Then she closed the palm of her hand, smelling like the earth she had crouched on, and kissed the top of the fist. It felt smooth, so she shut her eyes and imagined that she was about to kiss her frog-prince as he ascended from the well.
She wondered what would be the best place to kiss him. Grandma had taught her never to kiss older people on the lips. Some people are not very considerate, Grandma had said, but you should always turn your cheek for them to kiss and never let them kiss you on your lips. It’s not hygienic. Kata had seen grownups kiss their own child on the lips and thought it a disgusting habit. She should not imagine kissing him like that. He wouldn’t like it. She considered his sunburned forehead, but then recalled Grandma kissing her on that same spot every night before going to sleep. No, that would be like being kissed by one’s grandma. She could pretend-kiss him on his cheek, but then thought of her Aunt Agata who kisses everybody on the cheek so loudly the whole village can hear her. And she repeats the loud smacking of her lips, so her pale peach lipstick that smells like stale boiled eggs remains plastered on one’s cheek.
Eyes still shut, she envisioned his features, searching for the spot on which to place her kiss. He had big brown eyes. Had anyone ever kissed him on his eyelids? No one had ever kissed her that way. She envisioned him again and again, ascending from the well. There was no point imagining him as a frog. His presence was deeply etched in her mind, and she did not wish to change a single thing. His eyelids were closed now and she was leaning over the ladder. She puckered her lips, and then relaxed them a little to make them feel softer. She made a gentle smacking sound on top of her tight fist. Kissing him could be better than eating cherries, she mused. He will always be my prince.
She opened her eyes and thought back on the amazing events of the day. She retrieved Grandma’s rose-coloured lipstick from an armoire drawer in the guest room. Its faint scent reminded her of the rose petals in the garden that every year heralded the arrival of summer. She applied it liberally to her lips. Then expertly guiding the scissors she used for making her doll’s garments, she cut a sleeve off a faded yellow shirt. Carefully, she pressed her puckered lips on the sleeve. The imprint was satisfactory. She folded the fabric and placed it in the top drawer of Grandma’s dresser, adding to her collection of souvenirs.
This is my first kiss, she declared. I will remember it, forever.
****
That evening, Grandma dunked a bouquet of dry basil in holy water and sprinkled it about the house and all over Kata while murmuring an incantation. She threw a pinch of salt over Kata’s left shoulder, then over the right one, and a third toward the yard, ushering evil spirits out of the house. Thus cleansed and snuggled in bed close to her grandma, Kata recited a prayer and crossed her heart. But soon the nightmares began. First, a white bundle floating deep down in the well was calling to her, and she woke up screaming. Comforted by her grandma, she fell asleep again. But this time she saw her grandfather’s well crumbling while, she knew, her prince was down in the pit. She jerked up in bed, determined to remain awake. Yet, the next moment her prince’s face was ascending from the pit. She could see his brown eyes smiling through wet eyelashes. She opened her own eyes. Morning sun filled the window and Roza’s voice carried clearly from the yard: “It’s Stefan! That low-life, I tell you! I knew it’d be him!”
Kata ran outside, legs wobbly, breath drowning in hot air.
“It’s him, all right,” Roza hollered. “I won five hens and enough eggs to feed the village. And six packs. Think of that!”
“And they found nothing?” Grandma asked, cutting her off.
“Zilch! All that searching in vain. Risking all those young lives. But the low-life’s now a hero. Highest number of wells.”
Grandma placed her hand on Roza’s arm. “Let’s go over to Angela’s. Let’s see how that poor girl’s holding up. Barely sixteen, and already been through hell.”
“I was just there! Took some roast chicken to her! My Alex likes roast chicken for breakfast. And he likes my apple strudel first thing in the morning. All steaming hot, smelling heavenly, a dead man would rise from his grave for a bite. Angela didn’t even look at the food or me. We used to be friends!”
Roza stuck a fork into the baked chicken she was carrying in a roaster. “Here, take this!” she said to Grandma. Then she turned to Kata, pushing the pot into her hands. “Take it in. Go eat it. While it’s hot!”
Kata walked toward the kitchen, holding the roaster away from her face. She opened the oven and shoved it in. But even that wasn’t far enough. So she ran outside, away from the smell of the chicken that would wake up a dead man from his grave.
