“What put them on her trail, Mimi?” I fumed. Constantin made a coughing noise, and when I glanced at him he gave me a signal, saying, patience. “Can you heal the wound?” I asked more gently.
“No.” Mimi whispered, her eyes dark with fear. “She’ll come out.”
I raked my hand through my hair, then moved alongside her. I took her good hand in mine. “Try and remember as much as you can,” I said, and she nodded slowly.
“Anyeta—she was, she was in the woods.”
“What do you see?”
“Nothing. I can’t see anything, but I feel her.” She shuddered. “She was boiling. Furious.” Mimi’s eyes opened wide in terror. “I hear the sound of hinges creaking. It’s Joseph’s casket.” She cringed. “Oh my God, oh God, I hear her voice,” Mimi said, suddenly fixing her gaze on Constantin.
I followed her eyes. He was sitting quietly on the chair, idly toying with the old man’s ring as it swung on a ribbon against his dark shirtfront.
“No, no.” She moaned, staring at the ring, winking and bobbing in the dim light.
“What is she saying, Mimi?”
Her voice, when it came, had a sickly sound. “She’s saying over and over, ‘I will wear your daughter like a bauble on a string around my neck.’”
None of us said a word. In the dreadful silence that seemed to fill the room we felt the weight of the sorceress’ revenge. Anyeta had been running with the wolves.
***
Constantin’s face went white in the early morning light. He nudged me, pointing at the print of a bloody palm against the pale gray trunk of a thin sapling. Anyeta or Mimi had leaned against it, resting, I thought.
“Me-mee,” he said, miming a pistol shot. “We-ak.”
I nodded. It was the second or third smear we’d come on. “Christ, how much blood did she lose?” I said, lighting a cigarette to calm my nerves.
“Nuh,” he said, lifting his eyes along the leaf-choked path ahead. He made a gobbling sound, hooked his hands into claws, and I found myself looking at the red spatters and droplets splashed along the trail. He was saying not all of the blood was my wife’s—some of it had come from the kill. Joseph’s words circled round and round my head. First animals, then children. Through the gray foggy shadows, I could make out the dark boxy shape of the old man’s casket in the distance. My stomach cramped, and I ground out the cigarette, feeling a thick nausea.
We walked on, our boots slipping through the fallen rotting leaves. I saw a patch of hair stuck to a white stone. No, dear Christ, I begged, thinking of the men chasing Mimi through the woods, praying somehow it had been angry farmers who found the remains of sheep, cattle.
I stood beside the casket, my hand trembling. The lid was closed. Just behind my shoulder Constantin’s warm breathing misted the air. I didn’t want him to see the old man’s remains, and I made him step aside.
Now I saw Joseph’s coffin was covered with dark wet streaks I told myself might be night damp or beads of dew. No, it looks sticky, the wary part of my mind countered. But I shoved that notion aside, trying to convince myself it was new wood, the planks were bleeding sap, oozing . . . but in my heart I knew it wasn’t so, I knew it was blood and with a moan I raised the lid.
***
“Oh JesusfuckingChrist!” I hissed.
A child’s face stared up at me. The body was folded in on itself, like an overgrown fetus nested in the womb of the coffin. Skinny wrists crossed, small blue bumps of knees drawn high on the chest, it lay curled just above Joseph’s shoulders—above the tattered shreds of burned cloth. It was there, the tiny back pressed against the acid scarred boards. Anyeta was vicious, this was a sickening grotesquerie, I thought, holding my breath: The child lay in that vast empty place—just where his head would have been.
I slammed the lid down.
“Oh Christ on the cross.” This ravaged baby was little more than a year old. There was blood on its skin, but I wouldn’t let myself think about the source of the wounds. No. Didn’t want to envision the ragged marks inflicted by teeth—
The gorge rose in my throat, I leaned to vomit a thin sour stream that splatted weakly on the brown wind sucked leaves. I was on my hands and knees, unaware of the icy ground, my head rocked, my body swayed and I vomited over and over until there was nothing left in my belly.
***
“For I am the resurrection and the life,” the blonde haired priest intoned.
