Wildwood Dancing (7 page)

“Ready?” asked Costi. Then, without waiting for an answer, he pushed the raft away from the shore. The pole for guiding it lay across the weathered boards by my feet. Probably he had planned to jump on with me, but somehow, the raft went out too quickly. As I grabbed for the pole, it rolled across the boards and into the waters of the Deadwash. Costi was left standing in the shallows, staring after me.

The raft floated out. Eddies and swirls appeared on the surface around it, carrying the pole farther and farther away. I passed the little island with the flowers. I passed another island thick with thornbushes, and a third all mossy rocks. The figures of my cousins got smaller and smaller. I thought I could see dark figures on the islands, hands reaching out to grab me. The mist seemed to swirl closer, as if to draw me into the mysterious realm beyond. I began to cry. The raft moved on, and I began to scream.

“Hold on, Jena!” Costi shouted. “I’m coming to get you!” He stripped off his shirt and waded into the lake. He was a strong swimmer. On the shore behind him, Cezar stood in shadow. His face was a white blob, his figure no taller than my little finger. He was utterly still. My screams subsided to hysterical sobs, then to sniffs, as Costi came closer. Around him, I saw the lake waters swirling and bubbling. The raft began to move in circles, making me dizzy, carrying me away from his grasp. There was nothing to hold on to. I felt another scream welling up in me, and sank my teeth into my lip. Then Costi was there, his hands clutching the edge of the raft, his face even whiter than Cezar’s. His dark hair was streaming water and his teeth were chattering.

I was too scared to speak. The raft began to drift back slowly toward the shore, Costi’s strong legs kicking us forward. We moved past the rocky island and the thorny one. Costi was struggling to hold on, fighting the current. His eyes had a fierce look in them, like someone in a fight. His fingers were slipping. I put my hands over my face, listening to him gasping for breath. I felt the raft spin around, then tilt up; I heard splashing. Then someone grabbed my arm, pulling me, and I struck out wildly.

“Stop it, Jena, it’s me. You’re safe now.” The voice was Cezar’s. As I opened my eyes, the raft beached itself, and my cousin’s hands dragged me onto dry land. My head was spinning. My nose was running. My heart was beating madly.

I fled. I pelted past Cezar, past the cloth where we had laid our offerings, past the clothing Costi had shed, and into the shelter of the bushes, where I crouched down with my colored blanket over my head and surrendered to hiccuping sobs of fright and relief.

Maybe I wasn’t there long—to a five-year-old, a few minutes can seem an age. I heard Cezar calling my name, but I ignored him. This was the boys’ fault. They had made me play the game, they had made me come to the lake, and now it was all spoiled. And I hadn’t gotten to be Queen of the Fairies, even though I’d given away my lovely crown. Now my cousins would tease me for being afraid and for crying, and they’d never ask me to play with them again.

“Jena! Come out! Jena, please!”

Something in Cezar’s voice made me get up and walk back
to the shore. The square of cloth still lay on the sand, but the silver ring and my little crown were gone. I couldn’t see the raft. I couldn’t see Costi.

“Where were you?” Cezar seized me by the arms, hard—I thought he was going to shake me. “Where did you go? Did you see what happened?”

“Ow, let go!” I protested. “See what? What do you mean? Where’s Costi?” Then I noticed that, although he was three whole years older than me, my cousin was crying.

Cezar sat me down on the sand and told me what had happened. His nose was running because of the tears, and his eyes were swelling up and going all red. I gave him back his handkerchief. He told me that as the raft was passing the fairy island, Costi had lost his grip. As Cezar had stripped off his own shirt and boots, ready to go to his brother’s aid, hands had reached up from under the water, pulling at Costi’s arms and rocking the raft as if to capsize it. Cezar had swum out to rescue me, grabbing the raft just in time. He’d propelled it, and me, safely to shore. Then he’d gone back in for his brother. But when he returned to the fairy island, the water was calm and clear. And Costi was gone.

