Chapter Text
The Village
With annoyed huff, Elisabeta rose up from the warmth of her bed. The sun already rose and Mitra, her maid, had entered her chamber without consideration if her mistress was sleeping. It was a morrow where they would attend church and thus, the comfort of the young lady, was put aside for the sake of piety and faith. One day, Elisabeta thinks, as she adjusts the sleeves of her dress while Mitra braids her hair, one day I will have an excuse to not rise as early and attend. And it will be a good reason, not sickness or death. What reason, she cannot think right now, but she is sure such day will come. Until then, she will be woken up by the maid, put on a dress and hide her hair and humbly enter the temple of God and listen to the preaching of Father Stibor on the 3rd Sunday of the Great Lent. She would not sneak with Ionita to giggle at girlish flutters of their hearts and whisper of boyar sons with comely features who looked at them under thick brows as Ionita was gone for whole winter now and no man, boyar or peasant, would travel at this time of year for a visit. The snow was still thick and at night, the winds of the mountain hollered like wild beasts and bit onto your fingers like rabid dogs. Oh, how she yearned for the warmth of Spring. For the sun to caress her face before her mother whisks her away lest she blackens like a gypsy beneath its rays. For flowers to bloom and lush green to cover the dead land. She is to marry soon and leave this village to move south with her future husband and his family. A boyar from the east would whisk her away to the south where fields stretched as far as her eyes could see. She dreams of this often. While she sows a tapestry of deer hunting with her mother and other noble ladies (as much as they were for history knew far more noble and ancient lines than theirs) or reads books in Latin that she ought not to but she is only daughter, near and dear to her father who could not resist her pleas to learn more than her mother approves of. She dreams while she rides her mare and her brothers laugh that one day she will break her neck from dreaming, as if they never fell from their horses and bruised themselves. In her dreams she is a princess, nay – a queen, free and happy and lives in a grand castle with stone halls and dances in the darkness and sings songs at the light of the moon and has more books she can count on topics she cannot even imagine. And when she is no longer awake, her eyes closed and mind drifting, she dreams more but the castle is dark, she dances with the dust of floors not swept for ages and sings with the wolves howling from the shadows that cover endless halls without doors and windows. She is happy and her tears are from joy, freezing upon her cheeks as her pale skin blues like that of the girl from nearby village, they found thawed by the river she drowned in. The cold surrounds her like the shadows and she feels it in her breast, beneath her ribs, in her stomach and within her blood as if she is no longer alive and she wants to scream but barely opens her lips before waking up with a jolt that scares poor Mitra, sleeping so peacefully at the foot of the bed. The older woman quickly rushes to calm her and Elisabeta pushes her away for she is hot, her skin burning from the fire and the warmth of her many blankets and rushes towards the iron wrought windows and yanks one open, relishing in the cold air that blasts her heated cheeks.
“What is wrong, child.” Mitra asks as she comes to her, gown robe in hands to drape over her almost bare shoulders and shield her from the winter chill.
“Nothing.” Elisabeta concedes and steps away from the open window to return to her bed. “Go to bed, Mitra. Do not close the window for my flesh is hot and I cannot rest.”
“You will fall ill.” Mitra ignores her and closes the window. “I will not have you dead from the cold. Think of your poor mother …”
Elisabeta scoffed, but Mitra was correct. Not five summers ago they lost her sister, a babe no older than two summers that a distracted servant (or a mean intended one) left alone in its room with an open window for the night and found in the morrow stiff from the cold and breathless. Her mother was not the same ever since, but what mother would be when you see your precious one lowered into the cold earth? Elisabeta prayed for months to never experience such anguish and any child she has to grow strong and healthy. She laid on her bed, but left her arms above the covers in a little protest that the servant chose not to address and closed her eyes, trying to will the sleep back into her yet fearing for it was so real that she would not be surprised to see dust on her feet. No dreams tormented her in her short restless sleep before the sun shone through her window and woke her. Mitra was already up and about and seemed surprised to see her charge awake at this hour. She was pulling out the chests of jewelry Elisabeta had and before the young woman asked her why, the door to her room opened and her mother entered, breathless with worry.
“Good, Dimitra, open them.” She said, voice sharking as she approached the table and began rummaging around the trinkets and jewels.
“Mama, what is happening …” Elisabeta finally asked, unhappy at the actions of her mother. The older woman did not answer immediately, busy picking certain items that had good value. “Mama!”
