unkempt beard. Not an ounce of her being wanted to be close to him. Even his clothes seemed to have been worn by him since he was a little boy. Svetlana was aware that she herself did not look her best, yet still his form was entirely pitiful. Guessing from his smell, his last bath also seemed to be years in the past.
He was eying her in the same manner in which a hunter might glance upon an animal he’s pointing the barrel of his gun at. She made sure to keep her head down, to not move or shift in a way that could indicate her state of discomfort. She did not intend to give her mother-in-law any new opportunity to correct her. Her hand shook as she attempted to move it to its correct place to be fastened by a cord to the crooked thing of a paw belonging to her husband. As soon as the mother finished tying the rope, there was no way out of this for her. She would be trapped forever. In this moment, she said farewell to her old, peaceful life. She did not know what to expect. The air around her new family felt dark and heavy. Whenever she was close to them, it always felt as though she could not breathe. „Milija, watch over me. I beg of you, divine mother.“, she silently prayed. She always turned to the saint and Morana first for protection.
A breath caught in the back of her throat as she again caught the stench emanating from her husband. Svetlana had to do all she could not to throw up in her mouth. For the first time, she looked up to see all the sisters of the order crowded together among the guests. Black veils covered their eyes as they wept and mourned the loss of their child. Desislava sank to the floor, the force of another sob riddling her body becoming simply too great. Zimrin crumbled the fabric of her veil. Svetlana knew that she only held onto it in order to control her fury. The sisters all arranged themselves around the body of their crying friend in an attempt to shield her from Desa’s overjoyed expressions and mocking remarks. The hag indeed seemed to enjoy this, her torment. The cord around her hand was too tight; the man she married was digging his nails into her wrist. Her father-in-law, in particular, wore an unnervingly wide smile upon his ugly face.
They took her away immediately after they were married. She was not allowed a final farewell with the women who raised her, nor with the man who remained her best friend since their childhood days. Pribislav stood with the sisters, holding Desislava as she cried. He brought Svetlana‘s two beloved ponies so that hopefully she would be able to return to them upon one of their backs. Instead, she was taken to the house where she and Gojko were to live. On the way to the estate, Svetlana was also informed that Lovro had his own bathroom and needed to be washed and dressed every morning. This was to be her job. Svetlana couldn’t help but notice the grin that spread on Jevrosima’s face as Desa told her this. There were also gardens that needed care. She, too, would be responsible. As Desa informed her, she, for now, would be responsible for all work needing completion in the house. She was to cook three times a day, clean and wash the laundry in addition to garden work, and when the time came, harvest. She, as the youngest and “newest” woman in the family, would have to prove her worth. Svetlana was also to care for the woman that Lovro brought home on a regular basis. At the same time, she was also expected to fulfill whatever need might arise in him. She writhed at the thought of him touching her alone.
Against her better judgment, Svetlana had expected something only a little nicer than what they were given. Instead of having the dignity and privacy of their own house, they were to take up residence in Gojko’s bedroom together. Next to it was another bedroom, shared by mother and daughter while her husband slept across the hallway in the largest room of the house. The hallway led them to the bathroom on one side, whilst the other took them to the kitchen and living room.
Desa ordered her son to consecrate the marriage immediately while they were still in her presence. Nobody cared enough to remove the crown from her head. Every move of her husband only made the thorns dig deeper. She did not scream nor cry. Yet in her, something grew. It was searing hatred towards the disgusting, weak man who defiled her body. All to make his mama happy. Never would she have married such a slimy and spineless thing. He was a rat. Her hands burned with the need to rip out his windpipe, crush his skull in her hands. Yet still, she was unmoving. She set her eyes upon the wicked hag sitting at the table. Oh, how she wished to be the reason for her death.
Chapter 3
Svetlana fell pregnant after that awful night. However, thankfully, since the first eve of her marriage, Gojko had kept his hands off of her. The family’s torment, however, hadn’t stopped. Instead, it had only gotten worse. She rose at utterly un-Christian times in order to attend to her father-in-law and whatever woman he had brought home that night. It was during this time that the old man often got close to her, disregarding whichever poor soul had fallen victim to his charms in favour of his son’s wife.