“He’s dead.” He said it as if he couldn’t believe it, even though he’d seen it with his own eyes. “Costi’s dead. The witch took him. Drǎguţa, the witch of the wood. She pulled him under and drowned him.”

I was too little to find words. Perhaps I did not yet quite understand what death was.

“We have to go home.” Cezar’s eyes were odd, shocked and
staring. He looked more angry than sad. “We have to tell them. You’re going to have to help me, Jena.”

I nodded, misery starting to settle over me like a dark blanket. Costi was gone. Costi, who was so alive—the most alive person I knew. Costi, whom everybody loved. Watching the light sparkle on the lake water, I thought I could hear someone laughing.

“Come on, quick,” Cezar said. “We should get our story straight. We’d better practice on the way.”

I remembered that part even now: walking along the forest paths, my small hand in his not much bigger one, and the way he talked me carefully through what had happened—hoping to calm me down, I suppose. Even after ten years, I could still see the expression on Cezar’s face as he gave his account to his father. It was a heavy load for a boy just eight years old. I helped all I could, telling the same version of events as Cezar. What had happened was all jumbled up in my head, so it was good that he had explained it to me so clearly. He did not mention the game, nor did I. We confessed that we had been at the forbidden lake, playing with a raft. We told them about the tricky currents and the hands in the water. Uncle Nicolae and Aunt Bogdana were so distraught at the loss of their beloved firstborn, their shining star, that after a certain point in the story they ceased to listen.

My mother came to take me and my sister home to Piscul Dracului. After that, I did not see Cezar so often. He had become the eldest son. He worked hard at it: learning the business; accompanying Uncle Nicolae to village meetings; getting to know the running of the farm. He finished his education,
going away to Braşov for several years and returning unrecognizable: a young man. I became shy of him—so tall, so big, so alarmingly solemn. So full of ideas and theories that clashed utterly with mine. All the same, I owed Cezar my life, and I had never forgotten that.

“The problem is,” I said now to Gogu, who was sitting on a leaf, practicing being invisible, “that Cezar is so difficult to be a friend to. If I could get closer to him, maybe I could persuade him to give up his talk of vengeance. But he thinks girls are an inferior breed, not suited to anything except cooking and cleaning. This winter I plan to prove him wrong on that count, at least. I’ll look after Father’s affairs so well that neither he nor Uncle Nicolae will need to do a thing.”

What’s that old saying: Pride comes before a fall?

“Don’t say that, Gogu! I thought you, at least, had faith in me.”

I do, Jena. Complete faith. Be careful, that’s all. Everything’s changing. You said as much yourself. Change can be frightening
.

“That’s why I’m glad I’ve got you,” I said. “You keep me sane, Gogu. You stop me from making stupid mistakes. Cezar had better not make any more suggestions about terriers. I simply couldn’t do without you.”

Nor I without you, Jena. We are a pair, you and I. It’s getting cold.… Winter’s close. Can I ride home on your shoulder?

Dearest Father
, I wrote,
we have been very busy since you went away. I will dispatch the consignment for Sibiu as soon as Uncle Nicolae can spare some men to load it onto the carts for us
. I’d have preferred to arrange this myself, but the men who usually came up from the village were all occupied with shoring up the banks of the Grimwater, which recent rains had swollen to a frothing brown torrent. A river in spate was as dangerous as Drǎguţa the witch at her most malevolent—it could consume a whole village in one gulp.

The river is up, but the bridge is still passable, so the consignment should get through before the winter
, I wrote.
I am expecting the goods you ordered from Salem bin Afazi soon. I will make sure they are safely in storage before the weather gets any worse
.

I sighed and rested my head on my hand, the neat black script blurring on the page before me. It was almost Full Moon again, a whole month since Father’s departure. The others were excited, making their preparations, counting the days, then the
hours, until it was time to cross over into the Other Kingdom. All I could feel was a profound weariness. This wasn’t the first time Father had gone away, of course. But it was the first time both Gabriel and Dorin were absent at the same time as he was, and it would be for much longer than the usual buying trip. It had even been difficult to secure the services of the ever-reliable Ivan, since his own smallholding was threatened by the rising river.

