“Turn over the straw!” Papa Novak fired commands left and right.
“I’ll check the chicken coop,” a woman called out.
“You two! Go look through the haystacks! Take them apart!”
“You! Check behind the barn! Climb the manure pile!”
“Has anybody been to the gypsy camp? Has anybody even looked there?” a woman cried out.
“And the three of you, go search the orchard! Sweep the tall grass!”
“God knows how far she is by now,” an older woman wailed. “Crippled already. Smuggled out to another clan. Never to be found.”
“They’re clever that way, those vagabonds. Slippery like eels. Know how to get away with any crime,” another woman lamented.
“Check the pig puddle! Poke in the mud! But careful with the pitchforks!” Papa Novak commanded as Kata watched him setting up the search parties, his gangly form towering over the crowd. He was an imposing figure with his unruly clumps of hair, bushy eyebrows and long beard snow-white against his red face, his deep-set black eyes flashing. In the midst of panic he remained calm, arms raised as if conducting an orchestra, ensuring each person followed the score.
A thunderous cracking in the sky sent tremors through the dry earth. The shouting subsided. Kata stared at the whirl of dust spiralling toward her, at the dark clouds churning above, reaching for the tossing linden crowns. Bales of hay rolled across the barnyard. Screeching geese flapped their huge wings and staggered to a lean-to against the barn. A cow mooed mournfully and a horse neighed in a prolonged quaver. As if on command, the villagers lifted their faces to the sky.
“Where on earth did this come from? Well, I’ll be! All that humidity, and now this! Can’t remember this much heat!”
A shower of ice pebbled the crowd, moist whiff of the storm and the musky scent of dust filling the air. People stared at one another, at the clouds, and ran toward the barn as one crack after another shattered the sky and rain poured through the screen of hail. Large puddles filled with icy marbles flooded the barnyard. Kata found herself in the barn immersed in steam rising from the many bodies that towered over her, their dankness mingling with the comforting musk of horse tang in her nostrils. Mesmerized by the storm, people stood under the shelter as they had done many times during the harvest. This time there was a shared sense of foreboding.
“An-ge-laaa! An-ge-laaa!” Roza cried, running out into the storm.
“No, Roza! Come back here!” a man bellowed.
“Stop her, Alex!” a woman yelled. “She’ll lose the child!”
Bent forward against the wind, Roza ran out toward a frail young woman. All eyes focused on Angela staggering into the barnyard, rain rinsing the mud from her waist-length brown hair, from the clinging fabric of her once-white dress.
“Come inside!” Roza gripped the other woman’s arm.
Angela yanked herself from Roza’s grasp as if fighting off an attacker.
“Come back in, Roza,” Alex exclaimed, encircling her shoulders as he drew her under the shelter.
Angela continued waving, shouting into the storm. Two men stepped out, each taking an arm, and pulled her into the barn.
“No! Oh God! My baby!” Angela screamed.
“Let her be, Ivan!” Papa Novak called out.
“Don’ tell me what to do, Novak! She’s my daughter, ain’t she?” The older of the two men waved his cane as Angela slumped on the floor.
“She’s looking for her child, Ivan,” Papa Novak said. “Leave her be.”
“Don’ preach to me, Novak. This ain’t your big city school!”
Papa Novak raised his arms in despair. A long-retired history professor at Belgrade University, most villagers still called him Professor out of respect. Ivan used it to scorn.
“We’re looking at all the wrong places, Father,” the younger man cut in turning to Ivan. “Let’s get to the gypsy camp.”
“I’ll find those murderers. Who’s with me?” Ivan sucked the words in through his clenched teeth, black hair like brushes poking out of his flaring nostrils. Then he spat the cud on the barn floor.
Kata peered into his face. She could not see his eyes behind the furrowed brows, just two sunken dark pits and a deep groove running down from each, liquid trickling through them as if somebody poked his eyeballs with a stick and made them leak. She shuddered and averted her eyes.
“Let’s find those goddamn swindlers, those goddamn cradle robbers,” two other men joined in.