Joseph’s coffin rested alongside a shallow pit of a grave. My eye drifted over the wood that gleamed in the pale sunlight. We’d cleaned the blood up as best we could, I thought. My eye snagged at the large bleb of dark red wax I’d used to seal the lid. If you stared at it, you could make out his initial J where I pressed the signet in.
I wished the priest would hurry. I wondered if he knew he was reading the service over a child as well. Was it the housekeeper’s grandson? We’d never know, I guessed. The wind gusted up and I shivered. The baby curled above his . . . above Joseph’s—I closed my eyes, shut out the image.
My mind was hazy. It was the shock of these last days. I was tired, tired unto death, I thought.
“He who believes in me lives forever,” the priest said, his dark cassock fanning out in the breeze. Constantin cried softly. I put my hand out and felt his damp fingers twine through mine.
Both caravans—my bright green one and Joseph’s canvas roofed wagon—were parked too close to the rutted graveyard entry, looking gaudy, incongruous I thought. Mimi was there, Lenore with her.
Mimi couldn’t come to the service—not with a bandaged arm. The risk was too great.
My gaze drifted to the far edge of the dismal field, past the rows of plain wooden crosses, the patches of naked earth that were bare of any marker at all. I saw three men walking slowly, eyes cast down; I wondered they could find the graves of the friends they’d known.
“Grant him rest. We ask this in the name of the Christ Jesus, His Blessed Mother, the apostles Peter and Paul, the holy martyrs, and all the company of saints and angels who rest eternally in Your salvation.” The priest’s eyes were closed, his chapped hands raised, palms out, to the level of his shoulders.
Constantin fingered the gold ring hanging on the cord, I saw a small ridge of red wax clinging to the flat top. I glanced at the coffin, the mere scrape of a grave. The ground was hard; the sextons had laid in a supply of stones and rocks to cover up the casket and keep the scavengers away.
We were here, mourning Joseph again, I thought numbly. The priest droned on. It didn’t seem real. Lenore wanted to come. She cried when her mother and I said no. We didn’t speak of danger.
Behind me, I heard the two gravediggers shuffling their feet. One of them absently scraped his shovel along the ground. The priest shook his head frowning, and the man stopped.
After the funeral, this afternoon I was going to trade the horses—all of them—for the swiftest team I could get. Then I’d hitch the wagons together and we would leave right after—
I was suddenly aware of a soft spattering sound, like rain against glass. I looked up to see the priest dipping a silver knobbed wand into a vessel of holy water. He lifted it out, holding the slim tapered end, flicked it in time with his voice, blessing the casket.
“In the name of the Father, the Son—”
He stopped. His eyes widened, and I saw his pink face turn a startling deeper red. “What do you men want here?” he said.
I turned. Standing alongside the sextons were the three men I’d seen walking through the field a few minutes ago.
“Why is the coffin sealed, Father?” A bearded man spoke up. His arms were crossed.
“How dare you profane this service? This is God’s holy rite.” The priest’s blue eyes went hard.
He’s the pastor. His word will carry weight. The old man’s prophetic words roiled in me. The foggy dreaminess of the funeral scattered. I felt my pulse speed up. Some things are better not known.
“Gypsies always open the casket. Right
by the grave.” The bearded man gave me a sneering look, then he leaned over and spit on the ground. “They say good bye, they bury their dead with tools, clothes—all kinds of shit—”
“For the journey,” a fat man with shaggy hair said. “In the after-life.”
It was true of course, and I’d sealed the casket in case the priest expected that gypsy ritual. I hadn’t wanted him or one of the sextons to open it before I could—
“Christ, yes,” one of the sextons murmured, tapping a rusted shovel. “Never seen one without they poured in wine and brandy. Even gold.” His eye lit on the ring winking against Constantin’s coat.
“But we’re Catholics—not heathens,” I said, turning away and motioning the priest to go on with the service.
The bearded man cut in. “There’s a child gone,” he said. “Know anything about it?” He stooped down, picked up a stone. He stood shifting it, almost casually, from hand to hand.
“We don’t steal children,” I said, deliberately twisting his meaning.