“Be quiet!” she finally snapped at her daughter. “Do not mind it, do not speak of it. We have enough worries as it is …”
Elisabeta did as she was told. Frowning she leaned back and watched her mother pillage her chests from anything remotely valuable and knew it was better not to ask, lest she is punished for disobedience. Whatever had riled her mother must have been severe because she left the room as much haste as she entered, leaving Mitra behind.
“Do you know what this is for?” Elisabeta finally asked her, displeasure lacing her voice.
“It is not for me to judge, but…” the older woman sat on the bed and leaned, whispering. “The previous two years have not been the best. Your father, as you know, works tirelessly with the village to meet the tithes of the land, however sometimes this is not enough and all must find a way to add.”
Elisabeta knew the lands upon which the village was built were not theirs and the whole community paid a tithe. Her own family was noble, but not to the extend to own the vast fields and lush forests the lord of the land did. They owned their house, probably the grandest building in the village and decorated second only to the church with its golden icons and gilded wood. She never paid attention to how much was gathered every year, but what Mitra said was true – the previous years were not the best. People complained of bad crops, less fruits on the trees and sickly livestock. Less deer was seen in the warmer months, while wolves and foxes stole a chicken or a lost lamb almost every day. A curse, the old miller cried, but few paid him any mind. Their village was not cursed. Their village was safe. While others who passed by whispered of monsters in the dark that prey upon the innocent, here not a soul was found bloodless and stiff. It is the church, Mitra told her once. It was sanctified by a holy man many years ago and since then not a single maiden was taken by the strigoi that plagued the night. The tithes they paid kept them safe too – they were considered under the protection of the lord of the land and no one would attack them unless they would like to start a conflict that few could ill afford. It was selfish to desire her valuables intact, but Elisabeta had never been the most generous. Her grandmother, may God offer peace to her soul, always admonished her for refusing to share. But if mother was taking such precious pieces, then this was more important than her mind could imagine.
The mood in the house and the village was sour. Everyone was tense, as if the very air was suffocating them and there was concern in their eyes that they tried to shield from the children. Even her brothers, usually talkative and teasing, were quiet as they went about their day. Father was preparing for a journey – to pay the tithe he said, but his tone was one resignation and doubt. As if something had happened during that night that changed everything in way she could not understand. She secluded herself in the library, reading the book on herbs and medicine she found interesting until it was time for dinner. The atmosphere around the table was tense – as if everyone was going through a loss they could not explain as no one was truly gone, their father was on a trip and would return in three days’ time at best. After dinner, Elisabeta ordered Mitra to draw her a bath so she can retire early and gratefully sunk into the hot water when her mother entered. Despite being twenty years older than her daughter, Elisa was still the proud beauty from the portraits Elisabeta has seen. She was the daughter of a minor family that married a good man and had four good children. Recently her mood was not the best and she was sharper with everyone, but Elisabeta did not think much of it. Still, seeing her mother here, dressed for bed made her almost rise from the bath in worry. Why else would her mother join her at this time, looking distraught?
“Mother? What’s wrong?”
Mitra pretended to put her sleeping clothes while keeping an ear on the conversation as she often did.
“Nothing.” Her mother answered quickly. “I will sleep here tonight. I don’t want you alone …”
“Is there a reason for this?”
“Don’t talk back to me!” a strand of hair was pulled sharply as a punishment, but not with enough force to rip it. “Just get to bed.”
Elisabeta did as she was bid and did not complain when her mother pushed her to the side so they can both lie down. She was not used to sharing a bed with anyone – the last time she slept with someone beside her was when she was a child, haunted by nightmares and her parents took her between them to help her calm. Now, even with the nightmares she would never allow herself to share her sleeping space with anyone. Her mother was quick to fall asleep, her even breathing like a howling wind in her ear due to being so close. Mitra also settled down on her bedding at the foot of the bed and only the crackling of the fire disturbed the silence. Elisabeta drifted in and out of disjointed dreams that disappeared from her memory the moment her eyes opened. She felt so warm that it was hard to breathe so she pulled her covers down to her ribs and took a deep breath in attempt to cool herself a little. The room was significantly colder than the warmth beneath her bedding and it was like a balm to her burning flesh. She doubted she could fall asleep so after a quick look at her sleeping mother, slid out of bed and approached the closed window. Outside it was so dark that you couldn’t see anything beyond the flakes of snow that flew by. This will have to do; she thought as she climbed onto the sitting pillows at the base of the window and tucked her legs beneath her sleeping gown. There was even a draft of cold, fresh air that she greedily breathed in. The white flashes of snow were mesmerizing enough to relax her, until a harsh whisper behind her pulled her from her reverie.
“What do you think you are doing?” her mother was up and her face was pale with fear. “Get away from the window!”
