Chapter Ten
We kneel until my knees no longer feel like part of me.
The cold floor has long since stolen their warmth. At first it bit through wool and skin, hard enough to keep me alert. Now it is only a dull presence, a steady pressure that spreads upward into my thighs, into my spine. My head feels light, hollowed out by repetition.
The words rise and fall in waves, mechanical and endless.
I try to keep pace, but my throat burns.
It is faint now, but I feel it still. A pulse beneath the skin.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and keep my hands folded in my lap.
I will not touch it here. Not beneath the painted eyes of saints and martyrs. Not where every movement is noticed.
The heavy doors at the back of the church creak open. Every head lifts, like birds startled from a field. The prayer falters mid-word, hope flashing across tired faces before it fades instantly.
Another man returning empty-handed. Another shake of the head. Another murmur spreading through the crowd like wind disturbing tall grass.
"They saw tracks near the eastern ridge."
"Too large for a wolf."
"It is no animal."
The word moves quickly, slipping beneath Popa Vasile’s voice as he calls us back to prayer.
"Faith," he insists, his tone firm but strained. "Faith will fortify this village. Fear is the devil’s doorway."
We bow our heads again.
But the words have changed now. They slip between the prayers like thorns.
"Strigoi," someone whispers behind me.
"Curse," another breath answers.
"Punishment."
Mama’s fingers are locked so tightly together that the colour has drained from her hand. Her lips move constantly. She does not pause between prayers anymore; she folds one into the next, as though silence itself might invite something inside.
Elena kneels on my other side, spine straight despite the hours. She looks almost luminous in the candlelight, her eyes fixed forward, unwavering. When the doors open again, she glances up with the rest of us, hope flaring and dying in the same breath as the doors close once more.
No wolf.
Children begin to fidget. A baby starts to cry and is quickly hushed, pressed tight against its mother’s chest as though even the sound of it might draw something nearer.
Popa Vasile steps forward from the altar. His robes brush the floor with a soft hiss.
"We must not scatter like frightened sheep," he says, raising his hands. "This trial has come so that we may prove ourselves worthy."
Trial. The word hangs in the air.
Doamn? Marica’s voice rises from the back, trembling at first, then gaining strength.
"Perhaps this is God’s mercy," she says. "Perhaps He has shown us what happens when we grow complacent. We have grown too comfortable. Too distracted. This has brought us together again."
A few heads turn toward her.
She continues, emboldened.
"Look at us. All here. All praying as one. When was the last time the church was this full outside of feast days? Perhaps the Lord is reminding us to stand united in faith."
A murmur of agreement ripples outward.
"Maybe He shakes us awake," she continues. "Maybe He removes what distracts us so we may cling only to Him. Even suffering can be a blessing, if it draws us closer."
Silence follows.
Then someone nods.
"Yes," a man says hoarsely. "Yes. That must be it."
"God would not abandon us," another adds quickly.
"He corrects those He loves."
The words catch, spread, settle.
A blessing.
Mama nods beside me, relief softening her face as though a knot has loosened in her chest.
"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, of course."
Elena nods too. I see it from the corner of my eye—the solemn dip of her head, the acceptance in her posture. Her hand finds mine and squeezes gently, as if to reassure me.
I stare ahead at the wooden cross above the altar.
A blessing.
The sheep lying open in the grass.
Doamn? Irina’s mouth filled with earth.
My stomach tightens so violently I have to swallow to keep from speaking.
How can blood be mercy?
How can torn throats be love?
I lift my eyes, searching faces around me. They glow in reverence and exhaustion. Hands clasp tighter. Backs straighten with renewed purpose. Fear reshapes itself into righteousness, as if the horror has given them purpose.
"Not everyone is here."
The voice cuts through the noise before I can untangle the knot forming in my chest. Petru the shepherd stands near the doors, hat crushed between his hands.
His boots leave faint smears of pasture mud on the stone.
Every eye fixes on him. For a moment no one speaks, as if the question itself has weight.
"Not everyone?" Doamn? Marica repeats faintly.
Petru's gaze shifts across the rows of kneeling bodies, counting.
"Neaga."
The name lands heavily.
"And the girl."
A small stir moves through the church. I feel it before I hear it—the slight change in breath, in posture. Bodies angling. Eyes narrowing.
"Neaga?" Doamn? Anica repeats, uncertain. "She is ill."
Petru shakes his head. "Ill or not, she is not here. Not today. Not yesterday."