There was too much to attend to—too much to think about. I longed for a whole day on my own with Gogu and absolutely nothing to do. It was hard not to let this show in my letter. I must not worry Father; if he believed we were coping well, that would surely help him recover more quickly. Foolishly, I had hoped to hear from him by now, but no message had come. I had expected the impossible. Constanţa was far away—letters took many weeks to travel such a distance, even supposing there was someone to bring them.

Paula and Stela are helping Florica around the house
, I added,
and Iulia has been doing her best
. These days, Iulia’s best was falling a little short of what it might be, but I didn’t tell Father that. Now that the nights were growing longer and colder, it was a trial getting her out of bed in the mornings. She hated outside jobs like filling the wood baskets and raking out the chicken coop and feeding the pigs.

“Why can’t one of you do it?” she would whine, her nose red with cold, the rest of her face icy-pale under her rabbit-fur hat.

And I would tell her what Father would, if he were home: “We all do our share.”

We are in good health
, I wrote.
Florica and Petru ask to be remembered to you. Father, I hope very much that your own health is improving in the warmer air of the seacoast. If you are well enough to write, it would be wonderful to hear from you. We send our fondest love. We all miss you, even Gogu. Your affectionate daughter, Jena
.

I sealed the letter, put away the quill, and replaced the stopper on the ink pot. Delivery must wait until Uncle Nicolae had a man traveling in the right direction. I hoped that would be soon.

The day before Full Moon, a cart came with Father’s goods from the east. Somewhat grudgingly, the two men who had driven the cart up to Piscul Dracului unloaded the bundles and boxes. They carried them into our storeroom, then dropped them unceremoniously on the stone floor. Paula and I had weighed out the correct payment in silver pieces some time ago and stored it in a box with a very good lock. The men tried to argue with me over the amount, but I flourished a document with both Father’s and Salem bin Afazi’s signatures on it. After a while they took the silver and left, their tempers much improved by the appearance of a smiling Tati with a bottle of
ţuicǎ
and a cloth full of spice cakes for the road.

The rest of the day was spent checking the consignment in full and making sure everything was safely stored until it was time for each item to be sold. Fabrics had to be kept dry and protected from dust and moths; spices had to be tightly sealed and out of the light. Carpets were best unrolled and layered with padded cloth.

The chamber we used for storage was huge. We imagined it had once housed grand entertainments in the early days of
Piscul Dracului. But the polished marble of the floor had been badly damaged long ago, and the slender, vine-wreathed columns rising gracefully to the painted ceiling bore their share of cracks and chips. Practical shelving had been erected where once elegant lords and ladies might have sat on benches, listening to fine music.

All five of us unpacked the boxes and crates. Hard work as this job was, we loved it. It was like the best kind of treasure hunt. Salem bin Afazi’s consignments were always full of exotic surprises.

Stela found a box full of tiny glass phials and flasks filled with a variety of sweet perfumes: spicy, floral, musky, pungent. She began to set them out in a row by color, handling each with careful fingers.

Paula had discovered books destined for the monastery near Sibiu: a most precious cargo. Now she sat cross-legged on the marble, spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, engrossed in an old text bound in dark leather.

The rest of us were working together, for there were rolled-up carpets in this consignment, and each had to be checked in its turn and set away. They were long and heavy. By the time we reached the last of them, our backs were aching.

Stela had packed away the bottles and put the box on a shelf. Now she was investigating a basket of curious toys—wooden bees, and dragonflies, and bats, that whirred and buzzed and flapped their wings when they were pushed along. Gogu was by her side, enthralled. His eyes bulged with fascinated apprehension. “They’re not real, Gogu,” I heard my sister say. “Not really real.”