“I couldn’t sleep …” Elisabeta tried to explain.
“Get in bed.” Elisa insisted, but her tone was gentler as she prompted her with one hand. One Elisabeta got into bed, the older woman pulled her close in an embrace, caressing her hair. “You are so young and innocent. I pray you remain such forever, because life can be cruel and there are those who seek to harm pure souls such as you.”
“But I am safe here.” The girl whispered. “And I will be safe in the sound once I marry, for you chose a good man for me, no?”
“Even the best of men cannot protect you from evil. Even the good God cannot fully cleanse this dangerous world. So, it falls to us, His children, to be cautious and vigilant. To not allow it in our hearts and souls and minds. The price to pay for failing is too great and I do not wish for you to pay it.”
If she had to be honest, Elisabeta did not fully understand what her mother meant, but it seemed to bring comfort to the older woman to advise her only daughter, so she simply nodded. She tried to sleep too, closing her eyes and willing her body to relax, but simply could not. Every little sound was grating on her tired mind and she resigned into waiting for the sun to rise and Mitra with it. Elisabeta took this as an opportunity to get up herself and seek out the biting comfort of winter air. By the time she left the house, a piece of warm bread in her hand that Mitra bullied her into eating, she was met with the realization that something had happened last night. Mikai, her oldest brother, was stepping in for their father and talking to the unhappy shepherd and his distraught wife. The rest of the village were busying themselves but it was clear they were interested in what was said as they threw more curious glances than do their work. There were traces of blood, quickly disappearing beneath the snow. Elisabeta felt her heart drop – was their son killed? She quietly approached, munching on her steaming bread piece.
“I tell you; no wolf has ever entered the village for years.” Mikai was explaining, voice impatient. “Not even foxes go after our coops, you can ask Bratan! There he is. Bratan! Bratan! Come here!”
“And I tell you something killed four of my lambs!” Avram, the shepherd retorted. “Four lambs in one night! See, the blood is still there. I can barely find pieces of them! I tell you; wolves are attacking and if you don’t want any more livestock to be eaten, you have to keep watch at night!”
“I will see what I can do.” Her brother put a reassuring hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Come by when my father returns so you can be reimbursed for the lambs …”
Before Mikai could finish, Avram spat on the ground and left for his house. His wife, the old Maria quickly turned to follow him with tears in her eyes. Elisabeta could not understand why she was crying so – while she liked lambs, she did not feel the need to cry for them. Wasn’t it that every Bright Wednesday of St. George the Great Martyr that they slaughtered enough of the lambs to feed the village on the celebratory feast? Old Maria was old when Elisabeta was young. It was a miracle she even had a child, the girl thought, a boy younger than her, with how lined her face was. She chose to not go further into why the woman was crying, but silently prayed to not become a teary-eyed old hag if she lives this long.
Knowing her time outside was limited to whenever her mother finds out she was out and about, she chose to walk the length of the village. It did not have clear borders like the cities she had visited twice in her life – no great walls and gate, not even a fence. It began with the first house – that of Avram and Maria, and their sheep’s barn – and ended with the last house – that of the miller and his family. It was, in her mind, so small of a village. Houses, barns, church, their own house and that was it. Their house was one of the few built with stone – most were made of wood and always felt so cold on the inside, despite the lit fireplaces. By all means, the village was poor, even if her family wasn’t. The girls around her, as few as they were, did not have the heavy thick dresses that she did. Them were handed down by their mothers or older sisters and if they ever had any color, it was gone long ago. Here or there you could catch the occasional splash of red embroidery, but only on celebrations when everyone put their best clothes and jewels, if they had any. But the people were good. Helped each other and thus survived winter after winter. And perhaps, due to their good nature, they were never the target on monsters that plagued the nearby settlements. No plague had reached them and most children grew into adults. The nearby graveyard was one shared with a neighboring village and even from their distance, she could hear their mourning bells ringing far more often than in her village’s church. This is why she was sure that whatever got those lambs was an incident that will not repeat itself. With one last look at where the blood stains were, now hidden beneath the blanket of crunchy snow, she turned and headed back home.
If father was home, she was would be able to indulge her desire to go for a ride. He was far more lenient than her mother, that was for sure. She wanted her close to her as much as possible, giving into fears she did not disclose to her children. So Elisabeta was stuck inside for most of the time, reading and wishfully watching the outside world from the window and sharing her bed with her mother who refused to leave her alone. The presence of Mitra was not considered company as if her mother, thin and delicate as Elisabeta, would be able to fend off an intruder better than the short and stocky Mitra who would not hesitate to hit anyone with a poker if they dared attack her charge. The only thing her mother couldn’t do was make Mikai stay at home during the night instead of keeping watch in the village, despite all the precautions he took. He had Father Stibor bless him and his weapons, bundled up with sheepskin coat and boots and carried a lantern as he huddled in one of the emptier barns, ready to pounce against any wolf that dared to enter the village. Everyone was sure it was wolves for at night they could hear their howls. Mikai’s watch however ensured no other lamb was taken, but the fear in people remained. Why were they so afraid? It was just wolves, looking for food.