Svetlana despised him. Lovro smelled of rot, no matter how many times she washed him. Once she had gotten through washing and dressing him, Desa appeared in the door frame to her husband’s room, doing her best not to lay eyes upon the young thing in his bed. Every morning and every evening, the hag then washed Svetlana in that same tub filled with cold water. No matter how much she protested and insisted upon being able to wash herself, Desa would not let up. So, instead, the woman was placed in the tub and scrubbed down with coarse salt and a bar of soap. The salt burned her skin. The soap reeked of mold and decay. It took merely four days until her skin was raw and aching.
She had not only become a slave to her husband in marriage, but rather his entire family. Svetlana wished her skin would do her the favour of simply tearing apart at her next move. Hopefully, a wound could get infected, which would then, without a doubt, lead to her death. She longed for it. Three times a day, when they went to pray in the family chapel and Lovro repeated his diabolical teachings, she would beg the gods to end this unbearable suffering. She only feared for the unborn child in her womb. Her days seemed to consist only of being
touched against her will, preparing food none of which she would be allowed to eat, and being tortured by Desa. This was no place for a child or anyone.
Nightfall brought relief to her mangled soul. All she could hear was the wail of a woman far in the distance. For hours and hours, the voices screamed and cried, oddly, she didn’t feel any fear. Merely sympathy. When she finally slept, the horrid mother-in-law returned to haunt her. In her dreams, Desa dragged her by the hair into a forest until they came across a river. There, the whole family stood united, awaiting their arrival. Svetlana did not know what they had done to her, the pain had simply been too much to bear. The dreams would always end with Desa forcing her head underwater until Svetlana was dead. The drowned one wouldn’t struggle to come up for air or fight to stay alive. She allowed it to fill her nose and lungs. It was her will to bring an end to her rotten existence. With each dream, the longing for death returned.
Desa wished she could at least give her a piece of good soap and slightly warmer water. She herself was in the girl’s position up until the date of her son‘s wedding. There was nothing she could do. She was just as powerless against Lovro as any other woman. As Svetlana sat in the tub and Desa began pouring water over her head, she startled. The water coming off of her was as dark as coal. The colour would not lighten, no matter the number of buckets emptied. Desa had meticulously cleaned Svetlana‘s hair and skin only yesterday, and the girl did not at all look dirty. In a panic, she picked up the soap, gagging at the odour. “Spare me, mother. The salt burns my skin. Leave me be, have you not tortured me enough?”
Svetlana spoke with a voice as coarse as salt. This was the first instance of Desa hearing her speak.
“There is no way around it. And look at how dirty you are. No child, I can not spare thee.” Desa mumbled in return. The woman in the tub remained mute. Had she even spoken in the first place? She did not know. Desa harshly rubbed the salt over Svetlana’s skin, but instead of the water clearing, it only grew thicker in consistency. It wasn’t long before it took on the same foul stench as the soap. Desa simply gave up. This horrid prison of a house was making her lose her mind. At least Jevrosima didn’t have another one of her hallucinations last night.
Svetlana grew cold. When Lovro touched her again, she held still until he was done with her. Jevrosima took out her fury upon her regularly, she let her. Desa was the only one who noticed her changed behaviour.
As Desa washed Svetlana again in the evening, she jumped as she touched her skin. It was cold as ice. Desa was still sweating in the remaining heat, yet Svetlana appeared to be a singularity of freezing cold. The hand that had touched her skin was burned. Her palm was almost entirely raw, nothing was left to cover the exposed flesh. The clueless look on Svetlana’s face turned her fear into blazing anger. How could she carry such a holy name? There was nothing enlightened or holy about her. Lovro was correct. Her son‘s wife was a hellish thing unworthy of love. She had to be done away with. Desa brought her fist down upon the girl’s head, uncaring for the pain it brought.
