Chapter Ten #4
The motion is more measured than graceful, as if she must consider each inch before surrendering it. Her knees do not fold easily. I see the brief tightening of her jaw, the flicker of pain she tries to swallow before it reaches her face.
She lowers herself further, the dirt waiting beneath her.
One knee touches first. She falters there—just for a heartbeat—her body wavering as though unsure whether it can bear the descent.
Ilinca reaches forward instinctively, small fingers clutching at her sleeve, but Neaga steadies herself before the child can do more than brush the fabric.
Then the second knee sinks into the earth.
A faint, strained exhale escapes her. It might be mistaken for breath, or prayer.
But I see the way her hands tremble as they settle on her thighs. I know how much her body aches on good days. I have seen her struggle simply to rise from her bed, her fingers whitening around the edge of the table for support. I have seen the tremor in her legs when she stands too long.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, almost reverent.
"See," someone whispers. "She submits."
"She returns."
Something twists inside me.
When Mama brought me to be baptized, after Tata died and fear pressed against the walls of our house, it had been done quickly.
I remember the smell of wax and damp stone, the way her fingers gripped my shoulders to keep me still while water touched my hair.
I had been small. Confused. Held upright.
I had not knelt. Not like this. I have never seen anyone kneel like this to be baptized.
The sight unsettles me. The angle of her bowed head, the dirt staining the hem of her dress, the way she appears smaller now beneath him—it feels heavier than I expect. As though something is being pressed down, not lifted up.
The priest towers above her, the basin steady in his hands, and the yard watches as if witnessing something solemn and ancient. Heat flares in my chest.
Perhaps I misremember. Perhaps it is different when one returns as an adult. Perhaps I simply do not understand the proper order of things. I press my palms together, willing my thoughts into stillness.
This is holy, I tell myself. It must be.
Ilinca stands just behind her mother, small fingers knotted into the fabric at Neaga’s back. Her eyes move from the basin to the priest to the crowd, wide and uncomprehending. She cannot hear the murmurs, but she feels the stillness, the way every body leans inward.
Popa Vasile raises his voice, and the words of the sacrament unfurl over the yard, measured and sonorous.
He speaks of sin and cleansing, of death and rebirth, of the old self laid down and the new raised up in Christ. The cadence is steady, practiced, filling the spaces between breath and heartbeat until the yard itself seems to pulse with it.
"The servant of God," he says, naming Neaga in full, the syllables ringing clear in the cooling air.
"Comes to be washed of sin and reborn in Christ."
Neaga does not move. Her head remains bowed. A strand of hair slips loose and clings to her cheek.
"Do you renounce the Adversary," he asks, "and all his works?"
Neaga’s voice is steady. "I renounce him."
"Do you unite yourself to Christ?"
"I unite myself."
When the final invocation settles, the priest lifts the basin slightly. The assistant steadies it from beneath. For a moment, the surface of the water is still, holding the sky in its shallow mirror.
Then Popa Vasile cups his hand and pours.
The first spill of water catches the last light of the sun. It arcs briefly, luminous, before striking the crown of Neaga’s head. The droplets scatter and cling to her hair, sliding down in thin rivulets that trace the curve of her skull and disappear at the nape of her neck.
"In the name of the Father."
The water darkens the wood of the basin where it sloshes against the rim. A thin stream runs over the edge and drips onto the ground. Neaga draws in a tight breath, but does not lift her head.
He pours again.
"And of the Son."
This time the water falls heavier. It spills across her brow and lashes, forcing her eyes closed.
It runs along her temples, down the hollow of her throat, slipping beneath the collar of her dress.
The fabric darkens, clinging to her skin.
A small line of mud forms at her knees where the drops strike the dust and soften it.
The crowd watches in reverent silence.
The third time, he lifts more water in his palm.
"And of the Holy Spirit."
The sunset light catches it again, turning each falling thread briefly gold.
It breaks against her hair and flows downward, soaking her completely now.
Her dress grows heavy at the shoulders. Water traces the line of her spine beneath the cloth.
The earth drinks what escapes her hem, swallowing it without protest.
I feel the coolness of it as if it were touching my own skin. The smell of wet fabric rises faintly, mingling with ash and crushed herbs.