“Get out of here,” the priest said. “There’s an old man in the casket. A friend loved like a father. His name was Joseph, he was a Lovari, a horse dealer from Hungary.” The priest put his hand on my shoulder. “And I tell you this man had tears in his eyes when he came to my church and spoke of his end.”
The bearded man’s eyes blazed. “That child was murdered. There was blood in its crib. Rudy here,” he nodded toward the fat man, “shot at something in the woods last night. Where’s the gyp woman? Huh? Why isn’t she here?”
“My wife is ill—”
“Who sealed the casket? You?” He pointed at the priest, who shook his head. “I didn’t think so.”
“Give me your word,” the priest said, “you had nothing to do with the child and I’ll send these men away.”
It was the barest of hesitations, I knew what they would find if they broke the seal and opened the lid. From the corner of my eye, I saw that now all three of them had sharp rocks.
“Give me your word, Imre,” the priest said, stepping between us and the men. His fingers were very pale against the dark red of the seal.
“You stupid bastard! Get out of the way!” the bearded man screamed.
“Run,” I shouted, yanking Constantin’s arm, at the same time I saw a stone fly and strike the center of the priest’s forehead. He swayed backwards, hands slipping over the smooth wooden coffin lid. There was a gout of blood, his blue eyes went glassy, his mouth dropped open. Then he toppled forward.
Panting, we ran for the caravan. I felt a rock sting the soft flesh of my ear. I got on the box, seized the whip and lashed the team, shouting. There was a hail of stones, the men gave chase screaming. One of the horses nickered in panic. We lurched forward, jolting over the curb and into the narrow street, then turned sharply heading toward the western road.
We were coming out of the turn when I heard the sound of gunfire. Behind me glass shattered in one of the windows, spraying onto the street. The horses pounded on. The men screamed obscenities, I saw their arms pumping furiously and I heard rocks pelting the wooden sides of the caravans.
It was then I turned to look at Constantin, white-faced, clinging to the box.
He looked at me, his lips moved slowly. His small hand came up, and he fumbled, grappling for Joseph’s ring.
“Constantin,” I said, seeing he was tugging at the folds of his coat.
“Im-re,” he answered. The coat opened, and he tapped with one finger, pointing to the center of his muslin shirt.
A small star of blood bloomed there.
I felt a scream rise up out of my lungs. “NO! It can’t be!”
The ring swayed against his chest; slowly he raised it toward his mouth. He pursed his lips to kiss it, and a bright red frothy bubble of blood burst between his parted teeth, then trickled down his chin.
His dark eyes sought mine. There was no fear, only a look behind the dulling light that said this was right, he would be with Joseph.
“No,” I moaned. The caravans rolled past the cobbles and onto the dirt road. We were out of danger now; I thought sadly, we nearly made it, we were so close. The horses slackened their pace to a plodding walk.
In my mind’s eye I saw Joseph the day we’d come to Romania, all those months before, his hooded eyes had been filled with a mystery I knew now was love. I take care of him, Imre—as much as one man can care for another.
“Oh, Christ, Constantin, don’t—don’t die now. You’ve got to stay with us.” I swallowed, tasting salty tears. “Please,” I said, groping for his small thick hand.
A faint smile touched his lips. His hand found mine.
***
He shook his head. “No leave Joseph,” he whispered, and his eyes sank closed. “I stay. Jos—eph. No ’lone.”
Under my fingers I felt the ebbing thread of his pulse, and I clutched him tighter. There was a huge erratic throb; and then, nothing more.
-49-
We drove west toward Gradistea, a remote place high above ancient pre-Roman ruins. Two days after we made camp, I began to dig the grave under an enormous beech tree on the edge of the woods. There was the smell of snow in the air, and the work was hard and heavy, my hands raw with the cold. There were no sounds except the grut of the metal shovel against the earth, the soft pattering spill of whatever soil I could dredge out. The sky grew darker and I hurried through the rest of the task; gathering stones to mound over the grave, carving their names, the date into the flesh of the tree. The epitaph was an afterthought, the words of a poem I recalled from childhood.