Svetlana cried, loud enough to alarm Jevrosima. She came bursting into the bathroom, where she was greeted by a pitiful scene. Her sister-in-law lay near lifeless in the tub; her mother, in turn, was screaming at a supposed demon. Jevrosima knew better than to get in the way, still, she was furious that Svetlana‘s childish behaviour had forced her out of her room without a headscarf on. How improper she must’ve looked. Something must have happened to warrant
this kind of treatment. She fled the room and hurried to the kitchens. There, she discovered that no dinner had been prepared yet. That must be the reason for Svetlana‘s punishment. That girl didn’t have many tasks, and yet she still couldn’t complete them. She deserved the beating.
They all went through this. The youngest woman of the family needed to prove herself worthy. At first, she felt bad for her, mostly because Svetlana had to marry her brother. She hadn’t seen said weasel in a few days. Gojko hardly ever showed himself. She looked down on her brother. She could understand the disappointment on Svetlana’s face whenever she glanced at him. He was barely half a man. Some part of Jevrosima wanted to see Svetlana achieve more, wanted to see her return to the monastery to become a scholar or a great mother superior of some kind.
Startled at her own thoughts, Jevrosima turned away. What was she thinking? What would happen to her if her father found out how she felt? Svetlana was evil, not a human rather a thing. That was what he told them before and after every mass. During shared meals, and just to her, he even said it after he was finished with her. She willed herself to stop thinking. She no longer had to suffer her father’s affections. That was what Svetlana was responsible for now. Because her brother had taken a daughter of a whore as his wife, she was finally free of the torment. However, since his marriage, Jevrosima noticed her hallucinations getting worse.
At night, she barely slept. Her bed was uncomfortable and was hurting her back. No matter how many times she turned, it was impossible to find a position in which to sleep in. She felt the tiny legs of insects and rats crawling all over her. From her feet to the top of her head, she felt
as though tiny ants were scurrying about. Worst of all was her face. The skin felt like it was covered in ants, burning and scratching, even her eyeballs. At times, Jevrosima did not dare to breathe too deeply in fear of letting the wretched creatures into her lungs. She refused to close her eyes so as not to trap any insects underneath her eyelids. The shrieking coming from underneath the floorboards kept her awake. She to whoever would listen to make the sensations stop. She prayed to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and as her desperation for peace grew, she even prayed to her father. Somebody ought to fix this for her.
With every hour, it became louder. The scratching. The wailing. The clawing at the wood of the floorboards. Almost as though a baby with unnatural claws wanted to crawl its way into her room. The air around her felt more lifeless as the weeks continued. This was her fault. She, the worthless daughter of a nameless wanna-be nun at a nameless monastery that never brought any value to this world or the church. It was high time they got rid of her and her sorry excuse of a husband. But Lovro said they couldn’t do away with her until the harvest was over. Guessing from the state Svetlana was in now, she would be rather far along in her pregnancy by the time the field would be ready. But never mind the child, such a bastard needn’t be born in the first place, Jevrosima told herself.
Indeed, Svetlana was long overdue when it became time to harvest. On the first day, she had been outside before the rise of the sun. Her body ached from exhaustion and stress. She hadn’t been permitted to eat anything in the last week, and more often than not, she only worried about her hunger in fear for her unborn child. Every night after lying down to sleep, she gently held her belly to give herself a little relief. Her heart filled with such joy whenever she felt the tiny kicks, even though they did begin to hurt eventually. Now, too, she carefully held the
increasingly heavy bump. As she attempted to bend down and reach the first bit of grain, the crops withered away right under her hand. The rest of the field began to radiate in a lovely golden colour in the light of the rising sun. However, the earth was dead in the spot where Svetlana stood. The same happened when she reached down to grasp another patch, as was later the case with the apples she attempted to pick and eat hastily against her hunger. Gently, she picked a small yellow apple from one of the trees, but before she raised her hand enough to bite into it, flies were buzzing around the shriveled thing. The quinces were rotting away under her hand, even the pears and plums decayed as she got near them from the trees. After a while of this, she looked down upon her basket of rotten fruit, and in her despair, she began to cry. Not because whatever she touched seemed to spoil, but because she knew of the consequence. If this continued, she knew they would kill her. She cried and cried for her unborn child and for the future she could have had if only they had allowed her to stay at the monastery. Yet mixed in with her sorrows, there was peace and relief. She knew now it would all finally be over.