Mikai took every watch in the village. On the fourth morning he came home disheveled, left sleeve torn and small rivers of blood rolling down his hand.
“I got one.” He explained to their terrified mother and reached for the jug of wine. Taking a big gulp straight from it, he poured some on the wounds. “Bit me on the arm, but I got it before it did much.”
Elisabetha did not stay to see the damage caused by the animal, preferring to go and see the corpse of the wolf. She had never seen one up close. Mitra tried to stop her, knowing full well her charge will be in trouble, but the young girl was faster and slipped out before she could catch her. She was not the only one who had the same idea, because most of the village were gathered to see the shepherd leading an ox dragged cart and on top of it, tawny furred beast larger than any dog she had seen. There was dried blood on it, undoubtedly from her brother’s weapon and Elisabetha stared at the muzzle of the wolf. Its maw was lined with yellowed teeth and its tongue, pink and wet, was lolled out. The most amazing thing was its eyes – glassy from death, but as brown as those of any human she had seen. She wanted to reach out and pet it, for while it was the same beast that devoured four lambs not a few nights ago, its fur was thick and she imagined soft. An idea came to her and she ran back home, while the villagers spat on the ground as the wolf corpse passed.
“Mikai! Mikai!” she called out as she entered the kitchen where he was sitting, arm wrapped in cloth, and told their other brothers of how he slayed the wolf. “I saw the wolf. Can we skin it? I want his pelt!”
“And what would you do with it, draga?” Mikai asked.
“Don’t you have enough pelts on your bed? Throw one more and you will surely break beneath their weight!” Stefan laughed and poured himself more wine.
Elisabetha ignored her other brother and his attempt at a joke. She always had a better sense of humor and a sharper tongue than him, anyway.
“Wear it over my naked body as I howl at the full moon.” was her retort.
“Don’t let father Stibor hear you, least he declares you an iele and make us all stuff ourselves with garlic and dance!”
The girl rolled her eyes at the warning, because everyone knew she was not an iele. Besides there were no ieles here.
“I want his pelt.” She repeated.
“And how do you propose we cure it? Or you want it to rot on you as you sing your heathen songs? Besides, Avram probably is burning the corpse as revenge for his lambs.”
Stomping, Elisabetha left. She deserved that beautiful pelt and they allowed a simpleton as Avram to burn it? Her brothers were fools. Her entire family were fools – she was undoubtedly the smartest amongst them. In fact, the smartest in the village! Father Stibor might recite the Bible better than her, but she could read in Latin and Hungarian as well as Romanian. And understood some Greek too! She hoped her future husband would understand how valuable her intellect was and buy her any book she wants. And never say no to any of her desires.
The rest of the day passed with her sulking at being denied the wolf’s pelt. She refused to go downstairs even when hunger began to gnaw at her empty stomach and ate only when Mitra brought her some food.
“A stack of letters arrived.” The maid whispered and unveiled a letter, she was hiding in her apron. “This one is for you. From your father. Your mother hid it, but I saw her.”
Ignoring the implications that Mitra had stolen from her mistress, Elisabeta took the letter and opened the sealed paper.
‘Dearest Elisabeta,
If you are reading this letter, it means your mother is a far stronger person than I and her faith in God has never waned.
I am now in Buda and bought a house with the tithe money. It is not much, but if we ever meet again, it will be enough for our family. You must understand I did not run away because I wanted to hurt anyone, but because I am scared. This peace in which we lived was bought with innocent blood and I can no longer bear the responsibility of sending another innocent soul to its doom. I know you will have questions and I promise you that I will answer each of them when we are together, away from this cursed land.
By now, the rest of the village is probably suspecting I abandoned them. You must leave this place, alone. They will not allow the whole family to leave suddenly, so you and your mother and your brothers must each leave on your own and find your way to me. Tell no one of your plan and prepare well. Steal if you must. You know languages and how to ride. Leave as soon as you can for death looms over this place and no one is safe. I would loathe to receive word of your passing. I repeat myself, but trust no one. Not even your brothers and mother.
Be safe, my daughter. Trust in God and yourself.
Love, Papa.’