The Silence of Trees

The Silence of Trees

A Novel

Valya Dudycz Lupescu

Wolfsword Press

Chicago

2010 Wolfsword Press

Published in the United States by Wolfsword Press.

The Silence of Trees
is a work of fiction set in a historical context. All scenes and dialogue, and all characters, with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life or historical figures appear, the scenes and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 Valya Dudycz Lupescu. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information: Wolfsword Press, 7144 N. Harlem Ave., #325, Chicago, IL 60631

A Reader’s Companion copyright © 2010 by Valya Dudycz Lupescu and Wolfsword Press

Cover Illustration by Madeline Carol Matz (www.mcmatz.com)

The Silence of Trees

ISBN 978-0-9821261-4-1 (Kindle Version)

Kindle Edition

Printed in the United States of America

www.wolfswordpress.com

For my grandparents:

Parania & Iwan

and

Maria & Petro

In our own society today, fortune/telling serves much the same purpose as it has long served in traditional cultures, offering a chance for dialogue, for sharing, for objectification, for hope and drama and revelation. As a way of telling about fortune, Tarot reading offers the opportunity to cultivate our natural narrative abilities and endow them with deeper resonances and broader meanings.

—Cynthia Giles

from
The Tarot: Methods, Mastery and More

(Fireside, 1994)

CHAPTER
ONE

THERE IS A UKRAINIAN LEGEND THAT ONCE EACH YEAR, on the night of Ivana Kupala, a magical flower blooms in the heart of the forest. Anyone who finds it will be granted their heart’s desire: the ability to hear the trees whisper and watch them dance, the power to make anyone fall in love with them, the magic to make barren lands bear fruit and barren women fruitful. It is a single red flower with several names: tsvit paporot, liubava, chervona ruta. The legendary bloom can grant wishes, open the doorway to the past, and awaken spirits to visit with loved ones.

I looked for the tsvit paporot when I was a young girl. I searched for it in many places, in different countries, over a lifetime. I eagerly went into the unknown, looking for magic, for mystery, for adventure. But sometimes magic finds you. Sometimes it comes in the least likely of forms: in a small black river rock, a deck of hand-painted cards, a sprig of purple herb or an envelope from home.

Just when you think that life is slowing down, magic happens. The universe sends you a message, like a tsvit paporot on your doorstep. The question is: what do you wish for?

***

At the age of sixteen, more than anything, I wanted to have my fortune told by the mysterious vorozhka, the Gypsy woman who camped with her people on the outskirts of our Ukrainian village. Mama disapproved, but so many young women had gone before me and come back with astonishing stories. The vorozhka told Mariyka that she would travel across the sea in search of kisses heavy with perfume. She told Darka that she would find many children gathered around her feet on her father’s farm. Even Olena—who dreamt of going to school in Lviv to study languages—went to see the vorozhka. She told Olena that she would soon ride a train heavy with hope. After finishing my chores, I would sit with Khvostyk purring in my lap and dream of the vorozhka’s predictions.

After my best friend, Sonya, went to see the Gypsy, I thought Mama would finally agree.

"Mama, Sonya’s mother let her see the vorozhka. Her brother even kept watch as she walked through the woods to the camp. And do you know what the vorozhka told her? She told Sonya that soon she would see everything lit up around her. That the night would be broken by light, and she would run into the arms of her husband. Who else could this be but Yaroslav? He often tends his father’s sheep at night and carries a lantern. Mama, I need to go see the vorozhka to learn about my future. All the other girls have gone."

Mama never looked up from the bread dough. Her strong hands squeezed the dough even harder as she said in that tone reserved for scolding little children:

"Nadya, you will not go. I forbid it." Mama bit down on her lower lip—something she always did when concentrating. "Gypsies are dirty. They steal, and they lie. What kind of life is that? They have no home. No home, Nadya. Why do you think this is?"

Mama rubbed her brown eyes, leaving flour on her brow. She looked me in the eyes. "Why? Because they take all they can and leave before people realize they have been fooled. We are not fools. This vorozhka is a fake. She performs tricks, uses pretty words to steal money from hardworking people."

Mama returned to her kneading. "When I was a girl, they came too. Marko Pavlyshyn had two cows and one horse stolen. Marusia Ivanovych had five chickens stolen that same night. The next morning when they went to find the Gypsies, they were gone. Coincidence? No, Nadya. Gypsies are dirty; they ride on a bad wind. You stay away from them and their enchantments."

I ran to the barn in tears and hid behind the cows. I wanted to learn about my future. I wished to experience magic and mystery, as in the stories where the young girl, Vasylyna, would go to see the witch, Baba Yaga, in the forest. Yes, like Vasylyna the Brave, I wanted an adventure.

So on the night of the new moon, I had Gypsies on my mind as I walked to the barn to leave an offering for the dvorovyi, the yard spirits. The early spring sky was heavy with stars to light my path. Around me, the howling of wolves and whirr of bat wings traveled on the wind. It had just become my task to leave the offerings, and even though I had watched Mama many times before, I was nervous. What if I did something wrong and the spirits allowed harm to come to the cattle?