Desa found her and her sad little basket of death. Said basket was still lying at the bottom of the plum tree. Svetlana, on the other hand, had been beaten worse than ever before. Her face was unrecognizable. Every inch of her once beautiful face was blue and swollen. Her lip was split in multiple places, as was her eyebrow. A stream of blood ran down in between them. Her unconscious body was dragged by her hair down to the small stream right by the gardens. She watched herself being carried into the water until her mother-in-law stood waist-deep in clear water. Desa‘s hair was covered with one of her very own silk scarves, which she only did on the most holy of days. Desa stole one of the few things of meaning to her. The cloth had
been handmade by the sisters; how dared she be so thoughtless? The foolish woman used all of her body weight to push Svetlana’s head underwater. For what seemed like hours, Desa held her in this way. The body had long before been dead, yet Svetlana was alive. Finally, the monster let go of her head and stumbled out of the water, back to land. Svetlana followed closely behind. Her nightmare came to life.
At the house, Lovro had brought back another gaggle of women, all of whom he led into the family’s chapel before permitting his wife and children entry. Desa, weak as she was, cried throughout the service. Her tears flowed on and on in shame. Shame for her husband‘s infidelity and deranged ramblings, her daughter’s evil nature, and her worthless son‘s existence. What a sad being she was. She gave life to wickedness itself.
Svetlana revealed her new ability. She could be anywhere and everywhere at the same time. She spread her consciousness all throughout the chapel, letting it seep into every tiny crack. Still, she remained centered behind Desa. Her cold eyes focused on the altar, where Lovro stood to preach. Oh, and how she reveled in the fear sparking on Lovro‘s face. She enjoyed this, maybe a bit too much. The little human was terrified of her, as was his wife by now. Pitiful, pitiful creatures…
Desa attempted to compose herself. Svetlana had been worse than all of her family members combined. Thanks to her, the wound on Desa‘s hand was still not healed from the injury inflicted on her. Indeed, what else was she to blame for? Ever since that empty pair of eyes had last looked at her, Desa felt watched. Something was closely behind her at all times. She
could not be rid of the deep feeling of dread and anxiety the presence brought with it. As soon as her husband finished his sermon, she fled the chapel.
The lingering feeling remained. She turned her head with almost every step she took, yet she never saw anything. Desa had almost forgotten about the harvest still needing to be brought in. Only Jevrosima‘s incessant whining about there not being any pie to eat had brought back the memory of the work to be done. For this behaviour, she received the beating that would have under normal circumstances been directed at Svetlana and was then sent out into the gardens to do the harvesting herself. As she looked out into the gardens an hour after sending her daughter away, nothing was done. Useless. She couldn’t see her daughter lying beside Svetlana‘s forgotten basket. The insects had also settled on her freshly opened wounds. Desa only thought that if the earth hadn’t wilted underneath Svetlana‘s feet, at least a third of the work would be done by now. The looming presence grew even heavier. Could it be that this thing was reading her mind?
Desa collapsed on the uncomfortable chairs in the kitchen and lay her head on the table. Something had to be done about Svetlana, or what remained of her. She couldn’t leave her to rot and float down the stream. God only knew what would happen to her body. Why did she feel so protective of her? Care should be the last thing she felt for the witch. Strangely so, as she thought these words, they seemed to be in her husband‘s tone of voice. From the moment she had been introduced to them, he had hated her. Still, he had encouraged the marriage. At first, Desa thought he might want to make her another one of his women with whom he regularly engaged. However, he had only ever touched her when she washed and dressed him.
Before Svetlana came to live at the house, her husband spent hours every day preaching about how only women of no value would be forced out of the monastery and into marriage. The mother superior who had offered her to his son had once been one of Lovro‘s women. From what Desa knew, they met while her husband was still a Franciscan missionary sent to return Bosnia to good, Christian faith. His arrival in her homeland provided him with an outlet for his hatred of the local pagans. As the number of dead non-Christians grew, word finally got to Rome, and eventually they excommunicated him. Even though the mother superior of Trevskavc shared his hatred, she remained in her position and was able to give him the land they now lived on. Bit by bit, the hag did what she deemed necessary to Christianise her monastery.
