Ana
I turned and turned on my cold bed, missing the warmth and love from my home.
I wished for my mum’s warm embrace, Angelica’s voice and laughter, the way both made my heart feel full between the walls of our house.
I longed for my mum’s food, fried eggs in pig’s fat, with fresh homemade bread and the juiciest fruits that we grew ourselves. And her cakes… The sweet taste of buttercream and whipped cream made from sour cream brought back childhood memories.
Tears flowed down my cheeks, the thought of burdening my family with misfortune never leaving my mind.
The church had always been my sanctuary, a place where myrrh and silence drowned out my father’s fury. I missed the walls that illustrated the twelve Apostles, their vibrant garments deep-rooted in my mind, with their golden halo mirroring a crown.
Every Saturday, after finishing our daily tasks, Angelica and I would attend evensong, where the dead would be mentioned.
It was a short sermon, but it acted as an Unction service.
We would bring our wicker baskets, filled with oil, bread and old clothes.
The priest would dangle his thurible, filled with incense, its scent clinging to all our garments.
“Come, human, the overlord awaits you,” the ghost said from the threshold of my room, extinguishing the candles one by one. His shaky voice drove away my thoughts.
He took a tentative step inside the room, taking a candle from its holder, which was floating rather than being held.
“How did you come to serve the Goat Man?” I asked, standing up from the bed.
“Why do you care?” His figure bobbed, his translucent eyes roaming over the room. “You’re a means to an end anyway.”
“What?” I said, coming next to him.
“You’ll find out pretty soon.” His voice was enigmatic, as if he held the secrets to this world. Sniffing, he turned away. “You need to bathe! You reek, woman!”
I forgot about his master’s order, bathing not being one of my priorities. I wanted to stay and cry for eternity if possible.
“God, grievances! There is no time to wash your bush of hair!” He floated to the bathroom, expecting me to follow.
I rushed to it, listening to his instructions, not wanting to delay my fate any longer.
“Warm, well, now lukewarm water in the bathtub. Cloths and soaps on the shelves. And clean garments on the stool,” the ghost instructed, his voice eerie.
“What stool?” I asked, not remembering it from my last visit.
Angrily, he swirled towards the small wooden chair, where two types of linen skirts, one ie embroidered with a red and orange floral pattern, wool socks, a red vest, a red girdle, and a loom-woven apron waited for me.
“Go, bathe!” he urged, his voice going up a notch.
I grabbed as fast as I could a soap and a cloth and climbed into the wooden bathtub. Making the bath quick, I washed my hair poorly, letting the air dry it.
Ignoring the earthy scent of the soap, which lingered on my skin, I got dressed. First the thinnest skirt and the ie. Next, the thickest skirt and the woollen socks. Then followed the vest, girdle and apron.
“These are yours, I assume,” the ghost said, my pair of cleaned opinci floating under my nose.
My hands were shaking as I grabbed them and fitted them on my feet. “Thank you!”
“Now hurry!” he begged, his translucent hands in prayer.
I rushed with Andrei by my side, the skin on my feet broken from the run yesterday. The ghost took a different turn by passing through a wall.
My heart pumped at the thought of hearing the Goat Man’s voice once more. To feel the caress of its whisper on my skin was against my beliefs. Where only light should be, something dark lurked. And I was scared of being the one who would succumb to it.
Inhaling the first breath of fresh air after a night in dampness was invigorating.
The scent of the firs mixed with the one from the field sage that grew here and there.
Its perfume clung to my clothes, bringing many happy memories of Angelica and me, running around with the children from the village on lanes, barefoot and with no care in the world.
The rosy hue of the sky seeped through my closed eyes, trying to take in as much light as possible.
“Let’s walk faster, human! The Goat Man will be furious with us.”
The ghost grabbed my hand and pulled me forward; the tingle was entirely unbearable. Although when I opened my eyes, I saw my pale hands through its transparent skin. I squirmed inside, but kept my mouth shut, not wanting to offend him.
“How did you die?” I worded, more out of boredom than curiosity.
“Can it not be a story for another time?” he whined, his floating figure passing through fallen tree trunks, making me trip.
My skin broke, specks of blood dripping on my pale legs. The skirts were stained, their whiteness decayed.
I let the ghost be, promising to myself that I would ask about his old life later.
