Chapter Twelve
The day unravels as though beneath water.
We gather in the barn as we were told, moving in a silence so complete it feels deliberate, as though speech itself might summon something we dare not name.
Popa Vasile's assistant has said he would ride to the diocese, that he would return with instruction by morning, that we were to pray and remain within God’s protection until then.
Radu’s father took up the charge, calling us together, ordering the barn cleared, no one left alone, no door unguarded. And so we obey.
The great doors stand open to receive us, the smell of hay and old wood thick in the air.
Men clear space where animals had been kept, dragging aside troughs, spreading straw across the packed earth so the women and children may sit.
No one laughs. No one raises their voice.
The silence is never full—it hums constantly with whispered invocations, beads sliding through restless fingers, the steady drone of Kyrie eleison breathed again and again until it loses shape and becomes only sound.
My hands fold blankets. They pass water cups. They guide an old woman to sit, performing what is required without asking counsel of my mind. I bow my head when others bow. I cross myself when they cross themselves. My body remembers its duties even as my thoughts drift somewhere just beyond reach.
The barn grows crowded quickly. Bodies press close, warmth mingling with the damp chill that seeps in through the wooden slats. Somewhere, a man recites a psalm too loudly, as if to drown out whatever might be listening outside.
Time loosens, passes without measure. The light filtering through the cracks in the walls shifts slowly from pale grey to a dimmer, heavier hue.
Faces blur. Voices blend into a single, unbroken thread of prayer that presses against my skull.
It swells and recedes but never breaks. Occasionally, a voice cracks with fatigue.
Another takes its place. The sound continues.
Neaga sits near the far wall, her back supported by stacked sacks of grain. Her dress has dried stiff where the baptismal water soaked it. The skin beneath her eyes is grey with exhaustion. Ilinca sits pressed close against her side, small hands folded tightly in her lap.
No one sits near them.
A space has formed around them, subtle but unmistakable, as though caution still lingers despite the priest’s decree. A subtle gap where others have chosen to settle elsewhere. A careful distance maintained beneath lowered eyes.
Still, they are here. They have not been turned away.
Neaga looks thinner in this light. The fever has not left her fully; I can see it in the faint sheen along her temples, in the way her breath lifts her chest unevenly. Yet when her gaze finds mine across the barn, she nods in recognition. Something shared that does not need to be named.
I watch my hands rest in my lap. They look like my hands. They tremble faintly, though I do not feel the tremor.
Every so often, someone begins to weep softly and is pressed into silence. A child whimpers and is pressed against a breast. Outside, the wind brushes the barn walls in long, low strokes, while the church stands unseen beyond the fog, its doors sealed, its altar bearing what remains.
Night comes reluctantly, as though even the sun hesitates to abandon us.
When darkness finally settles, candles are lit, small, trembling flames set in clay holders along the beams and upon overturned crates.
The shadows they cast are longer than the bodies that make them, stretching up the wooden walls like reaching hands.
Faces glow and recede, eyes hollowed by the flicker.
No one lies down. No one closes their eyes.
The prayers braid together until they become a single murmur, rising like smoke toward the rafters.
The candles flicker again, wax spilling slowly down their sides like pale tears.
Somewhere outside, the wind moves through the trees in long, sighing strokes.
The barn doors shudder faintly now and then, as if something brushes past them without stopping.
Mama’s fingers clutch her beads so tightly her fingers blanch white.
Elena’s head is bowed, lips moving in earnest repetition.
The yellow ribbon glows softly in the candlelight, an unthinking brightness against the gloom.
I kneel too. My hands fold. My back bends.
My lips move, the words distant to my own ears.
I know.
The knowledge sits inside me like a stone too heavy to lift
I see again the pasture scattered with white bodies. I see the church doors stained dark. I see Popa Vasile’s empty eyes. And beneath all of it, beneath the blood and the horror and the prayers, I see myself standing in the forest.
I lifted the blade and did not strike.
I let his hands touch me.
I opened my mouth and did not scream.
If there is rot, it began with me.
When I first slipped beyond the traps and into the trees.
When I let the forest breathe me in and did not hurry back.