Regardless of how much hatred Lovro spewed against Svetlana, Desa could not find it within her to truly share the sentiments. It was only when Lovro promised to love her again like he had in the beginning of her marriage if she did to Svetlana as he instructed, that she was able to truly direct her hatred at the girl. His talk of her being a demon and a witch had scared her enough. It was right, she told herself. It was only right that the girl was dead now.
Lovro tore open the door leading to the kitchen. His wife sat at the table, her head buried in her arms, like there wasn’t a dinner to be made. He shook her in order to gain her attention and chose to ignore the tears running down Desa‘s face as she looked up at him. Pathetic. She always looked so ugly when she cried. Without asking any questions at all, he knew. She had finally done it. The former monk smiled at his wife, looking rather pleased. “Where’s my daughter?” he slurred.
The old woman pointed towards the window. “Well, bring her in and tell her to come to my room. It’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed her presence.”
Suddenly, a weight clung to the front of his shirt. Desa had twisted her fists into his shirt, attempting to plead with him. “No, Lovro, spare the poor girl. You promised that if I did it, you’d love me again. Please.. stay away from Jevrosima. She’s your child, too.”
The monk felt nothing but disgust for the hag before him. “Away with you, hag. Bring my daughter to the room or it’ll be you next in the river!” He struck her. A pitiful sound left his wife’s throat.
Three nights passed. Desa now slept alone in the room she shared with her daughter before. Jevrosima had been ordered to stay with her husband. Her child had not slept since the first night, and while it meant the hallucinations could not get to her, she had still been screaming and audibly thrashing the entirety of the time she spent with her father. The deathening silence of the room made the screeching roar her very own demons even louder. She too heard the wailing, to her it too sounded like the screaming of a newborn crying for its mother.
In her dreams, she was back at the stream, Svetlana‘s dead body before her. Desa could not look away as the skin of her abdomen was torn open. Blood and bile dripped from the bloated corpse, dying the river a deep red burgundy colour. The sound of tearing skin made Desa wretch at the familiarity. This was precisely what the soap she used on Svetlana smelled like. From her daughter-in-law‘s stomach appeared a hellish-looking creature. It looked her dead in the eyes as it inched closer. Its limbs bent and broke with every move. Thankfully, she awoke before it could reach her. With her eyes wide open, she could still hear the screams of the creature far away in the distance.
Chapter 4
Once the sun had risen, Jevrosima emerged from the bedroom and together Desa and she walked to the river where Svetlana‘s body had washed ashore. The stream was clear as pure glass, yet it reeked of death and burned skin. The decaying corpse had doubled in size in the heat of summer, emphasising her pregnant stomach. As they got closer, her daughter screamed in horror. Desa‘s mouth ran dry. The side of Svetlana’s stomach was torn open. Something clearly had crawled out and away from it. Jevrosima began to shake uncontrollably at the sight. On its way out, the creature or whatever nightmarish creation wormed its way out of the woman, tore open several internal organs, the contents of which were still drying on the body.
What lay before them bore no similarities to the woman they knew. Its skeleton was broken and mangled in more places than they could count. Jevrosima was sure that no bone of her frail body remained unbroken. She brought this on, she and her mother. A nun was dead and was assaulted to the point of being unrecognisable because of them. Because she was too weak to stomach the abuse of her father, she only had a little longer. She was just as useless as her brother. In no way was she less of a coward.
Without her knowledge, her right hand became a fist. Her mind filled with thoughts of vengeance for the life of a woman she herself had abused. For whatever reason, all she wanted to do was avenge her death. Kill the horrid witch who gave birth to her and curse the name of the man who thought himself to be her father. In the sparkling surface of the river, she caught sight of her reflection and nearly began to cry in shock at what she saw. At merely 35
years old she looked haggard and old, like she should be the one lying dead on the beach. As Svetlana continued rotting, she still looked ethereal. Beautiful, worthy, chosen. Perfect even in death. Desa hoisted Svetlana up over her shoulder and carried her away, to the forest yet again.
