The Silence of Trees (2 page)

Laryssa lay on her side, facing the window. Little moans escaped her lips every few minutes, and she unconsciously wiped away strands of hair from her mouth and nose. Her beautiful long hair—brown with golden streaks from the sun—lay around her like Aunt Katia’s hair when I found her drowned in the river. I shook away the memory and crossed myself for luck.

Halya lay curled in a ball, filling in the space I had left. Two tight, thin braids poked out from her head. She was sad that her hair was thin, like Tato’s. I hoped she would not be troubled by the nightmares that usually interrupted her sleep. I wouldn’t be there to hold her while she trembled, to sing her back into dreams if she awoke screaming.

Deep in my stomach I felt a tugging toward them, back into the warmth of the down blanket Mama made for us last Christmas. I had never disobeyed Mama or Tato before, and I hoped to return before they awoke. I had a question that drove my feet into boots warm from sitting beside the fire, a question that compelled my hands to wrap my babushka tightly around my head, a question that drew me deep into the night.

I stepped outside, clutching in my mitten the small black stone I had found on the riverbank after we buried Mama’s youngest sister Katia. The night after her burial, I had convinced my older sisters, Maria and Laryssa, to take me to the river to offer flowers to the rusalky. According to legend, all drowned women would be transformed into one of these river spirits, beautiful maidens who bewitched passersby with their voices. I imagined Aunt Katia as a rusalka, face aglow with moonlight, delicate shards of music slipping off her tongue to pierce their hearts and lure them to their deaths.

While Maria and Laryssa leaned against the trees talking about how Mama could not sleep from grief, I set the flowers on the water. Then I saw the glittering stone on the bank, a piece of night sky filled with stardust that settled perfectly into my palm when I lifted it from the river. I felt Aunt Katia near me and heard silver bells on the waves, so I carried the stone home and set it beside our bed.

Although she did not tell me until I was older, Mama had a dream that same night. In it, Aunt Katia’s ghost stood over my bed, touched my forehead and said, "This one hears my voice on the night air. I will watch over her."

Mama said that Aunt Katia would do all she could to protect me. I need only follow the river.

So I kept the stone with me for good luck, which is why I carried it the night I went to see the vorozhka. It rested in my palm beside a tiny gold earring I had found along the path to Sonya’s house last month. The earring was going to be my payment for the vorozhka’s fortunetelling.

After a last look at my sleeping family, I turned away, tightly clutching my black stone. I focused on that stone and on the moon lighting the path as I walked past the barn toward the woods. I remembered the stories Baba had told me while I sat on the floor watching her embroider beautiful red and black patterns on cloths; stories about the lisovyk who lived in dense forests. I could still hear her voice in my ear:

"Little Nadya, you must always be careful in the woods, because that is where the lisovyk lives, and he is a tricky spirit. Why, he casts no shadow! The light of the moon is swallowed in his long white beard. His blood is blue like the winter sky, so his skin glows with a deep blue light that you can see in the heavy darkness of the forest. His big green eyes will open wide when he sees you, and if you see him they POP out!

"Yes, yes, the lisovyk is tricky. He changes his size a hundred times in one night. One minute he is tall like the oak, and the next minute, he hides behind a mushroom. You will see the light flicker from his skin as he runs around the trees. He wears his clothes backwards and puts the left shoe on the right foot and the right shoe on the left.

"But do not laugh, my little mouse, because the lisovyk is proud. He will lead you in circles and make you lose your way in the forest. If this ever happens, listen to me, this is what you must do. Sit down on the trunk of an old tree. Take off all your clothes and put them on backwards. Put the left shoe on the right foot and the right shoe on the left. This is important, little one, do not forget the shoes. Only then will the lisovyk lead you where you want to go. But do not laugh at him if you see him, or you will be lost in the forest forever."

I smiled, remembering Baba Hanusia, Mama’s mother, who lived with us until she died. I missed her stories and her warm hugs. As I passed the creek, I heard the murmur of water against the rocks, like whispering voices. I began to hum softly to myself so the rusalky who lived in the creek would not enchant me with their songs. Aunt Katia could not protect me from the spells of her watery sisters.