I pushed open the heavy door and peered into the blackness, permitting starlight to wrestle with the shadows. Each corner held secrets: each shape shifted in the light. I could feel air on the back of my neck. Breeze or breath? I didn’t check. As I walked through the barn, I cursed the crunch of my feet on straw. Sleeping spirits did not like to be disturbed. I did not want to find their glowing eyes peering at me in the darkness.

At the eastern corner, I stopped and knelt on the dirt floor. Hay cut into my bare knees; the smell of manure stung my nostrils. I lifted three slices of Mama’s morning bread out of the napkin I carried and from my pocket, pulled out the sheep’s wool I had gathered earlier that day. I cleaned a spot on the ground and set down the napkin, carefully placing on it the bread and wool.

I opened my palms above the offering. Then I focused for a moment on my breath, steadied my heart, and collected my voice. "Dvorovyi, friendly neighbors, I offer you these gifts."

I folded my hands, placed them in my lap, and closed my eyes. "Be kind to the cattle and sheep, and watch over them. I thank you."

I knelt in silence for a moment, hearing the scurrying of feet or claws or paws on straw. I listened to the door creak and bang against the barn wall, the soft neighing of horses, the distant chorus of creatures awakened by darkness. I could feel movement all around me.

A gust of wind rushed into the stable and caught in my hair, tossing it up and into my face. Still I remained seated with eyes closed, my hands motionless in my lap. Only when the wind ran away to other farms, when I felt the calm restored—only then did I open my eyes and rise to my feet.

I locked the door behind me and stepped toward the house. My fingertips tingled, and the air seemed lighter, brighter than before. I could not see the house from the barn. It was set back under the trees, but I saw smoke from the stove above the treetops. Mama was probably brewing tea. My stomach growled, and I hurried toward home knowing that Mama would be preparing a snack. But before I reached the house, the winds returned carrying with them beautiful violin music—music that suggested mystery and evoked the vorozhka and the magic of her camp. The music tempted me to follow. Tato and Mama would expect me to linger outside. "Our Nadya lives in dreams," they always said. So I could probably steal away unnoticed for a few moments. I turned away from the house and toward the wind, urged on by the music.

Running quickly through the trees, I found myself at the edge of the forest. As I stood hidden by thick branches, I saw a woman dancing in the shadows, a whirlwind of long layered skirts. Her blouse was buttoned to the neck, and rows of beads caught shades of crimson, copper and gold from the flames as they rose and fell in rhythm. The music mingled with the cries of the forest, carried by the winds into the trees to blend with the running waters of the nearby stream.

In the distance, a man stared into the woods and sharpened his blade, which shone ruby red in the firelight. Although I knew he could not see me, I suddenly remembered the stories Mama had told me about Gypsies who kidnap young women to sell into slavery in far away lands. I shivered, savoring the thought of strong arms carrying me into a Gypsy wagon filled with perfumes and silks and furs. I would be forced to travel to exotic places where people played with monkeys and rode on elephants. They would teach me to dance and dress me in long flowing silk gowns and gold chains. People would watch me and other women perform seductive dances, and they would shower our feet with coins and pearls. I would never have to dig in the dirt or clean up after the horses and cows. Mama and Tato would never again tell me what I could and could not do.

Mama and Tato! They would soon notice that I was gone. I turned away from the camp and faced the woods, angry for having to leave. How could this beautiful music be evil? This sad melody, so soft and familiar, that slid across my body and pulled at my chest with bittersweet secrets … how could the music be "bad" when it filled me with dreams of dancing and adventure? And how could the woman who danced like flames on the wind be "dirty"?

Straining to keep the music with me as long as I could, I stumbled through the forest. It seemed to take twice as long to get home as it had to find the camp, but I wanted to remember each turn so I could find my way again. I went to sleep that night planning my visit to the vorozhka. My dreams were filled with clapping hands, stomping boots and music so powerful that it painted pictures in the clouds and lifted me to dance on air.

Intoxicated by the chords that danced in my memory, I waited impatiently for the next full moon, watching for the crescent to fill. When it finally absorbed all the milk of heaven, I lay waiting for my parents to go to sleep, watching as shadows poked their heads out from corners and then disappeared when I blinked them away.

I watched Mama and Tato’s nightly rituals from across the room, all the while pretending to be asleep in the bed my sisters and I shared. At one time, four of us had shared the bed—before Maria, the oldest, married and died in childbirth. The little bed was still tight with three of us tucked inside, and I was always stuck in the middle.

Mama let down her hair and brushed it gently. Tato sharpened his knives for hunting. After he finished, he read Mama one of her favorite poems: "Seven Strings" by Lesya Ukrainka. Lesya’s words gave me courage as I waited for my parents to sleep:

"I have faith in that magic, faith in those powers, Because with my heart I know them as true,

As oracle for these mysteries, these precious fantasies

With my sincerest heart, I welcome …"

My eyes grew heavy as I struggled to stay awake, lulled to sleep by Tato’s voice and the sound of weary fingers rubbing against onion skin pages.

When I awoke, the room was silent except for occasional sighs of sleep. I carefully disentangled myself from my little sister Halya’s embrace. She clung tightly to my waist, her head against my shoulder, as if I could keep her safe from the dreams that left her whimpering. I eased out of her arms and stepped onto the floor. Our little house had no room for secrets, so I moved with cat’s feet to gather everything I needed. A cloud slipped away from the full moon and her light shone bright on my sisters’ faces.