Chapter Three #2
My father’s hands come back to me—large and gentle, smelling of earth and resin.
The way he used to kneel beside me in summer grass, showing me how to touch a leaf without bruising it.
The patience in his voice as he taught me which stems to take and which to leave, how to thank the ground, how to heal without harm.
He never spoke of devils. Never of damnation.
It never felt wrong then. There was no darkness in him, no fear. Only care.
But I was a child then. I did not know the world the way grown women do. Children misunderstand things—they imagine magic where there is danger, they mistake kindness for permission.
I lower my head, swallowing the doubt, letting it settle somewhere it can no longer trouble my thoughts anymore.
Still, my hands remain shaking as I turn back to my work.
My body knows what to do even when my head does not.
I rinse the cloths, hang them to dry, sweep the floor where ash has scattered.
Mama has settled by the fire now, seated low, one hand pressed to her chest as if to keep her heart from wandering.
Her shoulders slope inward, her face tired in a way sleep does not cure.
Guilt settles heavy in my stomach.
I notice the sheets folded near the wall, darkened in places where sickness has left its mark. I hesitate, then lift them carefully.
"Mama, do you want me to take these to the river? I can wash them before—"
Her head jerks up, startled as if struck.
"Today?"
I hesitate. "If you’re tired, I don’t mind—"
"It’s Sunday. We do not work by the river on Sundays."
Her fingers tighten around the fabric of her skirt while I blink in confusion.
"But—"
"Duminica nu e a oamenilor," she cuts in, each word firm and final. "E a lui Dumnezeu."[13]
"Of course," I nod slowly, swallowing the protest rising on my tongue.
A faint irritation prickles beneath my skin, unwelcome and quickly buried. Since when? I wonder. Since when has the river belonged to sin on one day and not the others? I do not remember these rules from before.
But it must be for a reason.
Mama says so. Popa Vasile says so, and Popa Vasile knows more than anyone. Everyone knows that.
Mama exhales and leans back, eyes closing briefly, fingers still tight over her heart.
"Raveena," she calls after a moment.
"Yes, Mama."
"Come," she says. "Let us pray now."
The sheets are set aside as I cross the room without another word, kneeling before the fire, beneath the watching cross.
I bow my head.
And I obey.
***
We spill out of the church together, blinking into the daylight.
The air feels welcomed after the incense and smoke, after the long stillness of standing and kneeling and bowing our heads beneath the wooden arches. Voices rise cautiously at first, then loosen as people step away from the doors.
"What he said," Doamn? Irina beams as she fusses with Elena's shawl, "clear as day. Strong, too."
Mama nods, her fingers brushing mine as if to make sure I am still there. "Popa Vasile speaks so that even the stubborn hear him."
We are only a few steps from the churchyard when a boy comes running up the path, breathless and flushed, hair sticking to his forehead.
"Popa!" he calls out, skidding to a stop in front of us.
The murmur dies instantly. Popa Vasile turns, his expression tightening as it always does when someone speaks out of order.
"What is it, child?"
"There—there are people," the boy pants, words tumbling over one another. "By the road. They’re asking for shelter."
A ripple moves through the crowd.
Popa Vasile steps closer, looming slightly. "Where do they come from?"
"They wouldn’t say."
A murmur again—uneasy this time. Travellers are rare. Strangers more so.
"And where are they going?"
"They said—" the boy hesitates, brow furrowing, "they said wherever the road takes them."
A brief tightening touches the Popa’s mouth. "Do they have a priest with them?"
"No," comes the quick answer.
Then, as if unable to hold it back any longer, the boy's eyes widen. "But they have many animals. Horses. Dogs. And carts—painted carts, full of things. And the women—"
He falters, glancing around at the gathered adults.
"What about the women?" Doamn? Irina prompts, curiosity mixing with weariness.
"They wear skirts all in colours. Red and blue and yellow. And their hair—" He lifts his hands helplessly. "It’s loose. All of it. And they look straight at you."
A collective intake of breath runs through the women.
Doamn? Irina crosses herself. "Lord preserve us."
Mama stiffens beside me. Elena doesn't speak, but her fingers curl into her sleeve.
Around us, voices begin to whisper.
"Gypsies," someone mutters. "Or worse."
"They bring trouble," another adds in confirmation.
I listen, silent.
Horses. Dogs. Painted carts. Women who look where they please.
