Chapter One #2
I crush them in my palm until they bruise open and release their oil, the pungent scent lost easily among smoke and herbs. I let them fall into the cup meant for her, stirring with the spoon as if nothing were different.
My lips move as I mix.
The words are old, passed to me long before I was tall enough to reach the table on my own.
They sit differently on my tongue than prayers do, softer, worn smooth with use.
I do not rush them; I never have. I keep them low, barely more than breath, letting the fire swallow their sound.
My father’s voice lingers in the rhythm of them, softly spoken, as if secrets were safest when treated gently.
I keep my eyes on the water as it darkens under the steady turn of my spoon—once, twice, always clockwise while the steam curls upward, carrying the crushed pine and herbs together, binding them into something whole.
Mama shifts, standing now, and I feel her presence behind me like a warmth I cannot afford to draw attention to.
When she coughs again, I pause until the sound fades, then finish the last turn and still my hand.
My fingers are wiped on my skirt as if nothing more than herbs have touched them, and I carry the infusion to her.
"Drink while it’s warm," I say, offering it with a small incline of my head.
She accepts it with a tired look, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
Heat kisses my skin as I bring my own to my lips, Mama sipping hers in the same breath.
Her shoulders ease, just a little, as we sit by the hearth in companionable quiet, the fire breathing low between us.
I drink slowly, careful not to rush it, feeling the bitterness settle inside me.
Mama coughs again, a short, restrained sound that his smothered immediately by her lips pressing, as if to keep it from growing.
"It’s better," she nods to herself. "Much better than it was."
I tilt my cup, watching the way the firelight trembles across the surface.
"Popa Vasile was right," she goes on, her voice softening. "Since I’ve kept His words close, morning and night… I can feel it easing." A faint, sincere smile settles on her face. "The body listens when the soul is obedient."
"That’s good, Mama."
The resin from the pine buds still clings to my palms. My thumb rubs lightly against my forefinger, feeling the tacky resistance there, breathing in the faint, betraying scent that lingers despite the herbs and smoke.
I keep my hands folded in my lap until the feeling fades into something I can ignore.
Mama finishes her cup and sets it aside. She exhales, longer this time, and the sound eases something in me. Still, she rises with effort, straightening her back as she always does, pride stubborn even in weariness.
"It’s time," she says gently. "Come."
We kneel together before the hearth.
The small wooden cross watches from the wall above it, dark with age, its edges smoothed by countless hands and years. Firelight trembles across it, turning the carved figure into shadow and glow. Mama crosses herself first—forehead, chest, right shoulder, left. I follow, matching her movements.
Then, she bows her head and begins.
"Tat?l nostru, Care e?ti ?n ceruri, sfin?easc?-se numele T?u…" The cadence changes as she speaks the words—flatter, unyielding. "Vie ?mp?r??ia Ta. Fac?-se voia Ta…"[6]
I repeat after her, keeping pace as she asks for protection, forgiveness, for the cleansing of sins known and hiden. The words press close, tight as the room itself.
"…?i ne cur??e?te pe noi de toat? necur??ia, trupeasc? ?i sufleteasc?…"[7]
I echo each line without faltering, word for word, my voice barely more than air. The fire pops in small bursts. The house listens.
When the prayer ends, Mama crosses herself once more and rises. I follow, knees stiff, my head bowed. The cross remains on the wall, silent and unmoved as the fire dims to embers. Outside, the night presses close.
We rise together, Mama's hand pressing briefly to her lower back as she straightens.
"Noapte bun?, copil? mea[8]," she smiles, voice already heavy with sleep.
"Noapte bun?, Mama."
She moves to her side chamber and draws the wool curtain across the doorway, the fabric giving the same eternal faint rasp as it slides along its cord, leaving only the sound of her careful steps settling into stillness.
I turn toward the narrow ladder, gripping the sides to pull myself up. Above, the space under the roof opens, the scent of old straw, dried plants, and smoke clinging to everything.
This is mine.
My bed is little more than a low frame stuffed with straw and wool, a rough blanket folded at its foot. Beside it, my rare belongings are tucked neatly against the wall—clothes, a comb, a few ribbons worn thin from use.
I kneel and reach beneath the bed, my fingers searching until I find the wooden box.
It slides free with a dry scrape, no bigger than a loaf of bread, its lid scarred with shallow marks.
Inside, bundles lie wrapped in cloth and twine, sorted with care: dried yarrow, pale and feathery; darkened plantain leaves; a few shriveled elderflowers; thyme, still faintly fragrant; juniper berries, hard and blue-black.
I count them once, then again, my fingers hovering over the smallest bundle. Not much left.
A frown settles as I reach deeper.
Mugwort—only a pinch now, crumbling between my fingers. The juniper, too, has thinned more than I realized. I tie the cords back into place with care, mind already measuring what I will need.
Tonight, the moon is full—it will have to wait no longer.
The box slides back beneath the bed, and I straighten, easing onto the pallet. The roof beams loom close overhead, dark ribs against darker shadow. Through a narrow gap between boards, light slips in—cold and silver, cutting a thin line across the floor.
I lie back and pull the blanket up to my chest.
Below me, Mama’s breathing has evened out. The fire has burned low. Outside, the night stretches wide and watchful.
Sleep does not come.
I wait.