The fir trees were taller than the ones in the forest near my village, their needles losing the battle with time, decorating the ground. Mist soon covered our legs, creating an eerie atmosphere. Hidden by all the trees, neither the sun could get there.
My head turned to the cave. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go back alone. The forest narrowed the path; the grass was too tall, and the sky seemed too low.
The ghost pulled me further until we were met by a clean path. On each side of it, tall and massive candles were lit. There were dozens of them, lighting the way to a small round table with two chairs.
Where it stood.
“Go, girl! You’re late already!”
The ghost circled me and pushed me forward, making me stumble and fall to my knees. I checked the small wounds from earlier, wiping the dirt with my sweaty palms.
I looked forward.
The Goat Man stood still, near its horse, the latter showing its fangs. My heart clenched, but I pushed down my fears and walked with my head held high. Eyes glued on the candles, I felt the Goat Man's gaze on me.
After all, this was my bidding. I could not undo the bargain I made with him.
Besides the candles, the rays of the morning sun lit up my steps towards the table. Advancing carefully, I kept my eyes on the Goat Man, who left its horse and prowled to one of the chairs.
“You’re impossibly late, peasant!” it admonished, its hooves digging in the ground.
A slight breeze cut through my garments, tickling over sensitive spots.
“You asked me to clean myself,” I retorted, my eyebrows up in defiance.
Its sigh created goosebumps on my skin, pulling me one step forward. My hands went slack near my body.
“Sit! I have a proposition for you,” the brute commanded, and I obeyed with my heart in my throat.
I took a seat on the wooden chair, splinters passing through my skirt. I winced, convinced there was blood again on my skirt.
“I see you like making people suffer, Goat Man,” I declared, watching what lay on the table. An envelope stood in the middle of it, calling my name to it.
“That I do, human.” I could feel its giddiness in the warmth of the breeze.
“My name is Ana, not peasant or human!” My voice took a graver turn, irked by the consistent name-calling.
Its laughter grated on my ears and my nerves. I grabbed the side of the table until my fingers turned white. With a whiff of air, my damp, drying hair hit my face; the strands hid me from him.
“But you are a peasant and a human, are you not?”
I was. And I was proud of that.
I was more than content in helping my mother and my sister.
I loved going with the cows on the pasture, watching them eat the grass under the afternoon sun.
In those moments, I saw the most breathtaking dusks.
I liked waking up to the sound of the roosters and collecting fresh eggs or walking to the markets with my sister and mother, the scent of fresh pastries making us hungry.
That life was simpler to me. It couldn’t slip through my fingers as the unknown which stared at me.
“You, peasant, are nothing to me. Just a means to an end,” he echoed the ghost, his chest puffing.
His words hurt. It felt as if I was in my youth, my father belittling me for not wanting to clean the horses in the pouring rain or not clearing up his mess when he would stumble upon the little furniture we had.
“And what end would that be, Goat Man?” I tilted my head, trying not to show my fear, to hide the pulse that threatened to break my veins.
One of its hooves pushed the envelope to me, the crimson wax of the seal resembling the blood seeping through my skirt.
I broke the signet in half, the horns of a goat standing proudly on it. The paper felt harsh against my skin, the letters hard to read. I squinted, the yellow light provided by the candles not helping.
Hereby, there is a contract between The Notorious Goat Man and the peasant Ana Lazarov.
The peasant, sacrificing her own soul, accepts to be in the servitude of the Goat Man for at least one YEAR.
In this YEAR, the peasant will have to rip ten souls from the vile humans in this country, being them at sea or hill, being them on mountains or in their houses.
If the peasant, Ana, does not accept this treaty, then three souls from her family will have to join the eternity of the Goat Man.
I stopped reading, my palms’ sweat staining the paper.
“What is the meaning of this?” I requested, my voice trembling.
I reread the last sentence.
… three souls from her family will have to join the eternity of the Goat Man.
My eyes couldn’t focus further.
I ran my fingers through my long strands, my hair feeling clammy. “You cannot do this,” I whispered, my breathing shallow.
“But I can,” it mocked me, one of its hooves knocking on its chest, its skull craned to the sky.
My feet shot up, knees bucking. I pressed my hands on the table, not thinking straight, dizziness engulfing me.
I had to collect souls. Murder people for its liking. Ten people in exchange for my family, so they could live on. The contract bound me to taint my heart and my body with the blood of unknown people.
For its bidding? It implied to forget myself for The Goat Man. It meant to forget God.