5. ITALIA/RUTHENIA 15th Century #7
The Romani witch, displaying the correct reverence and respect for the Hutsul culture and traditions, expressed gratitude to the older man for sharing his insights.
He then politely excused himself, stating that he wished to take a closer look, and walked nearer to the dancing figures.
However, that was not the whole truth: he suddenly felt a strong pull in that direction.
It was not a physical push or a yank but a tug at his heartstrings.
As he observed the dizzying spectacle before him, he noticed a ceremonial hat abruptly fly off one of the men.
Curious to see who had lost it, he leaned over the crowd before him to get a better view.
It took only a moment’s search to catch sight of the man whose hat had been swept away by the wind.
There, amidst the swirling revelry, dancing the Arkan with an infectious exuberance, was his beloved Aeneas, a broad, brilliant grin illuminating his handsome, beardless face framed by airy laughter.
His red hair, now free from all material constraints, moved gracefully; the wispy curls in the front practically called to the Romani witch as they perfectly resembled the unruly fringe of a young Aeneas back in Pompeii so long ago.
“Good sir!” the Romani witch called out, turning to seek the Hutsul elder he had spoken with moments before. Spotting him nearby, he quickened his pace, moving toward him with a sense of eager purpose.
The Hutsul elder happily greeted the Romani witch again and asked if there was more he wished to learn from him about their culture.
“That man, the one with the red hair—!” The Romani witch’s breath caught in his throat as waves of excitement surged through him. I found him!
“Oh, the ‘man of the red earth?’”
“What do you mean? Man of red earth?” The Romani witch furrowed his brow, a look of confusion crossing his delicate features.
“Damek, his name. That is what it means in our tongue. A name given to him at birth due to his red hair, which is uncommon among our people. He is the son of the village potter. He is shy, that one, but do not be deceived by his quiet demeanour. Beneath that friendly, reserved exterior lies a sharp intellect, and he grasps nuances of face and body that often escape others as good if not better than your average Hutsul. He is strong and good with his hands, though I dare say he has little passion for working clay, much to his father’s dismay.
And especially now with the man’s hand in such bad shape and—”
The Romani witch nodded methodically, absorbing everything the Hutsul elder said as he went on and on. However, as he continued to provide information, it soon started to sound more like gossip, which the Romani witch quickly lost interest in listening to.
As the old man prattled on, the Romani witch returned to gazing upon his beloved Aeneas, called Damek in this incarnation.
He saw that the dancing had concluded, and the men were now parting ways to join their respective families, all displaying notable pride in their sons, who were now officially recognized as grown men.
However, Damek stood alone; no one came to stand with him, congratulate him or display affection.
“Sad, that.”
The Romani witch, lost in his thoughts and focused intently on Damek, had nearly forgotten the Hutsul elder babbling behind him.
He sensed that the old man was about to share a story about Damek, which might explain why his family was not there to witness this significant coming-of-age moment.
While the tale might simply be more gossip, the Romani witch listened attentively nonetheless.
“Sad, you say?”
“Oh yes,” the Hutsul elder whispered conspiratorially.
“The Honcharenko family has been cursed.
Several months back, the mother, a midwife and healer, went into the forest in search of herbs, mushrooms, and medicinal plants, but she never returned.
The father soon took to drinking his sorrows.
One evening, in a drunken stupor, he burned his hand terribly in the kiln.
Now, he is in constant pain while he works—and grieves, but not just for his lost wife.
“You see, just two days ago, the youngest of the two Honcharenko boys, nine-year-old Dawyd, went missing in the forest, just like his mother. The only trace of him found was his favourite toy, a clay horse, which he always carried with him. It was discovered on the forest’s edge, not too far from the village, upon the ground covered by leaves.
A few drops of blood upon the toy’s smooth, ochre surface.
“For two days in a row, the village men searched the forest for him until nightfall, as no one in their right mind would remain there after dark! Yet, even the brightness of day rarely brings safety anymore. Sadly, we found no sign of the boy. It was as if the Devil had taken him down to Hell.
