Chapter Five #2
Elena stares straight ahead, past the cluster of women moving about the room, past the covered mirrors, past the basin of water set near the hearth.
"I heard nothing," she says again.
Her voice sounds flat, as though it belongs to someone else. "Nothing at all. She never goes out at night. You know she doesn’t."
I nod.
"She must have heard something," Elena continues, her gaze fixed on the far wall. "Perhaps the sheep, or a noise by the shed." Her throat tightens, but no tears fall. "She would not have opened the door for anyone. She would not just leave."
I swallow, the image of the bundle flashing before me—pale cloth bound tight, red thread biting into it.
The smell of burning hair. The crack of bone in flame.
My mind drifts without my permission to damp earth beneath bare feet, to the edge of the woods, to a voice that did not sound like any man’s.
Witch. Enchantress.
My eyes lift and scan the room. Women move quietly, preparing cloth, whispering prayers. No one stands near enough to hear.
Still, my voice drops until it is barely more than breath. "Elena."
She does not move.
"What if—"
The word sticks in my throat. I squeeze her hand.
"What if it has something to do with… with the thing at the door? What if—"
Her head snaps toward me. Her eyes are wide now. Alive in a way they were not a moment ago.
She pulls her hand halfway from mine, then grips tighter instead.
"Do not," she says.
Her voice is low and urgent.
She crosses herself quickly, fingers trembling.
"Do not speak of that."
Her gaze flicks toward the others in the room, then back to me.
"Not here. Not ever."
The words land harder than a shout, her fingers tightening painfully around mine.
"It was nothing," she says. "Some foolishness. We burned it." Her jaw tightens. "My mother did not die because of that."
The last word is almost spat out, as though naming it once is already too much.
Silence stretches between us, my mouth closing instantly.
She is mourning. It is natural she does not want to speak of curses. Meaning does not belong in something so brutal.
I nod slowly. "Yes. You are right."
Across the room, someone begins to sob again. My eyes look down at our joined hands, when the curtain shifts. Mama stands behind it, her face drawn tight beneath her kerchief.
"It is time," she says.
Elena’s fingers loosen around mine, though she does not let go. She nods once, rising together with me.
In the main room, candles crowd every surface. Their flames bend and tremble in the draft from the open windows. The shutters are thrown wide despite the cold. A sheet has been drawn over the polished copper basin near the hearth. Even the dull metal ladle is turned face down against the wall.
Doamn? Irina lies on the dinner table.
The bowls are gone. The bread is gone. In their place, her body stretches from the icon corner toward the door, feet nearly touching the threshold, head turned toward the small painted Christ fixed high on the wall.
Someone has drawn a sheet covers her from collarbone to ankles, and her hands rest over her stomach under it, though the fingers will not lie flat.
Women stand around the table in a half-circle, skirts brushing the packed earth.
Their shawls are dark. Their voices move together in low murmurs, prayers slipping over one another until they form a steady hum.
One crosses herself again and again. Another presses cloth against Irina’s hands as though they might still answer.
The windows breathe cold air into the room, stirring the hanging cloths that now cover every polished bowl, every strip of metal, every surface that might catch a reflection. So she may not see herself. So she may not mistake her own face and linger.
Elena’s nails dig into my arm, her weight leaning into me as if the floor has shifted beneath her feet. Her fingers climb higher along my sleeve until she is clutching at my shoulder, her breath fanning against my neck, uneven
I look at her mother. A strand of her hair has fallen across her temple. It sticks there, stiff with dried blood. For a moment, I remember her hands smoothing fabric, her voice laughing low in the kitchen.
Mama steps forward.
"Bring water," she says.
The prayers do not stop.
They move around the table like a current, circling the body, circling the open throat, circling the windows where the air slips in and out as though the house itself is breathing her away.
A draft slips through the open window and bends the candle flames, making the room turns its head as one.
Neaga stands in the doorway. She grips the frame as if the wood holds her upright, breath dragging in and out of her chest. Her hair hangs loose, uncombed, falling over one eye, and her skin carries the gray of long illness, yet she stands upright.
Ilinca stands just behind her, fingers curled in the fold of her mother’s skirt.
The murmuring falters as they step inside.
Neaga does not cross herself, does not bow to the icon. Instead, she walks straight to Elena.
