Chapter Four #2
My gaze finds it without meaning to—the painted icon above the altar, elongated eyes, solemn mouth. I press that image forward in my mind, trying to blot out what came before.
"Replace the image. Where heat rises, call upon holiness. Where the flesh stirs, summon the Cross. You call His name until the other fades."
His eyes hold mine again.
"Do you understand, child?"
I nod quickly.
"Yes, P?rinte."
My voice is steadier now. The panic that brought me here has softened into something ordered, something contained. He studies me a moment longer, as if weighing something unseen.
"You are young," he says. "The body wakes before the soul is ready. That is why obedience is protection."
My throat tightens as I nod again. There are words for what I felt. There is a path to keep myself unspoiled.
"You did well to come," he praises. "You must not keep such disturbances hidden. When the mind is troubled, you must always come. Do not wrestle such things alone."
"I won't, P?rinte."
His hands fold behind his back as he begins to pace slowly within the narrow space, the hem of his robe whispering against wood.
"These are troubled days. Fear moves easily through a village when blood has been spilled." His gaze hardens faintly. "The Lord requires steadfast hearts, pure souls who do not bend when darkness presses close."
Pure.
"You are called to be one of those."
The flush returns, altered now, carrying relief instead of shame. A quiet smile forms, humbled and grateful.
"I will try," I murmur.
"You will do more than try."
The pacing stops.
"Forty prostrations. Morning and night."
My breath catches faintly at the number, but I nod without question.
"You will bow until your body remembers its place. Until the flesh yields to obedience."
The floor beneath my feet feels colder now.
"You will not seek solitude," he advises. "Do not wander alone. Keep to your mother, to the women. Idleness invites wandering thoughts."
A flicker moves through me at that; I press it down.
"I understand."
He steps slightly aside, as though granting me room to breathe.
"When the vision returns, you take your prayer rope. You repeat: ‘Doamne Iisuse Hristoase, Fiul lui Dumnezeu, miluie?te-m? pe mine, p?c?toasa.’"[23]
He speaks the words slowly. I follow them with my lips, shaping them in silence.
"Do not leave until you have said it," he adds. "Not once. Not ten times. Until the thought loosens its grip."
I nod again. The dream feels smaller now, contained. Named as trial rather than madness.
I can kneel. I can fast. I can pray.
Popa Vasile's hand raises once more in blessing.
"Now," he breathes, voice lowering again, "show me."
***
The doors open and the air spills in.
We step out in a slow tide of bodies, skirts brushing stone, boots scraping dust from the threshold. The bell rope still sways above us, its last note thinning into the sky. Light catches the smoke from the censers and carries it upward.
The square is fuller than I have seen it in days.
Men speak louder than they did yesterday, hands moving wide as they recount the night.
A few have brought their sheep close to the steps, the animals blinking in the brightness while Popa Vasile moves among them, lifting his hand, murmuring blessings.
One lamb jerks at the sprinkle of water and a boy laughs at it, unguarded.
Another bleats, restless, tugging against its rope.
I step aside to let an elder pass. She presses two fingers to her lips, then to the icon painted above the doorway, before crossing herself again.
Mama joins the women near the well. I stand close enough to hear, though they do not look at me as they speak.
"No blood this morning," Doamn? Marica says, almost proud. "My Ion checked at dawn. All the sheep accounted for."
"I cannot believe they found nothing yesterday," another woman murmurs, lowering her voice, though there is no need. "Not a trace of them. It is as if they vanished."
"They fled," Mama replies. "God does not favor those who stir unrest."
Her voice holds steady now, as if the assumption itself keeps fear from returning.
The sheep shift again. One of the men runs a hand down their back, murmuring something soft and satisfied.
"Those savages are long gone," someone says behind us. "Better so."
A murmur of agreement follows. Heads nod as children dart between skirts. A woman chuckles, the sound almost shy, as though laughter itself must be reintroduced.
One of the younger lambs strains toward the priest, who stands on the steps with a small brass vessel, flicking droplets over wool and bowed heads alike.
"See?" Doamn? Ileana says. "Peace comes when things are set in order."
Mama exhales slowly. "It was a trial. The Lord tests, and we endure," she says. She turns to me at last. "You go ahead," she says, brushing flour from her palm onto her apron. "Tend the fire. Start the supper before the light fades. I will stay a little longer."