Grandma put herself in front of Angela’s father: “The child will be found, Ivan. Let’s keep looking. The police searched the camp, I hear. Found nothing.”
He rushed past her as if she were invisible. The three younger men followed.
“Let’s get ’em, I say. Before they take off. I’ll find that child if it’s the last thing I do.” Ivan nudged his son with his cane and the small army marched into the storm.
Angela ran back out into the rain. She dropped to her knees in a puddle of hailstones. With both fists, she began pounding her chest. Grasping the front of her dress, she tore it open. She continued beating her bare chest while kneeling on the ground, long strands of muddy hair hanging down her face and shoulders. Clasping her hands in prayer, she raised her face, words torn by the wind: “My baby … my baby …”
Roza lunged forward, but Alex tightened his embrace: “You must be careful, Roza.” He wrapped one arm around her shoulder and with the other caressed the small protrusion of her lower belly. Her determined jaws softened into a shy smile. “Yes, Alex,” she exhaled, as she looked at his face. Two young women ran to kneel next to Angela and began praying. A few others joined in. Kata stayed with the older women in the barn who were in a huddle, hands clasped, eyes upturned, lips moving. The men stood silently, some chewing long straws, and some shaking their heads in the eerie hum of whispered prayers.
Kata weaved out of the barn and knelt on the soggy patch of grass next to the women. The hailstorm had subsided, with stray pellets driving through the pouring rain and the rupture of thunder. She stared into the sky – the lightning zigzagging through the heavens, the leaden mountains receding and gathering among the shrouded giants with flashing silver prongs. She glimpsed a shadow of Saint Ilija riding his chariot, his whip snaking through the clouds, six wild horses foaming at the mouth, sparks flying from their hooves. Through the churning vapour above and under and all about him, he dispensed justice in bolts of lightning – just like the icon on Grandma’s bedroom wall, next to her grandfather’s portrait. She glanced at the women kneeling next to her. Do they see him? Are they not afraid of his anger? But their eyes were closed, mouths barely moving. As she looked back up, Saint Ilija had vanished, moved on with the receding thunder to unleash his wrath on other sinners. She put her hands together and began to pray:
“Please Saint Ilija, please God, find Angela’s baby. I’ll never sin again. Ever.” Following the motions of the woman beside her, Kata lowered her head and kissed the wet ground.
Angela prayed frantically, first with chin on her hands, then beating her chest, then bending forward and kissing the ground. She seemed unaware of the sheets of rain, the thunder rumbling in the distance, and the tree branches whipping the turbulent air.
****
Grandma’s prayer was long that evening. In bed, her hand drooped heavily while caressing Kata’s hair in tune to their bedtime song – a term they used for outgrown lullabies. Soon, Grandma’s soft singing turned into noisy puffs of air. Wide-awake, Kata climbed out and opened the bedroom window, listening for the gypsy-fairy song.
But all was eerie and still. Even the crickets seemed to be sleeping. She set her fingertips on the holes of the flute and blew gently. A shriek! Horrible! Worse than the screeching peacocks. Worse than the screeching gate.
Cold sweat and shivers coursed through her body as the pounding of her own heart thumped in her head. She threw the flute out into the shadowy darkness. It hit something with a clank, followed by a cry. A baby’s cry?
<
br /> “Who stole Angela’s baby?” she whispered. “Could it be the fairy with the beautiful singing voice?” She pressed the palms of her hands on her temples. Stop. Stop the pounding, stop the thumping.
It was the flute, she knew. The flute had gone bad. It no longer played beautiful tunes. But now it lay out in the darkness. It could do no harm.
All was calm again. She inhaled the freshness of the night air, stared at the stars in the pale sky, and squinted at the man in the shiny moon. Nothing but a smothering silence. Did the previous day even happen? The frantic villagers, Angela’s prayers, Saint Ilija’s bolts of lightning, the reaper swinging his scythe – on a Sunday?