Svetlana‘s soul stayed close to the family at all times. Mainly, she remained with her husband and his sister. Upon the events of the last days, Jevrosima’s heart changed. Her body was filled with the same quiet fury that Svetlana carried within her. Gojko had not noticed that she was gone, or if he had, he hadn’t made any inquiries. The grown child lay in his room. Staring up at the ceiling was all he was able to do. He hadn’t moved a muscle until Lovro tore the door open and instructed him to accompany him to the forest. The men walked for three hours until they stopped at a clearing. There, they began making piles of wood almost one and a half metres high. At the same time, Desa strained her old back in an effort to carry her body to said clearing. Jevrosima did not once offer to help. She had fully entered a daze. For half a day, she walked with them. The dull thud of her body hitting the forest floor put an end to the exhausting journey.
As the shadowy figure stepped closer to her former vessel, the entirety of her being began to ache and tear. She tried to look across the clearing again, only to realise that the mangled body was once again her own. Another dream was now a horrifying reality. She felt lighter than the last time she was a human. A boney hand cramped around the midsection of her stomach, trying to feel the weight and existence of her offspring desperately. All effort was in vain. The woman screamed and wailed until her hand found the side of her body out of which the little girl crawled. What a smart girl her daughter already was. Her mama couldn’t be there for her,
forced to part with her body, so she made her own way. Oh, how proud she felt.
“Be free, my child. Be safe. Soon we’ll be together again, my sweet girl,” she thought to herself. How she knew that the child was indeed a girl, she could not explain.
They threw the body of the dead girl upon a pile of firewood. They drew runes all over her, wishing for pain and suffering, even in her death. With each rune they drew, Morana’s pain increased. The ever-proud goddess of winter sank to the floor and twisted her body in the most unimaginable of ways in an attempt to flee from the pain. Milija held her head close to her chest, comforting her mother the same way she had done for her when the head of her statue was ripped from its body.
As Svetlana lay, the mother brought forth another crown of yew tree branches, hellebore, stinging nettle, henbane, and black rose – the same cursed ring she forced upon the girl’s head on the day of her wedding. Jevrosima fixed it to the body’s head as she had done then, pressing the thorns against the skull with great force. Her hands shook again. When she touched Svetlana’s head, all of her pain and suffering rushed at her at full force.
Lovro stared daggers at her from across the sacred space, so Jevrosima continued standing straight. The thorns dug into her palms as much as they buried themselves in her sister’s skull, and against her will, she began to sob. She could feel Svetlana‘s pulse. Through all of this, she was alive and here she stood, her senior by far and sobbing at the sting of a thorny plant. “Look at me. Look at me. Look at me,” the corpse spoke, without moving its lips at all. “Jevrosima. Be brave, look at my face.” It was undeniably Svetlana’s voice, sounding sickeningly sweet and gentle. She did not dare look at her face. Instead, she only stared at the
wound in her flank. It was infected and looked painful, rotten even. How could she live through such suffering? “Touch it if you dare.” Her hand was pulled towards the wound.
“You’re a coward, Jevrosima. You and your brother are no better than the rats infesting your fields. You’re weak. Still, I liked the youngest out of all the others. If only you had enough courage to let go of your selfishness, and if you had only stood up against your mother once. I was inclined to even become your friend, but my mother was right to call you a worm from the beginning. Poor little purposeless girl.“, she seemed to taunt her as her hand got ever closer to the festering opening. Something divine manipulated the hand, and she reached into it, grabbed the skin. Jevrosima tore open the belly all the way to the other side. She didn’t know where the sudden strength came from. The whole of her front was drenched in blood and bodily fluids from the infections. By accident, Jevrosima’s eyes rose to gaze upon Svetlana’s face, and again, she began to cry. The bloated cheeks, nose, and lips were torn in the way that her stomach was, yet Svetlana was looking right at her with bloodshot eyes. “Silly girl…” she said in that same sickening voice and smiled. Jevrosima was dragged away from the body by Desa, who had only seen her daughter opening the body up entirely, but heard none of what was spoken.