When I licked honey from my thumb before it reached the men’s table, licking sugar from my fingers in secret delight.
When I climbed higher than I was told to climb and laughed at the wind instead of fearing it.
Each time I walked beyond the last house without permission, each time I pressed my palm to bark and whispered words older than the cross above our hearth.
And now the village trembles beneath candlelight, pressed together like frightened animals awaiting slaughter.
Mama whispers, "Protect us." Elena murmurs, "Deliver us from evil."
My chest tightens. Deliver us.
Perhaps that is what must be done.
I lift my gaze briefly. The barn is full of bowed heads and flickering light. Children lean against mothers. Men sit rigid, hands clasped, eyes fixed on nothing. The air smells of wax, hay, and breath gone sour with fear.
They are praying for protection. For salvation. For morning. But morning will not come gently. Not while he remains.
A stillness comes over me then. I feel no anger toward him now. Only a terrible clarity. He is what he is. A hunger wrapped in beauty. A blade sheathed in velvet. He does not pretend to be otherwise.
But I—
I stepped toward him.
If I had not, perhaps the sheep would still graze. Perhaps the church doors would stand unstained. Perhaps Mama would not tremble in candlelight, whispering prayers into a sky that feels very far away.
The wind presses harder against the barn walls. The wood groans faintly in reply.
I have bent. I have lowered my gaze. I have swallowed words before they formed. And still, something in me strains against it. The memory of moonlight on water rises in me, bright and terrible. The feeling of air against bare skin. Of being seen without shrinking. Of wanting without apology.
I press my forehead closer to the ground.
He comes because I call. He lingers because I answer. Let him take me then. Let him leave them.
I close my eyes, and his face comes to me in the dark—the precision in his hunger, the terrible tenderness of it.
If he feeds because I tempted him, then I will give him what he seeks. If he is damnation, let it be mine alone.
Mama’s shoulder brushes mine as she bows deeper in prayer. Elena’s sleeve grazes my arm. They are so close to me. So alive.
I do not weep.
I only lower my head again and let the decision root itself inside my bones.
By dawn, I will belong to the forest.
And the village will be spared.
***
The hours wear thin.
At first the prayers stumble, then stretch, then begin to break apart. Voices that once rose strong now falter into whispers. Words slip out of rhythm and are not always taken up again. One by one, bodies tilt sideways, heads drooping against shoulders, hands loosening in laps.
Exhaustion is merciful.
Only a handful of old women remain awake at the far end of the barn. They sit close together, bent like wind-worn branches, lips still moving in stubborn devotion. The candles before them burn low, throwing shadows that stretch and distort their faces into something almost otherworldly.
The rest sleep where they have fallen.
Children curled into their mothers. Men slumped against beams. Breath rises and falls in uneven waves, the barn filled now not with prayer but with the soft, vulnerable sounds of dreaming bodies.
My eyes remain open.
I lie on my side, the straw faintly scratching my cheek, and listen to the quiet that has replaced the fear. The wind still moves outside, slower now, brushing along the walls like a hand tracing the outline of something it intends to claim.
Mama sleeps beside me, one hand still loosely wrapped around her prayer rope. Even in sleep her brow is furrowed, as if she continues to plead within her dreams. The candlelight touches the silver strands in her hair and makes them gleam faintly.
Beyond her lies Elena, her face softer in sleep. The worry that tightened it through the day has eased, though her lips remain faintly pressed together. Her breath is slow and even.
I watch them both for a long moment, a tenderness rising in me so searing it nearly undoes my resolve.
I could lean forward. I could press my lips to Mama’s brow as I have done since I was small. I could brush my fingers against Elena’s hand, let her warmth anchor me one last time.
I do not. If I touch them, I will falter.
The ache in my chest deepens, but it does not undo me. They will be safe without me. Mama will have her prayers. Elena will have her place beside her. They will speak of me as foolish, perhaps, or lost, but they will live.
They will have each other.
I swallow once, steadying myself. I feel no tremor in my limbs, no cold dread in my stomach. Only a quiet, unshakable certainty, an invisible line drawn from where I lie to the forest beyond the fields.
My gaze fixes on the barn door.