Luckily, Sonya had told me I would need to bring the vorozhka an offering. She also told me that the Gypsy woman would be sitting near the fire during the night of the full moon, because it was her job to keep the rest of the Gypsies safe on nights when magic was very strong. I clutched the stone in my mitten, trying to avoid the dark corners of the forest, which seemed to swell against the glow of the moon.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and an eerie silence grew from the shadows, broken only by my quiet humming. As the leaves broke their hold on the sky, I saw the shudder of a campfire, but no beautiful woman sat beside it. My eyes adjusted to the light as I watched flames twist around the wood. Smoke smeared my view of the camp into a haze. I tried to blink into clarity the smudged impressions of ragged horses beside wagons, paint flaked and peeling. In my ears, neighing blended with snores and sighs from nearby tents. I closed my eyes to savor the spiced breath of the night: spilled wine, woodsy musk, and budding night flowers.

Then behind me, fingers dug into my shoulders and spun me around. I struggled not to fall. I opened my eyes and saw the face of the Gypsy woman; the one I had seen dancing several weeks before, but somehow she looked different. Where were her beautiful clothes? She wore mismatched rags, like those my mother would sometimes wear around the house: a torn shirt of blue and white flowers, a skirt of red and yellow stripes. The colors, which may have once been bright, were now muted by blotches of dirt. Her hair hung in heavy clumps around her thin face. I dropped my gaze to her bare feet, so tiny. Smaller than little Halya’s feet. How could a grown woman have such small feet? Then I noticed the blood.

Her feet were covered with scratches. The stains on her clothes were a mixture of dirt and blood, fresh blood that continued to spread across the dull patches of color. Her torn blouse revealed bruises on her neck and chest. And her face! Even in the dark, I could see blotches covering her cheeks, forehead and chin. What had happened to this woman? We had both walked alone through the woods.

I wanted to ask if she had been hurt, offer some kind of help. Should I extend my arm for her to lean on or give her the handkerchief tucked inside my boot? Instead, I stood in silence, staring into black eyes that watched me with contempt and rage.

She pushed me, then dropped her hold. Stepping back, she wrapped her arms around her chest and raised her head to stare into the night beyond my right shoulder. Firelight caught her features, and beneath the dirt and blood, I saw a plum crescent birthmark that stretched from the corner of her left eyebrow to the crease of her lips. I took a deep breath, and the Gypsy brought her hand to her face, catching my stare.

Baba told me to respect those who had been marked for a special life, even if the rest of the world hated and feared them. Baba would stretch the neck of her blouse open to show me the tiny brown foot-shaped birthmark on her shoulder—caused by the "guardian angel who stood there when she was born." The Gypsy had also been born with a sign setting her apart from the others, marking her for a life of fortunetelling and magic.

Russian words heavy with a foreign accent seemed to grow in her mouth until she was forced to gasp them out: "Why have you come here?" Avoiding my eyes, she stared above and beyond me. The only words I could mutter in my Ukrainian tongue were those I had practiced every night for two weeks while lying in my bed:

"I came to have my fortune told. Can you h-h-help me?"

The wind shifted, bringing her smell to me: sweat, blood, urine. Heavy scents, sour and metallic like those that filled the barn after Tato butchered runts of the litter. She exhaled deeply and rubbed her hands along her arms.

"Of course." She laughed to herself and looked up to the moon. "Of course that is why she came. To see the ‘Gypsy’ in the forest." Her hands smoothed her skirts and settled into fists.

"Are you frightened? Scared of the lady covered in blood?" She began to wave her hands in circular motions and lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. "Ooh, this ‘Gypsy’ must have been doing something ‘bad’ in the woods. Black magic. Maybe dancing with the dark god?" She stopped for a long second, then looked into my eyes.

"Are you sure you should be here, gadji?"