The man, who closely resembled a blend of a weasel and a goat, stepped up to light the dry, dead wood. Gojko hesitated for a moment too long and also regarded the girl’s face for a moment. He felt nothing but disgust for his actions and so, oh so sorry for himself. He allowed this to happen. The poor, innocent child was dead because of his weakness and inability to find a suitable wife. How could his father inflict such suffering upon all of them? Indeed, it was his and only his fault. If only his family weren’t the way it was. If only his
mother weren’t so bitter, and if only his sister weren’t such a self-serving woman. If only… If only… If only everything were different, he might even have been a good husband to Svetlana. However, to not cause suspicion, he slapped her, glad of the fact that now, she was unable to feel the impact of his actions. Then, the cowardly man turned to his mother, who welcomed him by her side with open arms.
Again, Morana wailed as she was struck by another wave of pain. Milija raged in anger. How pathetic Gojko was. In all these years, he didn’t notice all the abuse the two women suffered. He failed to see how his father brought home a different poor dove every night. He turned a blind eye to the brutality with which he cast them out the next morning. The slap intended for his wife’s cheek broke her heavenly mother down entirely. Her cries were of pure agony. Her eyes were so filled with pain and desperation for comfort that Milija couldn’t help but see a crying Svetlana before her. They were all so similar. Her rage left her body entirely, and instead she again fell to her knees to press her mother’s face against her chest. Milija too began to cry soon, when Morana twisted her hands into the fabric of her white robes as Svetlana did when she was still a child.
Back then, she only lost the beloved bear that Dobravka made for her. How bitterly did she cry in fear of never seeing the stuffed animal again? Thankfully, it was easily located by means of Morana‘s looking glass and a rather memorable dream sent to the sister. By the next day, Svetlana‘s friend had returned. Desislava still had it to this day. This problem now however didn’t have such a simple solution.
Lovro stood proudly beside Desa and his family, watching joyfully as the young girl burned. “Burn, witch. Burn so bright your hellish mother sees you,” he thought to himself.
She felt.
Felt it all.
Her husband striking her face, the rose thorns piercing her scalp, the fire ever so slowly engulfing her. The pain was excruciating. The fire was all around her, inescapable. The flames only grew higher, the more time went by, melting away the bits of flesh left on her bones. She begged her body to give up. To let her die. Svetlana screamed until her vision had gone white entirely and she felt herself slip away.
Morana furiously wiped her face clean of the tears. “Speak to her, mother. She needs you. We don’t want her precious soul to be lost now, do we?” And she was right.
As the fire reached the roots of her hair, a face appeared. Her mother. It was not the woman who gave birth to her, indeed, she‘d never seen her before, yet she felt so familiar. The face did not move, but from somewhere there came a voice: “My child. My beloved daughter. What have they done to you? How could they have been so blind to mistake you for a mere human?” The voice became increasingly furious as the face remained just as still as it had been before. “You’re a blessing, my child. I brought you into this world so that they might find love and forgiveness through you. They failed to see your light, failed to see what you could have done for our people. How could they have been so foolish? Get up, my dear. Come to life again, you’re a daughter of Morana. My children never die. Be free! Make them worship you! Avenge your pain! Rise. Hold your head high. Be reborn.”
– Senka.
Chapter 5
Bones cracked, skin tore apart. A figure rose. A feminine shape, nearly eight feet tall, stood on top of the flames, seemingly consuming them. The roar of the fire quieted down and was replaced with a threateningly low hum. It made Jevrosima dizzy. Her stomach twisted. What was this thing? She was entranced by the horrifying beauty of the figure. Slowly, she took a step towards it. Behind her, she could hear her mother gasp in shock.
She took another step.
Another one.
Another one.
Another one.