****
The next day, Kata hurried outside to help with the morning chores. But they were done. And the sun had already climbed above the tree crowns. Bathed in the morning light, Roza stood in the barnyard in a clean white dress sporting big yellow flowers and green leaves, talking to Grandma. The clean brown chickens were fighting over the worms wiggling on the washed earth; the clean white geese were flapping their huge wings. All clean and new, new and clean … did yesterday even happen?
Roza’s voice rang out: “It’s my little brother! My poor mama, God bless her soul, must be turning in her grave. I said I’d take care of him. Raise him like my own child. But he doesn’t listen!” She was pulling Grandma by the arm and leading her toward the gate.
“Yes, yes, let’s go, Roza, dear. I’ll talk to them.”
Roza adjusted the kerchief on her head and continued. “That brother of mine! Climbing down the well before I got there! You’ve got to stop this! That old well could’ve collapsed and buried him. And now it’s Alex! Wants to climb down! He’s a big man! These are old wells!”
Kata trailed a few steps behind.
“Some people are careless. A toddler could climb on a pail and fall right in the well if the lid’s off.” Roza led the way to a shaft framed with wide wood planks.
“You can’t go down, Alex. You’ve done your part. And where’s that brother of mine? I’ll give him a piece of my mind!” Roza pushed her way through the men carrying ladders and ropes, all heading toward the well. Papa Novak walked ahead. A group of boys, with Miladin in the lead, followed closely behind.
Alex began tying together the ends of two wooden ladders. “This well’s quite deep,” he called out. “We’ll need one more.” The men attached the third one. They lowered the contraption into the well by tying it to the large plank straddling the well mouth.
“I’ll go in,” Roza’s brother announced.
“Over my dead body!” Roza shrieked, pulling him away by his shirt collar.
“Only sixteen and older,” Papa Novak cut in. “Don’t worry, Roza. They began without me. I wouldn’t let a 14-year-old go.”
He turned to the others: “All right boys! You’ll take turns. It’s cold down there.”
Three boys stepped out of the group, elbowing each other out of the way. Miladin jostled his way amongst them, stretching his neck, perching on his toes.
“You boys don’t look sixteen to me,” Papa Novak said, chuckling. “But it’s mighty brave of you. You can show your courage another time.”
“But I can do it! I’m not afraid!” Miladin stepped forward, with a swift glance at Kata. She turned away, pretending not to notice.
“I’m sure you can, young man. But we need somebody a little taller.”
Miladin’s face turned red. This time Kata made sure she met his glance.
Alex began uncoiling the rope slung over his arm: “I’ll go in!”
“You’re too big for the narrow bottom of the well, my son,” Papa Novak said. “And a little heavy. Too much weight on the ladders.”
A slender young man of average height stepped up to the task. Two men tied a rope around his waist, holding taut the other end as he began his descent into the pit.
“Angela’s brother’s going in first. Everybody stand back!” Alex announced. “You boys don’t get any closer,” he said to Miladin and his group. “And you stay here next to me,” he cautioned Roza’s brother.
Grandma took Kata’s hand. “And why are you here, child? Forgotten you’re a girl?” She pointed to Miladin’s group. “Don’t you even think about running through the village like those boys, led by our little Hermes.”
****
Kata followed her grandma’s orders to avoid the search party but she could not stop thinking about it. In fact, that’s all she thought about. She had never seen a dead person and the thought of being faced with the drowned body of the little girl in a flowery dress made her chest ache, her stomach churn.
A few hours later, as Kata was helping pick cucumbers in the vegetable patch behind the barn, Roza returned. Grandma looked up: “Oh, dear. I wonder if they found her.”
“Nothing so far,” Roza bellowed. “Angela’s brother almost drowned. Sudden gush of water from an underground spring. Rose faster than you can blink. If it wasn’t for Papa Novak, we would’ve pulled a drowned body out, all right.”
Grandma crossed her heart and murmured a prayer.
Roza stepped carefully between the cucumber vines. “They’re on their way here. Those boys have no fear. Still competing for the number of times they get lowered into the well – ‘number of wells,’ they call it. Little Miladin’s the scorekeeper.”
Grandma shook her head. “Boys. At least Miladin’s using his math skills. Mighty clever of him.”