Fear blew through me, catching the cold in my bones, strengthening my shiver. For a moment, I heard Mama’s voice as if she stood beside me: "Be careful, Nadya. Come home. Don’t trust her, she is a Gypsy. It is all a trick. You will disappear into the night, and I will never see you again." I clenched my fists and bit my lower lip.

The vorozhka raised her eyebrows and took a step toward me. "What is the matter, peasant girl? Are you scared that I am going to have my brothers steal you?" She wiped blood off her lips, rubbed her eyes.

Then she stepped around me and closer to the fire. She was shivering. Dark circles hung under her eyes, and blood streamed in thin lines from the right side of her temple down her face. Her Gypsy face: hollow and full of shadows . . . and young. Not much older than my Ukrainian face: lighter and rounder, surrounded by brown hair woven into one neat braid.

"That is all you girls come here for. To see the mysterious Gypsy camp. To have your fortunes told." She spit on the ground. "Your people only come here when they want something. Or someone to blame."

I stood watching her as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, arms covered with fine, black hair. I whispered, "What happened?"

She lowered her eyes. Her voice angry as she mocked me: "What happened?"

Looking around, she calmed herself and lowered her voice. "What happened? New soldiers arrived in the neighboring village. They decided to explore the woods—"

"Soldiers," I interrupted, "What kind of soldiers?"

She looked into my eyes. Again the hairs on my neck rose.

"Soldiers are soldiers. They fight. Their life is war. And we . . . what are we in war? Things to be moved, broken, used, thrown away, claimed by whichever side comes through our camp.

"My family, we travel far. We see how this war breaks people and land. We pass empty villages. We see pits they dig for bodies. We know the death smell." She rubbed her hands together. "We come here . . . to seek a quiet place. I went too far from camp." She laughed bitterly. "I thought I would be safe in the woods."

I shook my head, not comprehending. She almost smiled.

"Poor stupid girl, you don’t understand." Sighing heavily, she turned around to face the fire. I gasped when I saw the gash that divided her blouse in half, lines of blood criss-crossing like embroidery on silk. She continued, "Five of them. They threw me on the ground. Laughing. Shouting, ‘You like it, Gypsy bitch. Bark for us. Lick it. This is your lucky night.’" Her voice cracked, and she shuddered. "I tried to bite them. Hit them. Scratch them. They beat me. Two held me down. They—"

Suddenly she turned around to face me, tears in her eyes. "Now do you understand?" She shook her head. "Probably not." The Gypsy picked up her skirts in her left hand and turned toward the river.

"Wait here, peasant girl." She wiped her face. "I am drabarni, a vorozhka. I will read your fortune." She looked around the camp. "But first I need to clean myself in your river. Be quiet. You do not want to wake my brothers."

She walked away.

I held my breath, feeling my chest tighten as I watched her walk into the forest. When she finally merged with the trees, I exhaled, my hands cupping my nose and mouth, afraid even to whimper. What if the soldiers were still nearby? What if her brothers awoke?

I sat down and looked around. Each time the moon crept out from the clouds, shadows darted along the campsite. Light would linger on dirty clothes and dishes arranged in strange, neat little piles. Firelight blurred with moonlight on the dull surfaces of the metal washtubs stacked beside an old maple tree. I looked around for cut wood for the fire but could not find any.

Such a woman, this Gypsy. So strong that she could gather up her skirts and walk to her family’s camp with her head up, wiping away blood. Who was I next to her? She was right: I was only a peasant girl. What could have brought me away from the safety of my family?

Then I remembered why I had disobeyed Mama, why I had crept through these woods. I needed to ask the vorozhka if Stephan and I would marry.

He seemed so far away from me as I sat in the Gypsy camp, and I knew he’d be furious if he knew I’d come alone, especially if he knew about the soldiers. They must have been Russian. Tato had said he’d heard rumors that Russian soldiers planned to reclaim our land from the Germans, but he’d shrugged them away. Ever since the Germans had closed the schools and libraries, information from the outside had become more and more difficult to learn. So rumors hung on every tongue. But if they were Russian soldiers, I wondered how their return would affect Stephan.