"Yes, Mama."
She squeezes my arm once and turns back to the circle of women already drawing closer together, heads inclined in conversation.
I step away from the square, the murmur of voices fading behind me.
Someone begins speaking of harvest again, of grain that must be turned before dusk.
The rhythm of life draws back into place.
I have taken only a few steps when a hand closes around my arm. I start, heart leaping, and turn—
Elena. Her smile is so wide her eyes narrow to slits under her shawl.
"You walk too fast," she says, tugging at my sleeve. "Are you trying to escape us all?"
"I have the fire to tend," I answer, though my voice comes lighter than it has in days.
"I will help."
I glance back toward the cluster of women near the church steps. "Does your mother not need you?"
Elena rolls her eyes lightly. "She is deep in counsel with Doamn? Marica and the others. They have found a bench and will not rise from it until the sun sets." She leans closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "She will not notice I’m gone."
Her arm loops through mine before I can protest, making me laugh softly, the sound surprising me.
We walk together down the path, skirts brushing, our steps falling into the old rhythm we have known since childhood.
The sun has risen higher now, warming the packed earth beneath our feet.
A boy runs past us with a stick, chasing a chicken that squawks indignantly.
Somewhere, a door slams shut. Somewhere else, someone sings as they shake out a rug.
"It feels foolish now," Elena says, lowering her voice. "All that fear."
"Perhaps," I answer.
"The men came back without so much as a scratch," she continues. "Radu says they rode as far as the stream and back. Not even a broken branch."
"And no blood this morning," I nod.
"The travellers are long gone." Her head tilts, eyes bright. "Maybe they took their shadows with them."
I smile despite myself.
Maybe they did.
The words echo gently inside me.
Popa Vasile’s voice still lingers in my thoughts, calm and steady. A test. Nothing more. I press my lips together and breathe in the warm air. It does not taste of smoke or blood.
We pass the cluster of children near the well. They chase one another in loose circles, shrieking in bursts of laughter that rise and fall like startled birds. Dust rises around their ankles.
Near the edge of the group stands Neaga’s little girl. She is watching more than running, her hair loose about her shoulders. One of the boys tosses a small stone at her feet, teasing. She bends, picks it up, and throws it back with surprising aim. The boy yelps as laughter erupts.
A small smile touches my mouth, her dark eyes meeting mine for a heartbeat. For a moment her face stills. Then she lifts her hand in a small, almost secret wave.
Elena glances at me. "She grows bolder," she says, not unkindly.
"Good," I answer.
The sun warms the back of my neck. A breeze moves through the thatch roofs, carrying the scent of grass and distant smoke, and for a brief stretch of path, nothing presses.
No whispers cling. No eyes measure. Only the sound of children, the soft murmur of women, and the steady beat of our feet against the earth as though the village has remembered how to breathe.
Elena says something about the old women arguing over whose hen lays best, and I shove her lightly with my shoulder.
She stumbles against me, breathless, and for a moment we are girls again.
I cover my mouth to quiet myself, glancing once toward the square as if someone might hear us and scold.
We are still laughing when I push the door open.
Something drops. A dull, wet thud against the wood. Then another softer sound as it strikes the ground at my feet.
We both stop, the laughter dying in our throat. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
A pale bundle lies at my feet.
It is the colour of flesh left too long in water, its surface slick in places, darkened where something has soaked through. Red thread winds around it in tight knots, crossing over itself like veins pressed close beneath thin skin. It looks flayed.
For a sickening moment, I think it is. My stomach tightens.
A scrap of something clings to one edge—a feather, matted and stiff. The cloth beneath it is dark, crusted. Small flies lift in a black fluttering scatter and settle again.
The smell reaches me then. Metallic. Sour. Old blood.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I crouch before I know I am moving, brows drawn tight, breath shallow.
The red thread is knotted in tight loops, seven or eight turns around the bundle, cinched so hard the cloth beneath bulges at the seams. A thorn pierces through the centre, driven deep, its tip emerging on the other side slick and rusted with dried brown.
My fingers tremble, hovering inches above as I reach toward it.
"Don’t."
Elena’s grip slams down on my wrist. Hard. I turn to her.