"I am sorry for your loss," she says, her voice low and worn. "Your mother was a strong woman. May her path be gentle."
The words fall plainly, without blessing. Elena swallows. Her fingers leave my arm long enough to clutch at her skirts.
"Neaga," Mama says cautiously, wiping her hands on her apron. "You should be resting."
I step forward before I can stop myself.
"You are still weak," I say. "You need—"
"I can stand," Neaga answers.
Her eyes move to the table. They do not flinch.
"I will help."
The women exchange glances. One of the older ones shifts near the wall then, her gaze fixing on Ilinca.
"Is it wise," she asks, voice tight, "for the child to see this?"
Ilinca does not lower her gaze. Her hair hangs wild around her face, eyes fixed on the body as if studying it.
Neaga’s chin lifts.
"Death walks beside us." Her voice carries farther than her breath should allow. "It does not wait for age." Her hand finds Ilinca's shoulder. "She must know its face. We all must."
Silence falls heavier than before. Someone crosses herself quickly. Another presses her lips to her closed fist and whispers a prayer under her breath.
Still, Neaga moves toward the table.
The circle opens for her, though not willingly, skirts shifting aside, shoulders turning away just enough to make space.
Mama reaches for a clean cloth and dips it into the basin. The water clouds as her fingers linger for a heartbeat before she draws the linen out, droplets falling back with soft taps. She draws the sign of the cross over herself, then lifts the linen sheet from Irina’s chest.
The fabric peels away from the skin with a faint sound, tacky where it has dried, as more of the wound comes into view.
The wound yawns wider than before, dark and swollen at the borders.
Blood has dried in thick seams along her neck and pooled beneath her ear before turning brown where the wood has swallowed it.
One candle flame catches in the wet shine and makes it glisten, her skin drained to the colour of tallow.
The room shudders. Mama leans forward. Her hands shake as she presses the damp cloth against Irina’s throat, the linen darkening instantly. She dabs, then presses harder, as if force might restore order to what lies before her.
The head shifts—almost imperceptibly—a loosened tilt.
Then it slips further, rolling sideways in her grip.
The neck gives with a slow, yielding slackness, and the wound parts under its own weight.
A thick, dark seep slips from within and runs toward the edge of the table.
A low sound escapes—not from the lips, but from deeper in the torn throat, a guttural shift as something settles where it no longer belongs.
One eye slips half open, the pupil rolling dull and unfocused toward the ceiling.
A woman near the wall gasps in horror.
Mama freezes.
Irina’s head hangs at an angle that strips her of all dignity, chin drawn toward shoulder, as if she has tried to listen too closely to something beneath her.
The cloth slips from Mama’s fingers and falls into the basin as Elena lets out a thin sound. Her grip on my arm tightens painfully, her weight shifting dangerously. I pull her down to the bench beside the wall before her knees give way completely.
Around us, shawls are drawn tighter across chests. One woman presses her fingers to her lips, stifling a cry. Another turns her face toward the icon and begins to whisper louder.
For a moment, no one moves. Then, Neaga steps forward. She reaches for the cloth, her fingers closing over it gently.
"Let me," she murmurs.
Mama does not release it right away. Her gaze remains fixed on the wound, on the tilt of Irina’s head. The room hums with breath and prayer. Finally, her grip loosens, and the linen passes from one hand to the other, the floor shifting beneath Mama's heels as she retreats.
Neaga slides one hand beneath Irina’s skull.
Her palm cups the base of it, steady and firm.
With the other, she supports the shoulder.
The head rises carefully this time as she guides it back to the centre, easing it into place as though settling a sleeping child.
Her thumb presses gently over each eyelid.
The lashes brush skin. The face regains a semblance of stillness.
Water drips from the cloth in thin lines.
It runs across the torn flesh and down into the linen below.
Neaga wipes in long, steady strokes, clearing the dried blood from collarbone to shoulder, from shoulder to sternum.
The wound gapes under her hand, but she does not recoil. She cleans around it, never inside.
The women do not speak. They stand in a loose ring, skirts brushing the table’s edge, hands clasped at their waists. The candles lean in the draft from the windows, their flames restless, but Neaga’s movements remain even.
"We will need more cloth," she says quietly.