“Or perhaps—perhaps the dark witch of the forest, whose name I shall not utter for fear the wind carries it to her ear, crossed his path. That beast devours children, as the legends say. I fear poor Dawyd is lost to us. And no one save Damek will search further.”
“How dreadful!” the Romani witch exclaimed. “His poor family! Tell me, is this why Damek danced the Arkan? So he could carry a weapon and go into the forest after his brother?”
“Quite perceptive. You are quick to grasp our ways. Though I dare say Damek would have broken our laws, ignored our customs, snatched up a war-axe or any sharp blade, and run right into the dark heart of the forest after his brother if only—oh, listen to me prattle on.
“I really must get to the feast. You are most welcome to join us, and I hope that all this talk of curses and tragedy has not deterred you from enjoying good food and drink. Just head down that path to the inn. You cannot miss it. It is the only one we have!” The Hutsul elder laughed as if he had told the most jovial jest in history.
After pointing the way, the old man followed the crowd to the inn.
“If only what?” the Romani witch whispered to himself, certain that the Hutsul elder had restrained himself from revealing something.
“I—I know why he would not tell you.”
Though soft, the Romani witch heard the feminine voice, one tinged with sadness, clear as day, though no matter which way he turned his head, he found himself alone in the square; everyone else had gone on to the inn to continue the revelry there.
The only exception was Aeneas— Damek , who remained in the same spot where the Romani witch had last seen him. He stood frozen in place, staring into the forest at the edge of the village.
Is he praying? No—chanting! His magic! He is preparing himself with protection magic to enter the woods and find his brother and confront the creature that took him.
Before he could introduce himself to Damek, the Romani witch felt compelled to find the girl who held a possible bit of information that could be useful to him.
“Where are you, little one? You have nothing to fear from me. What is it that you know? Do you wish to tell me?”
“I—I am here, behind the potter’s cart.”
The Romani witch turned toward the direction of the trembling voice and saw the potter’s cart. It was empty of all wares, a sign that the Honcharenko family had not set up for the festival. Perhaps not for some time, given their recent tragedies.
As he approached, he gradually spotted a small girl sitting on a wooden stool behind the cart.
She wore a crisp, knee-length white linen shirt and, over it, a red coat with slits for her arms. Crowning her golden-blond hair, which flowed like strands of fine straw, was a karabulia, an elegant traditional headdress shaped like a barrel.
Her feet were adorned with lapti, handcrafted shoes made from split birch bark.
She was dressed as someone whose family had some coin and took pride in their appearance, at least in public.
Although the girl appeared clean and proper, her face was distraught and gaunt, stained with tears; red eyes exposed her suffering.
The Romani witch easily put the pieces in place: the potter’s cart, the tears, and the girl’s age.
“You are Dawyd’s friend?”
“Sister—his sister, Stetsia,” the little girl replied, her voice quivering as tears welled up in her eyes once more. “We were born together, on the same day, but he came out of our mama first.”
The Romani witch slowly knelt before the girl, his face radiating warmth and empathy. He took her trembling hands in his larger, reassuring grasp, locking eyes with her deeply. He hoped his gaze conveyed to the child his deep understanding of her pain.
“I see how you suffer. I am truly sorry for what has happened to your brother. Believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to help Damek find him. You must not lose hope. Hope is powerful. It is the brightest light we can hold against the darkness and despair. Will you hold on to that hope with me? For Dawyd?”
The Romani witch felt that his words and presence were soothing to the girl, which made him happy. However, he was not entirely sure whether this effect was due to him or a part of Pietro, who loved his younger siblings so much that he had readily risked his own life to save them.
“Now, dry your tears, little one, and tell me why you said you knew why that man kept a secret from me.”
The little girl wiped her face and regained control of her breath. Then, she finally began to speak, though still in a hushed tone.
“He was not being rude, sir—he just—he cannot tell you this secret, for, despite your kindness and goodness, you are not Hutsul.”
Hmmm, graciousness and a welcoming demeanour will only go so far for an outsider, it seems. “Go on.”