“Not just boys! The men are at it, too! Placing bets, I tell you! Egging those boys on! Bad examples. Those men are betting on those boys’ heads.” Roza pulled a cucumber off a vine, wiped it on her apron, and bit off a large chunk.
“And now it’s that low-life! Leading with the highest number of wells,” she said as she chewed. “You know, the one that loves his beer. He’d sell his mother for a drop of home-brewed slivovica.”
Grandma frowned: “Stefan’s just a young man who’s lost his way a bit, Roza dear.”
Roza swallowed. “Sure! Just like his father. Drinking. Chasing after young gypsies. Besides, our village low-life is used to getting his way. Used to bullying others. Why stop him now? When he’s doing some good.”
Grandma compressed her lips and slanted a censorious look at her neighbour.
Roza made a sad-clown face and daintily slapped the back of her left hand with the fingertips of her right one. “Got my baby brother to place a bet for me. I bet a hen and a dozen eggs that low-life’s going to win.” She glanced about as if revealing a great secret. “Well, that and a pack of my favourites. Alex doesn’t know. He smokes, too. He can’t tell.”
Grandma shook her head and pressed her lips even tighter. Then both turned toward the approaching search party.
“I better go,” Roza said. “Find that poor girl, Angela. Get her to eat something. Refusing food, they say. Killing herself with worry.”
Kata had a quick decision to make. You’re just a girl! Afraid to see a dead body, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Miladin’s taunts echoed in her head.
Kata hid behind the main house, close enough to hear the voices. If they found the body, she could scurry off without being seen. But if nothing was found, she could come out and join the onlookers. She listened to every word and every sound, ready to run at the slightest hint of being discovered. The men were pounding with something that sounded like a wooden mallet, remarking that the brick walls of the well were as strong as the day her grandfather Mihailo built them.
“Don’t be afraid, Stefan, my son,” Papa Novak said, “This well’s built to last.”
“No fear, Mr. Novak, no fear. Let’s get on with it.”
Kata knew that Stefan must be the man they called the low-life. Yet she sensed something enchanting in his voice, as if it drifted from a fairy tale. She could listen to this voice forever, follow wherever it went. But the voice was disappearing into the well. What if her grandfather’s well wasn’t that strong after all? What if it collapsed? And the voice she could follow forever plummeted
into the pit, gone forever?
She listened for the voice, but all she could hear was Miladin announcing the score, laughing with his friends, showing them where to stand for the best view. She knew he hoped she would hear him bossing others about. So she remained hidden. But then she heard Papa Novak: “Anything down there, Stefan? Just drag the pail once or twice and climb up, my son. You’ve done your best.”
She listened for a response from the pit.
“Do you hear me, Stefan?”
She thought she heard panic in Papa Novak’s call. She ran out from behind the house and dashed toward the well. Two hands grabbed her just before she reached the ladder.
“Oh, no, my princess,” Papa Novak said, holding her back.
She saw the top of a head with wet, curly black hair ascending from the well. Heavy eyebrows appeared above slightly blood-shot brown eyes gleaming on a wide, sunburned face. There was a charming gap between his front teeth, water streaming off his strong shoulders.
“I’m all right, Mr. Novak. Nothing down there.” The enchanting voice had returned.
She gaped at his magical presence. For a moment, their eyes met.
“Don’t worry, little girl,” he said casually while the onlookers encircled him, patting his shoulders and offering words of praise.
She gave in to the urge to run away, as far as possible, as fast as possible. She thought she heard Miladin calling after her, but could not face the prospect of talking to anyone. Not just now, when she needed to figure out what had just happened.
I … found the voice from the well, she thought. And the voice … belongs to a prince … from the Princess and the Frog … He is the prince. He just needed to be … kissed. He looked … with all the people gathered around him … patting … his shoulders … he looked … lonely. She sat on her grandma’s bed and, realizing she’d just uttered the word lonely out loud, clasped both hands on her mouth to prevent more sounds from escaping.
Summer of The Dancing Bear Page 2