The Story of Sankt Vaska
There is a saint, their story nestled between the pages of the Istorii Sankt'ya, who is often forgotten or overlooked, lost to the years. But their clockwork hands were gentle, their story one of resourcefulness and care, and some do their best to carry their story back into the light where it belongs.
This is the story of Sankt Vaska, the patron saint of balance, ingenuity, and the wild forests.
I don't really have to explain this one very much, do I?
If you're here from To Weather the Oncoming Storm, hello! This is the exact same story as told in Chapter Eight, just without the extra italics, interjections, etc. I thought some people might appreciate a separate work, and it wasn't that much work to create so I thought, "Why not?"
If you aren't here from To Weather the Oncoming Storm, welcome! This story is a part of a larger fanfic, but can be read completely standalone for those who just want to read about a non-canonical Ravkan saint.
A small village in Ravka, surrounded by deep and old forests, began cutting their beautiful trees down so that they could expand their homes and advance in industry. They kept cutting and cutting, and soon the animals ran away, the soil cracked and grew pale, and the river dried up. Yet still they expanded, toiling day and night to build new buildings. Some spewed smoke into the sky, and some drank greedily from the ever-dwindling river.
One young person who lived in the village was named Vaska, and every day they would see the smoke rising above their home and worry. One day they had worried enough, and told the mechanics and architects that industry was killing their village. But the mechanics looked at Vaska’s cleverly crafted metal hands, and the architects looked at the small yet beautiful home Vaska lived in with their two mothers, and they turned away from Vaska’s plight.
So Vaska traveled to a nearby town, bought as many saplings as their mothers’ horse and cart could carry, and returned to their village as the sun set. Instead of going home after a day of bartering and buying they brought the horse and cart to the fields where the forest had been not so long ago, the earth dry and cracked from the drought and the remaining stumps dead and roughly hewed. The sight filled Vaska with deep sadness, but their task was here and no one would help ease the burden from their shoulders, for their mothers were too weak from the drought and their friends all laughed at their pleas.
It took many hours of moonlight for Vaska to plant their saplings one by one, but they handled each one with great care and tenderness. They watered each with a watering can, whispering gentle praises and prayers to them between cupped metal hands, and hoped that the moon would listen. If she didn’t, Vaska’s work would have to be enough.
The next day Vaska awoke in their soft bed to yelling in the village square. When they ran out to see the commotion they were astonished to find that there was rain flooding through the gutters alongside the streets and that the entire village was out and about, all shouting and arguing with one another.
“What happened?” Vaska asked one of their neighbors.
“The rain washed away our new buildings and inventions!” said their neighbor. “But don’t fear, young Vaska, there’s wood left in the forest. Our woodsmen will bring us more strong trees and we can easily rebuild what we lost.”
So Vaska followed the woodsmen out of the town with a heavy heart, a crowd of villagers following too, all hoping to see the last of the great woods that used to surround the village.
When Vaska and the others arrived at the fields of stumps they were amazed to find that they were no longer barren and dry but covered in a forest even larger and more beautiful than the first. There were flowers blooming in the gaps between the healthy canopy and the sound of sweet birdsong filled the air around the villagers.
The woodsmen were not as pleased by this as Vaska. “What witchcraft is this?” demanded the leader. “There were no trees here two days ago, no underbrush nor dirty forest animals.”
“Vaska has fought against our expansion for months,” a villager said. “They’re selfish and unfeeling to the prosperity of this town.”
“What prosperity is there without green things and life?” Vaska demanded.
“Men,” the leader of the woodmen said over Vaska, “these trees are a blessing from the saints, a bounty of strong wood for us to hew. We’ll cut them down now with our village behind us.”
The other woodsmen agreed, as did the villagers, and Vaska watched them ready their axes.
On the first blow, the leader’s axe shattered. The bark of the beautiful tree was unharmed, and the villagers cried out in dismay around Vaska as they felt their heart soar in disbelief and hope. Another woodsman struck a tree and the same happened, then the same with a third.
“Witchcraft!” the leader shouted, watching his men’s axes break one by one. “These woods are sorcery!”
Then he turned to the villagers. “The vile spells on this forest were cast by one of you,” he said. “Reveal yourself!”
“It was Vaska!” A man shouted. “Look at their hands! Look at their boots!”
It was true. The seams of Vaska’s clockwork hands were packed with dirt from a long night planting and their boots were covered in mud from the watered field. When the leader of the woodsmen saw this he raised his broken axe toward Vaska, making them fear for their life.
So Vaska ran. They didn’t run back to their village, to their loving mothers, but into the forest their prayers and the power of their hands had created. The woodsmen and villagers found the way difficult and dangerous, while Vaska found every deer path and thornless clearing. Deeper and deeper they ran, away from the other Ravkans, welcomed by the woods that grew from their tender love.
Some say Vaska still roams the forest to this day, fed and protected by the trees they grew, and that you should remember Sankt Vaska's story when balance is hard to find. This is why they are the patron saint of balance, ingenuity, and the wild forests, and they are honored by planting saplings in summertime.
