Chapter Two
The light beyond the doorway has begun to soften when Mama sends me out, the sky bruising into purple and orange. Shadows lengthen, the evening settling its weight. I walk quickly, skirts gathered, mindful of the way the obscurity is already claiming the outlines of things.
The well comes into view after a moment, standing open at the edge of the square.
Radu is leaning against the stone rim, one arm resting easy at his side. His mother stands beside him, her shawl drawn neatly around her shoulders, her gaze drifting across the square as if measuring what remains of the day. They turn when they hear me approach.
"Bun? seara, Raveena," Doamn? Rodica replies with a pleasant smile. "Out so late?"
"Only for water. Mama asked."
Radu’s eyes lingers as I step past them, a curve settling on his mouth. It is an easy thing, that smile—it lights something in me before I have time to stop it, my face warming instantly. My eyes remain lowered, my grip adjusting on the bucket.
I set it down and unwind the rope from its peg, the fibres rasping against my skin as they slide through my hands. My hands test the knot, tighten it, then guide the bucket over the rim. It tips and drops, cord slipping fast, the hollow sound of water rising to meet it.
"How is your mother?" Doamn? Rodica asks. "She looked tired yesterday."
"She has been coughing," I say, keeping my voice even. "But she says she feels stronger."
"That is good," she nods. "This damp does no one favors."
The rope stills, then loosens. It bites into my palms, rough against tender skin as I tighten my grip and lean back slightly, setting my feet. Inch by inch, the bucket rises, water sloshing faintly below. My arms tense. My shoulders follow.
All the while, the voice of Radu's mother never stops, droning on about the weather, the harvest, how quickly the days shorten now.
Her words pass over me, my focus narrowing to the pull and release, pull and release.
At some point, the cord slides, then catches.
I adjust, my breath shortening, the strain gathering along my forearms as the bucket nears the stone rim, heavier as it comes.
Doamn? Rodica tilts her head, her tone unchanged.
"Radu," she prompts mildly, "don’t just stand there. Help her."
He moves before I can speak. His hand closes around the rope above mine, firm and certain, already taking the weight.
"It’s all right," I try in vain, my voice small against the scrape of fibres.
He doesn’t stop, pulling the line from my palms, his fingers brush the back of my hand as he does it, a brief touch that makes my pulse stumble. I finally relent and step back, giving him space as he lifts the rest with ease, the bucket clearing the rim and swinging free with a slosh of water.
He sets it down with a small, satisfied motion, while I stand there, rubbing my palms to dull the ache.
My heart is still racing when the sound comes.
A tearing, unshaped cry ripping the evening open, lifting the hair along my arms. Another shout follows, then another—voices converging, feet pounding.
Radu is already moving, his mother following his steps, skirts gathered.
I hurry after them, the well forgotten, the sky dimming fast as people spill from doorways and corners, drawn by the sound.
It comes from the barns.
A woman stumbles into view, hair loose, apron twisted in her fists. "They killed them," she cries. "They killed them all."
The air tightens as I slip between shoulders and elbows, drawn forward without knowing how my feet carry me.
The barn doors gape open. Inside, three sheep lie sprawled on the packed earth. Beneath them, the straw lies pale, untouched save for the faint pool of blood that doesn't spread far enough.
Their bellies are whole, their flanks unmarked, but their throats—they gape. Flies already gather, drawn by the metallic stench that fills the barn and presses against the back of our tongues.
There is no sign of struggle. No churned earth. No broken gate.
My vision swims, the sheep’s eyes staring wide and glassy, mouths slack, pink tongues visible between their teeth. The barn walls seem too close, the shadows too deep for the light that still lingers outside.
The woman’s cries break again, echoing off the beams. Someone swears. Hands cross themselves. A child retches and is dragged away.
I stand where I am, unable to look anywhere else.
The shapes blur, resolve, blur again—the torn wool, the dark mouths of the wounds, the blood seeping like ink beneath them—
A loud croak splits the air above us, close enough to make me duck. Wings beat hard. Shadows rake the barn wall.
Ravens.
They crowd the roofline, wings snapping open and shut against the thinning light. Some hop closer, heads tilting. Others lift and land again, restless, pacing the air while the unsettling calls scrape at the evening.
A ripple runs through the crowd.
"This is their doing," Petru shouts. He pushes forward, pointing past the barn, toward the road. "The savages. I told you. Devil’s work."
Murmurs snap into words.
"Dracilor," someone spits.
"Vr?jitori."
"Satani?ti."[18]
The sounds pile up, igniting fast. Faces harden. Hands clench. Fear shifts into something eager.
"They’re playing tricks," the shepherd goes on. "Scaring us so they can steal."
A man near the well shouts back, "We should have driven them out sooner."
Another answers, louder. "We’ll finish it now. We’ll guard our own."
The words catch and spread as boots move and bodies turn. Torches flare to life one after another, fire blooming in the dusk. A spear is lifted. An axe is hefted, its blade catching the light. A knife flashed, then hidden again.
"To the road," a voice barks.
"Find them. Before they come back."
I watch it happen before me.
The square fills with motion, with firelight and raised voices, as the ravens cry again, closer now. Orders are shouted. Doors are barred. Paths are named. Men surge past me, torches bobbing, voices rising, the road calling them forward while, where I stand, the barn seems to tilt.
The dead sheep linger at the edge of my sight, their wounds drinking the light. Everything happens too fast. The torches are already heading away, fire bobbing toward the road. A string of insults follows them, hurled after shadows that are no longer there.
They’re mistaken.
It pulls in my chest, chilling in its certainty.
Radu is already stepping away, a torch thrust into his hand, the flame guttering as he turns. I push forward, heart hammering, skirts catching at my knees. My fingers close around his arm when I reach him.
"Radu—"
He looks down at me, startled. Smoke curls between us, but it doesn't dull the flush in his face, bright with purpose.
"Please don't go," I breathe. "I don’t think it was them. I think it’s—"
The forest presses into my mind. Wet leaves. Dark water. That breath at my ear.
"—something else," I manage. "Something in the woo—"
A small laugh cuts me off.
"Raveena," his free hand closes over mine. "You’re frightened. Anyone would be."
"I’m not." The words come out thin.
His grip firms, final. "Go home. Lock the door. Stay with your mama."
The torchlight jumps between us, carving his face in hard planes. He looks past me, toward the others, toward the road.
"The men will handle this. That’s what we’re here for."
My mouth opens again, but nothing comes. He is already turning away regardless.
His flame lifts as he blends into the movement, into the press of bodies and weapons and shouted names, until firelight swallows him whole.
I stand there, my hand still raised, fingers empty.
Around me, women gather the children, ushering them toward doors. Bars slide into place, curtains are drawn. Someone grips my elbow and steers me back, toward the houses, toward safety.
Torches bob and vanish into the dark. The ravens wheel overhead, their cries threading through the smoke. I want to run after them. I want to shout until my throat splits. Instead, I am carried with the others, swept backward, the village folding in on itself.
My head turns all the same, drawn to the barn.
Some birds have already descended. They crowd the slack bodies, charred wings folding and unfolding, beaks tearing at wool and flesh. One hops onto a sheep’s chest, its head jerking as it pulls. Another lifts with a wet scrap and settles again. Their eyes shine, their cries satisfied.
And while the night closes around the roaring men and their fire, the feeling in my chest does not ease.
Something else is out there, and they are not looking for it.