Neaga remains kneeling.
The mud thickens beneath her. Her hands, still resting on her thighs, are damp where water has run along her wrists. Ilinca stares, eyes moving from her mother’s bowed head to the priest’s face and back again.
The last drops fall from Neaga’s chin and darken the earth at her knees. For a breath, no one moves. The light fades another shade darker. The earth drinks.
Then the yard exhales as one body. It is almost audible—the collective release of breath held too long. Hands rise to foreheads and chests. Crosses are traced hurriedly, reverently. Someone murmurs, "Praise be," and the words are taken up in low voices by others.
Neaga remains kneeling a moment longer, water clinging to her hair, her dress heavy and soaked. At last, Popa Vasile steps back, and she sways as she rises. Ilinca’s small hand flies to steady her.
The priest turns, his gaze lowering to the child.
"Bring her forward," he says gently.
A tightness I did not realize I carried loosens slightly when Ilinca is not made to kneel. She stands where she is, small and straight-backed, her head barely reaching the height of the basin.
Neaga guides Ilinca a single step ahead. The priest bends slightly and, with two fingers, touches the child beneath the chin, guiding her head upward. The gesture is light, but something in me recoils. A flicker beneath the ribs, a heat in the back of my throat. I do not know why.
Ilinca does not resist. She does not smile either. She only watches him, wide-eyed and silent, as he speaks the words over her.
He lifts the basin again, and the water falls in three measured pours. Droplets cling to her lashes. +
"In the name of the Father… and of the Son… and of the Holy Spirit."
Her dress darkens where the water soaks in. Mud forms faintly at her shoes. She remains still through all of it, steady in a way that feels older than she is.
When it is finished, Popa Vasile lowers the basin. A faint, satisfied smile curves his mouth before he turns to the crowd.
"They are washed," he says, his voice carrying with renewed strength. "Their sins are cleansed. They have been received back into the arms of the Lord."
More crosses. More bowed heads.
His gaze sharpens.
"Let no one speak against them again."
The words are unyielding in their firmness.
"Who speaks against those whom God has received," he continues, his tone firm now, edged with authority, "speaks against God Himself."
Heads bow. A murmur of assent rises—soft, obedient, almost eager in its relief.
"Amen."
"Amen."
I feel my breath leave me fully for the first time since we left the church. It is over. They are safe.
Around me, voices lower. Shoulders relax. People speak in softer tones now, already recounting what has been done as though it belongs safely in the past. One by one they turn back toward the village, glancing at the sky where the sun dips low and red along the horizon.
Boots scuff through the dirt. The assistant carries the basin away, the wood still darkened where water spilled. The last threads of smoke from the burned wreath have vanished.
I move forward before I can think better of it.
Neaga is still kneeling. Her dress clings heavily to her legs, the fabric dark and slick with water. Mud cakes her knees. When she shifts her weight to rise, her breath catches in her throat.
I reach her just as she falters.
"Let me," I say, keeping my voice from rising.
My hands slip beneath her elbows, her skin cold through the soaked linen. She is lighter than I expect, all bone and heat beneath damp cloth. It takes effort for her to straighten fully; I feel the tremor that runs through her as she steadies herself.
Ilinca hovers close, one small hand gripping her mother’s side.
When Neaga finally stands, she sways for the briefest moment. I tighten my hold instinctively, afraid she will collapse.
Her eyes lift to mine.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
The words are barely sound. But the look that follows holds more weight than anything spoken all evening.
My throat tightens.
"Will you be all right?" I ask quickly, glancing at her soaked dress, the water still dripping from the ends of her hair. "You’re trembling. You should not stand long. Do you need help? I can—"
Her head shakes, cutting though my words.
"Go home. You have done enough."
The words land soft but firm.
"The sun is almost set," she adds. "You should not linger."
Her hand finds Ilinca’s shoulder and draws the child closer. "I have her," she says. "She has me."
Ilinca looks up at me. Her eyes are clearer now, watchful but calm.
I hesitate. Every instinct in me resists turning away, leaving her here damp and shivering in the fading light.
But Neaga’s gaze does not waver.
"Go," she insists.
I nod at last.
My fingers close around her hand, squeezing once before I let go.