She stood before the pile of burnt wood and slowly lifted her head to face the thing before her. It was darker than any normal shadow should have been. Before her was a pillar of pure black. Jevrosima searched for a face and smiled when she finally saw it. It was wailed, nearly unrecognisable. Yet the eyes, now a milky white, were unmistakably Svetlana‘s. The woman secretly so adored stood before her. Beautiful and finally as divine as she was always meant to be. Emanating off of her was pure godly power, and such a cold that it began feeling warm again. In her head, the heavenly creature spoke.
“Oh my dearest.. do you finally know what your family has done to me? What have they turned me into? But do not be worried, I do not blame you for any of it. You are a simple little human, love.” Svetlana lowered herself to pet Jevrosima’s hair. “Your family will die. Without a doubt, they will. But you? I wanted to let you live. So what do you say, dearie? What will it be? Life or death?”
Jevrosima did not know how to reply.
Svetlana continued. “Your death will not be your end, remember that. Life is fleeting. It passes by in a heartbeat. But death? Death is eternal. In death, you find true, never-ending life.“
Jevrosima reached her hand up to meet Svetlana’s. It felt colder than ice, yet she found it oddly comforting. She clasped both her hands tightly around it and held it to her chest. “Don’t leave me. Please. Take me with you wherever that may be. Please, I don’t want to live like this anymore. Please…” Her last words were drowned out by her mother‘s crying. The figure rose to its full height and directed its cold eyes at Desa.
Desa‘s cries stopped immediately. Her eyes turned the same milky white as Svetlana’s, and blood poured from her mouth and nose. Lovro‘s weak little arms could not hold her up, and so she fell rather unceremoniously onto the ground. The smile on Svetlana‘s face was barely noticeable, yet all too wide at the same time. “See, dear child? See how quick death is to haunt you when it is your time? Life is meaningless.” The voice did not seem to come from the figure itself anymore.
“May death return once more to haunt me then. I value not my life, it is my wish for it to end as soon as can be.” The figure grabbed her jaw harshly. With the first touch, Jecrosima felt her lifeforce draining. She grew dizzy, tried holding onto the hand once more to stabilise herself. Instead, she twisted her hands into the velvety shadows that made up Svetlana‘s being. She grew so weak that she couldn’t hold herself upright anymore, leaning fully into her. The hand
let go of her face. In a panic, Jevrosima used what little energy she had to get her to hold on again. “No, please! Don’t leave me, Svetlana!” She broke down again.
“Oh, hush, child. These names are for the living.” The figure turned away from her and charged at the two men. Their heads were torn clean off their bodies, their insides turned out. No limb remained unbroken. Their eyes, too, were white, and their blood dyed Desa‘s clothes quite beautifully.
Jevrosima rose from her body, still much shorter than Svetlana. The figure wrapped its arms around her, enveloping her entirely. “I forgive you, dear. I will forgive you for how foolish you were to spend all your life with these people.” Jevrosima looked up in shock. “Don’t look so surprised. You will be forgiven… if you bring me back my child.”
Epilogue
Desislava awoke in the middle of the night to screaming coming from the mother superiors chambers. In a hurry, she dressed herself and light a candle. It barely gave her enough light to allow her passage of the pitch black hallways. The screaming grew more terrifying the closer she got. The air tested and smelt of iron, dried blood. She sped up her steps, something terrible must have happened.
With a quick twist of her arm, the door to the chambers was opened. The scene before her made Desislava sigh in relief. The mother lay dead on the floor. Her head was about three metres away from the rest of her body. The eyes were entirely white. Desislava smiled.
A shadow materialised in the corner of the room. To anyone els, she was a scary sight now. Veiled in all black, nearly eight feet tall and skeletal in stature. Her eyes were the only none black thing about her. Like those of her sacrifices, they were milky white. She was blind.
„Oh my dear child. So it is you. I’m so glad you finally found me.“, she spoke with such warmth. A warmth that was more than familiar to Senka.
“M-Mother…?”
ABOUT
Ella was born and raised in Germany, and now is a historian and English teacher. Her family roots trace back to the beautiful country of Bosnia and Herzegowina, which is also the central element of her writing. Since she was a child, and barely learnt to write, she loved creating stories. Only that now the story usually contains some historical elements, mythology or aspects of a places‘ culture.
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