Ana
My sister’s feet were splashed by the river's cold water. We took our aprons and opinci to wash them on the bank of the rippling water. We were more than dirty as we helped our father slaughter some of the chickens.
I still felt his slap from when I refused to watch. The fact that he held my neck as his other hand stabbed one of the youngest chickens made my stomach wrench. That day, I decided I wouldn’t eat chicken at all. My sister held my skirt during my father’s endeavours, hiding behind my back.
She was coming from the pasture with her cows, the smell of hay reaching our noses. The sound of the bells attached to the cows’ necks raised goosebumps on my arms.
“I don’t know,” I resumed the question, walking on the stone road. “We might. But until then, we have yet to learn to sew shirts and how to make proper food. Yesterday, I burnt the fried cheese and…” I drew in a breath, clenching my jaw.
“Why can’t men make their own food?” she asked, her blonde brows knitting.
I turned so fast to her that my head became dizzy. “Angi, you know our roles. You should be considered lucky that we get to read.”
She wasn’t satisfied with my answer. “But God sees men and women as equals! They cannot exist without each other!” Her hands rose in the air, red blotches touching her skin.
“That is true, my sweet sister. And there are men out there who want to be loved as we want to be.” My foot kicked a pebble.
“Might be. I just do not want to have one like our father.”
Her small voice kicked my heart into pieces.
At least, in the wake of my death, Angelica will have Gavril at her side. And I could reside in Heaven.
I sniffed, feeling the heavy air. Heaven or even Hell could not smell like wax.
Hell would smell like fire and burnt meat, at least that was what our priest told us every Sunday, after his sermon. We listened to him every week, every holiday and when we would go for confession.
I feared God more than I feared men, as He would send our punishments. If one were to sew on Sunday, the needle would pinch the finger. If one washes their clothes in the river on Sunday or any holy day, something evil will turn their way.
However, where I was then, it couldn’t be either Hell nor Heaven. It was too cold to be Hell, too unpleasant to be Heaven. My feet kicked the air, trying to find something to cover myself, so I could continue my slumber. A shiver passed through my body, as goosebumps broke on my skin.
I forced my eyes open to a wall made of stone. Grey, cold stone. I jolted out of bed, checking my surroundings. My feet touched something soft; a moth-eaten rug stood over the sharp floor.
On my right was a small fireplace, barely producing any heat and almost no embers left. Someone had the good intention of making the room warm, but it was long forgotten.
There was no natural light coming in. Only a generous amount of candles were spread over the walls, their flames hardly staying alight. Hardened wax surrounded them, the honey colour easing my pounding heart.
A small round table stood by the bed; one chair sat next to it. On the wooden table, there were some papers and a glass ink pot with a raven's feather in it.
I scanned them, but there was nothing written on them.
No doors were between this chamber and the next one, only a large hole in the rock wall.
My whole body was cold; the dress I had was too frail for this place. I brought one finger near the fire of one candle to feel the blaze. It stung, my skin quickly getting red.
I wasn't dead.
I was supposed to be dead.
That is why I traded my soul for my father’s. The Goat Man should have killed me and taken my soul.
So, why wasn’t I in Heaven?
In search for answers, I went out through the hole, the rock cut to create this passage. My fingers grazed the wall, and the burn I had instantly made its presence known.
With both of my hands on the walls, I tried not to cut my feet on the floor. I tiptoed on the hard stones, but it pinched me from time to time, making me wince.
“You’re up!”
I swirled around, my hair touching my heels.
A ghost.
A ghost was in front of me.
There were stories about them. Muroi. They couldn’t exist.
It was being said that they would draw our energy and would let us join them in the aftermath. I cursed myself for not having any means of protection. Holy water would have dispelled its sight. I should have slept with holy basil under my bed to wake up from this nightmare.
Or Hell.
Maybe this was my kind of Hell. To roam with creatures of the night, not burning in the fire pits.
Usually, the muroi were drawn as babies who died very young, before getting baptised. It is said that on the night of Christ's Resurrection, they wept and asked for their baptism.
But the ghost in front of me was no baby.
It was something that resembled a young boy, his clothes shinier in the candlelight.
My eyes widened, and my pulse pounded in my ears. I tried to run, but the stone was hurting my feet. My skin broke, the pain clogging my thoughts. As I took a step, I stumbled on one of the rocks.