A murmur rises immediately.
"That is true," someone whispers behind me.
"She never comes," another voice adds, louder now.
I frown. Neaga struggles to leave her bed some mornings. Everyone knows that. They have seen her cough until she folds in half. They have seen her limp to the well with her back bent like an old woman’s.
"She cannot—" I begin.
Mama’s hand snaps against my wrist, so hard the sting shocks me into silence. She does not look at me. Her fingers remain wrapped around my arm, warning, and it's already too late.
"She stays in that hut of hers," a man hisses. "Always apart."
Petru nods once, as if something has just aligned. "I passed her place at dawn," he says. "The sheep—" His voice catches, but he pushes through it. "They were not far. Closer to her field than to mine."
"That means nothing," someone protests weakly.
"It means something," Petru insists, emboldened now that he is not alone. "I saw it with my own eyes. The blood trail ran toward that side of the field."
"Blood runs downhill," another man mutters, but he does not sound convinced.
"And the smoke," Doamn? Marica says, voice breaking through. "I have seen smoke from her chimney long after midnight. More than once."
"At odd hours," someone echoes.
"What does she burn at night?"
The word strigoi slides through the crowd again, softer this time, but steadier.
"My daughter says the girl is not baptized," a thin voice pipes up from near the altar. "Is that true?"
A silence, held taught.
"The child cannot hear the Word," someone else says quickly. "How can she receive it?"
"Maybe that is why she cannot hear," another answers. "Because she was never given to God."
A few people cross themselves hurriedly.
My stomach drops.
"No," I say, before I can stop myself. "That is not—"
Mama’s grip tightens, nails digging into my skin.
"Enough," she breathes near my ear.
"And at Irina’s house," another woman breaks in, voice rising, "she did not cross herself."
Silence falls for half a breath.
"She went straight to the body," the woman continues, encouraged now by the stillness. "Did not bow. Did not bless herself."
"And she put coins on Irina’s eyes," another says, louder. "Like in the old days."
"That is not the Church way," someone agrees without hesitation.
"Is that true, Alina? You were there."
All eyes shift toward my mother. She hesitates only a second.
"It is true," she relents slowly. "She did. I told her it was not the church way." Her lips press thin. "She insisted."
"And she did not listen," Doamn? Anica presses.
Mama shakes her head once. "No."
A low hum begins. It builds quickly, layered voices overlapping.
"She knows too much of old things," Petru says darkly. "Her husband was a C?lu?ar."
"Old ways," a man spits. "Pagan nonsense."
I stiffen. C?lu?ar[25]. So was my father.
The noise swells, voices overlapping.
"She lets the child run wild."
"She handled the corpse herself."
"She knew how to touch it."
"She wasn’t afraid."
"Because she knew."
Each sentence stacks upon the next, thin and brittle and cutting. A moment ago we were united in prayer, heads bowed together. Now we are turning, piece by piece, carving a shape from absence.
I look around at the faces I have known all my life. They are flushed now. Bright-eyed. Almost relieved.
Fear has found somewhere to rest.
Petru lifts his voice above the others.
"We must be careful," he says, though his tone carries no caution at all. "If something has been called into this village—if something walks among us—"
He does not finish.
He does not need to.
"Enough."
Popa Vasile’s staff strikes the stone.
The room stills almost instantly.
He steps forward from the altar, hands raised, gaze stern but composed.
"We will not condemn a soul without cause," he says. "We are Christians. We do not devour our own out of fear."
A flicker of relief rushes through me so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
He sees it. He will stop this.
"But we must not be na?ve."
His gaze sweeps over us, deliberate, assessing.
"These are uncertain times," he says. "When evil lingers, it does not strike at random. It attaches itself to weakness. To isolation. To those who remove themselves from prayer."
The relief drains from my chest.
"Those who do not join in the light," he adds, "risk being visited by shadows."
My throat tightens.
Popa Vasile folds his hands before him.
"We do not accuse," he says carefully. "We seek clarity."
His eyes settle somewhere above our heads, righteous and grave.
"If Neaga has withdrawn from us in pride or fear, then we must bring her back."
A man near the doors nods eagerly. "Yes."
"If she is innocent," the priest continues, "she will welcome our presence."
"And if she is not?" someone asks.
Popa Vasile does not answer that directly.
"In times like these," he says instead, "darkness recoils from light."
The murmur surges again, stronger now.