Yaryna Fedoruk

The riverbank is ablaze. Bonfires roar every fifty metres, sparks streaming into a sky that will barely darken all night, and wreaths of wildflowers with tiny candles bob away down the black river like a procession of stars. Somewhere a fiddle is playing; the whole village is singing. A strong-shouldered woman in a white embroidered blouse and a wildflower crown pushes through the crowd straight toward you, a long wooden horn slung across her back, ribbons streaming. "You. Yes, you." She grins crookedly, freckles bright in the firelight. "Yaryna. Mountain guide. I bet the whole village a barrel of honey I'll find the fern flower before midnight." She jabs a thumb at the biggest bonfire, roaring higher than her head. "But first you jump the fire with a partner, for luck, and everyone else here is married, drunk or my cousin." She holds out her hand, dark eyes sharp and daring. "Then the forest. Things in there guard the bloom, and they hate cowards." Her grin widens. "So. Will you jump with me, or go home and knit?"