Something stirs in my chest as I imagine colour moving through our gray paths, sound where there is usually only restraint. The thought feels dangerous.
The murmurs grow louder, folding in on themselves, until all eyes turn to Popa Vasile. He stands a little apart from the rest of us, hands folded before him, gaze lowered in thought. For a moment, he remains silent. Then he lifts his head at last.
"We must be careful," he begins, voice carrying easily across the gathering. "Hospitality is a virtue, yes. But it is not the same as foolishness."
A few heads nod in agreement.
"Not all who wander do so in God’s name," he continues. "Some people do not live as we do. They do not settle. They do not place themselves under God’s order. Their ways are… wandering."
The word lingers, uneasy.
A man near the back snorts. "We should not welcome them at all. People like that bring sickness. Trouble."
A ripple of assent passes through the crowd.
"And yet," Popa Vasile interjects, gently now, "we are believers. We are called to keep our hearts open. Kind. Christ Himself did not turn away those who came before Him."
Doamn? Irina exhales through her nose, unconvinced, but her lips remain sealed.
"We will not decide from a child’s words alone," the priest goes on. "We will see them for ourselves. We will listen. And if they are as you say—" his gaze flicks briefly to the boy, still standing wide-eyed among us "—then the Lord will make the right course clear to us."
There is a subtle shift in the air, something tightening beneath the calm of his words.
While the crowd shifts into uneasy acceptance, the matter seems settled, for now, and we move as one body toward the outskirts.
Boots scuff the dirt. Shawls are pulled tighter.
Voices rise and fall in low, guarded whispers that brush against my ears without ever quite forming sense.
I keep close to Mama, but my gaze drifts ahead, pulled forward by something I feel before I understand it: a quickening, light and dangerous as breath held too long.
Curiosity. Excitement. I try to press it down, to make myself solemn like the others, but it slips through me all the same.
Radu walks a few steps ahead, his father besides him. His eyes catch mine for the briefest moment before he looks away again, expression is unreadable.
As we move, a shadow passes over the ground, then another, making me glance up.
Ravens, more than I have ever seen at once—black shapes against the pale sky, wings tucked, heads tilted, watching us. Some lift into the air and follow overhead, others hopping from branch to branch, croaking as if speaking among themselves.
I glance upward, unease prickling my skin. Is this a sign? A warning? Or only birds drawn to noise and movement? God sends signs, Popa Vasile says, yet He does not always explain them. Around me, no one else seems to notice, all gazes fixed ahead.
As we near the road and the track widens, the land opening into a rough clearing trampled by hooves, the murmurs grow louder. I hear them drift past me like smoke: danger, unclean, Godless. Someone laughs nervously; someone else spits into the dirt as if to ward something off.
At the farthest reach of the village, where the fields give way to dust and the path stretches like an unanswered question, they wait.
My breath catches. The carts are the first thing I see—painted in colours so bright they seem almost unreal against the muted earth.
Reds and blues and golds, patterns curling along the wood like living things.
Cloth hangs from their sides, moving gently in the breeze, catching light.
Horses stand calmly between them, tack worn but well cared for, while dogs lie sprawled in the shade, lifting their heads lazily as we approach, eyes following us without hostility.
And the people—
They are nothing like us.
The women wear flowing skirts the colour of flame and earth, the layered fabric swaying freely around their legs.
Their hair falls loose or loosely braided, threads of ribbon catching here and there, glinting as they turn.
Sunlight lives in their skin—deep, warm, shaped by long days beneath the open sky—and they hold themselves upright, chins lifted, gazes steady and unflinching.
The men laugh easily among themselves, dark vests embroidered with thread that glints, belts heavy with metal, posture relaxed yet alert, as if they belong wherever they choose to stand. Children dart barefoot between carts, their voices ringing clear against the tension pressing in from our side.
Awe blooms in my chest before I can stop it.
My gaze lifts without warning and meets that of a young man standing near the nearest cart. He does not look away, does not pretend not to see me. His attention holds mine, a faint smile pulling at his mouth as though it comes easily.
Heat rises at once. I drop my eyes instantly, mortified by the boldness of it, by the way he doesn't flinch. The ground becomes my refuge as I grow suddenly aware of the braid at my back, of my hands held too neatly before me, of the stillness I keep around myself.
Above us, the ravens cry again. I do not look up this time.