Prayer was my only escape then. I prayed for my soul, asking God where He sent me.
“There are no gods here, girl! Only me and my master.”
I kept my eyes closed, my breathing accelerating. My lips pursed, even though I had so many questions rambling in my head.
“Woman,” I whispered. That was the only rational thought I had.
“Let me help you, woman,” the ghost jeered at me.
My hands sprang into action, and I crawled, with my eyes still closed, until my head hit a wall. The pain was too vivid for me to be dead.
“Careful now, my master would not have you hurt from your stupidity.”
I clutched my chest with my hand, and then I realised. Heartbeats pushed my hand back and forth.
I was alive, and this place was my nightmare.
Feeling a cold breeze on my face, I sniffed. The smell of food filled my nostrils and reminded me that I still needed to eat.
Because I was alive and not dead at the hands of the Goat Man.
The ghost came closer, something besides air touching my body. I clenched my muscles, murmuring that it could not exist.
“Oh, we do. We roam the Earth, but mortals think we are strigoi or muroi. I am not going to lie, there are those too, but not in here.” The ghost floated near my naked feet, his body bobbing up and down, air swishing.
I slightly opened one of my eyes and stared at the cave’s ceiling. “What is this place?” I whispered, trying to keep the other eye closed. “Is this Hell?”
The ghost laughed, bringing his hand to his stomach. “For me, is not Hell, if that place even is out there.”
In no time, the ghost was on the side. I crawled on my elbows until I hit my head again.
“Stop it, woman! I do not have the means to nurse you back to health from your ignorance!” the ghost shouted next to my ear, making me wince.
He had no colour of his own; behind him was just his clothing.
I opened my other eye. “Who is your master?” I asked, puzzled, my voice straining. The cold stone breached my back, pushing its pointy tip into my skin.
The ghost, who looked no more than my age, scratched his head, as if he could feel it. “The Goat Man, of course. He brought you here.” His nose upturned, and his empty eyes watched me as if I were nothing but dust.
“Where is ‘here’?” I inquired, standing on my feet. I supported my hand on the wall, staying as far as possible from the ghost.
“You have too many questions, woman. And I have no patience.” He tilted his head, floating in circles. “My master is the Goat Man, and I live here. For as long as I remember.”
“How much time is that?”
He leaned his head the other way, making the wall behind him blurry. “Ah, me from last year, and my master for centuries, I believe.”
Centuries? But it was just a story.
And still, the Goat Man brought me here. It was the one who severed my father’s hand. My heart clenched at the pain he must have felt. How would he work in the field now?
I made the cross sign with my right hand, wondering at the view in front of me and the disaster the Goat Man left behind him.
My eyes darted from one corner of the cave to the other. There was no escape from here.
I took a deep breath and pulled every ounce of courage I had in my veins. Or rather curiosity. “What is your name?” I asked, rising from the iciness of the stone. I still couldn’t look at him, so I set my eyes on a point further in the distance.
“Andrei.”
“And your master’s?” My dress swished on my heels as I took another step closer. It had blotches of mud from the seam to my knees. But cleanliness was not a priority.
The ghost shrugged. “No one knows. He is the Goat Man.” If he could get any paler, he did right then. “But let’s leave that. Come eat, woman! You will need all your strength.” He turned around, announcing that tochitur? with m?m?lig? was waiting for me in the kitchen.
Which seemed odd, because this meal was usually served in winter, right after Ignat, when the pigs got cut and turned into food.
As we were walking towards the kitchen, I remembered the story about Ignat.
According to it, Ignat wanted to cut a pig one year, but by an unfortunate accident, the hatchet flew into his father’s head.
Saddened and seeing that his sin is not forgiven, he travelled the world, where he met a priest. The latter told him to build a bridge over a river, without asking anything in return.
Ignat did that, but the priest had another request: to bury a seed of any tree and wait until a bush would grow.
The years passed, and Ignat married. During one night, he couldn’t sleep, hearing all types of shouts from the bridge he built.
On the other side of it, there were two old men asking for help.
Ignat helped the elderly men cross the bridge, and they wondered at the poverty Ignat, his wife and children lived.
Turned out that the old men were God and Saint Peter, who rewarded Ignat with all kinds of treasures, because he repented for his sin.
I hoped my sins would not be as hurtful as Ignat’s. Not when I was already repenting.