January 1864
Joseph of the Lovari
and
Constantin, a seer
Give us long rest or death,
Dark death—or dreamful ease.
I thought it suited each of them well, knowing each of them had wanted the peace of the dark death—the dreamless sleep. And if there was awareness beyond death—then I wished for the other sort of peace: that they might lie in their easy dreams together.
***
At noon I’d set off to return to the potter’s field, Lenore’s and Mimi’s voices rattling around in my head: You’ve got to go back for Joseph! None of us knew if Constantin had foreseen his own end, but his last thoughts had been with the old man. The huge sheltering tree was a place we would remember when we’d gone—something fixed to carry with us like a mental linchpin; but as the horse plodded on it began to snow, and I cast a wary eye toward the mountains. With each kilometer I began to feel more cut off, more isolated. I shivered under my cloak, the snow stung my skin, and as the heavy, muffled silence grew around me I knew we would never get through the icy steeps and snow-choked passes—not before spring.
By nightfall, the ground was covered, wrapping the potter’s field in an undulating sweep of white that made the place seem emptier. I led the horse through the gate and saw at once that the townspeople had been at Joseph’s coffin with hatchets. One joined corner stuck up out of the earth, like the ghostly hull of an old ship. In my lantern light I saw fragments of the red wax seal scattered over the snow, and I was half-afraid of finding his body hacked to pieces. But instead, they’d dumped him out. His body was a sprawled tangle of frozen limbs lying at the base of a low stone wall. Christ, they left him for carrion, I thought, wrapping him in a blanket I’d brought for the purpose. I had a mental picture of two greenish luminous eyes staring up at me over his body. A fox baring its teeth and slinking away. But there was nothing, and I hefted his body crosswise over the horse. We rode back carrying that uneasy weight, his loose-jointed limbs keeping time with the word carrion jouncing up and down in my brain. I recalled later that the word seemed to slice through me again and again with a peculiar intensity; of course, it’s only later on that you can recognize a premonition for what it was.
***
We buried them together, their small grave marked with the heap of ancient gray stones rising out of the snow. I remembered the day, the anemic sun, Lenore’s black
hair fanning out in the breeze when she stooped down and wreathed the grave with a twig swollen with red winter berries. I traced the inscription carved into the old beech with my index finger, wished them well. I looked out over the bleak landscape above the ruined city with its silent monuments, toppled stones. There is always a deathly stillness in those places; it lies thick as a blanket, almost but not quite muting the awareness of once thriving life. As if only you turned quickly enough, you might catch sight of milkmaids laughing, men gathering in the squares, children roaming lanes and streets. It was both fitting and terrible that these two lay here, I thought. I remembered the day, the pale sun, the feel of those cold stones biting into my hands as I shaped the crude mound; but as the winter wore on cutting us off, and I had to shoot first one, then another of the horses for food, it was the huge tree that began to infiltrate my dreams. Mine and Mimi’s—Anyeta was among us.
***
“Imre, Imre!”
I was startled out of a ragged sleep, could feel the sheets were damp and Mimi was huddled close by, trembling. The front door to the caravan was open; a chill March wind swirled across the threshold, the door swung on its hinges, and I heard the green curtain flapping. She’s been out again I thought, at the same time her fingers closed on my wrist. They were cold and slick. I sucked in my breath, afraid it was blood and flinched away before I could stop myself.
“No, I was sweating,” she said, leaving my fear unspoken between us. “It was a dream—a nightmare.” Her voice trailed off, and I got up, closed the door, then lit a candle, and even in the soft light I could see her face was haggard. Her hair clung to her scalp in strings, her nightdress stuck to the damp skin. “I’m cold,” she said, shivering, and the thought flashed through me that she was wet with being out of doors, that it wasn’t perspiration.
“It’s the same dream. Always the same, since the night you went back for Joseph. I’m afraid, but I can’t stop it once it starts.
“There’s a jagged flash of lightning, the sky and ground go silver bright and I see a towering tree, a heap of stones among the jumble of dark roots. And in the livid glare, I see a deep scar in the trunk where someone has carved their names and—”
The Gentling Box Page 26