“My prince is safe,” she whispered. “And a village hero!” Breathing freely, she hopped on one foot a few times and then the other in make-believe hopscotch, wishing she could fly with her lungs full of sweet air.
Over the next few days, she hoped the baby would be found and the village would return to normal. But the search continued.
A sense of gloom settled over endless days of speculation, permeating the dreams that invaded her fitful slumber. She existed in an ominous never-never land, as if sinister characters from winter stories and fairytales now roamed the countryside, turning it into a realm of chaos and threat.
Chapter II
The Spring Of Bad Omens
(Spring 1960)
“I heard the thump … I heard the thump …” Kata gasped as she ran, inhaling the morning air so crisp and thin. She envisioned it penetrating her bones, packing them with air bubbles, each stride becoming longer and longer, lighter and lighter, as if she were flying over the blades of grass slashing her bare legs. She stopped, lifted the dew-soaked hem of her dress and wiped the sweat off her face. She stared ahead at the corner of the woodlot where the soldier had been killed … and shuddered.
“Grandma will be looking for me,” she said firmly and turned back along the grassy path through the field, young corn stalks barely to her knees, her once-white canvas running shoes squishing with every step. The first rays of sun flooded the fields and tinted the eastern sky a pale rose.
“I heard the thump,” she whispered to the two peacocks, each a cluster of tarnished brass feathers encased in the iron gate.
She lifted the rusty ring off the gate-post and slipped it on her left arm as if it were a bracelet. She licked her index finger and rubbed it gently along the green stone-eye imbedded in the bird-head profile. Then she settled her face into a reverent pose and recited: Open your eyes the blue peacocks of India, once made sacred to Hera, queen of the heavens, and do the fan dance!
With both hands, she lifted the gate just high enough to clear the ground, pushed it open, and squeezed through. After replacing the ring, she gingerly brushed the palm of her hand over the green stone eye and the intricate brass train and chanted: Go to sleep the blue peacocks of India, once made sacred to Hera, queen of the heavens.
Stepping carefully between the clumps of dewy tulips and clusters of hyacinths in the garden, she bent down and began lifting the broad leaves and pink and blue blossoms. “Where is it? Where, where …”
“There you are!” Grandma was holding a sack of chicken feed in her hands, ready for morning chores. “Why are you up so early, child? It’s Sunday. No school.” She stopped. “You’re soaked. Better go and change into dry clothes.”
Upon Kata’s return, Grandma continued her inquisition. “Where have you been so early? And without asking.” She cocked an eyebrow at her granddaughter.
Kata knelt in the garden and inhaled the familiar perfume of a blue hyacinth. “I’ll put it on your dresser,” she said, picking the blossom.
Grandma wiped the wood bench under the old lilac tree and sat down. “Come over here, child. Sit down. Where did you go?”
“For you,” the girl said, handing the blossom to her grandma and kissing her hand. Then she snuggled close: “Please, tell the hyacinth story.”
Grandma smiled, proudly. The custom of kissing the hand of the eld
erly as the sign of respect was an old one. Her granddaughter was one of the few village children who practiced it, willingly.
“I see you’re not about to tell me, are you? Well, then, a story about Hyacinthus it is, if you promise never to run off into the fields by yourself, early like that. A vila could see you and cast her evil eye on you.” Grandma wrapped her arm protectively around the child.
“The vila that dances all night and makes magic in the woods?” Kata asked.
“That very one.”
“But I didn’t go in the woods.”
“Don’t you play smart with me,” Grandma said.
Her face relaxed as she explained that these stories were a little like a religion Greek people believed in a long time ago, before Christ was born. And that she added her own twists to them, just for fun.
“Once upon a time,” she began, in her mysterious storytelling voice, “there lived a young man far, far away in Greece. His name was Hyacinthus.” She described his beauty, which became known around the world. She told of Apollo, god of music and poetry who admired all beautiful things, and who loved Hyacinthus with all his heart. But Zephyrus, god of the west wind, fell hopelessly in love with Hyacinthus.
“What does that mean, fell in love hopelessly, Bako?”
“It means that, even if he knew that love would bring pain and sorrow, he could not stop.”
“I’d like you to tell me the story in exactly the same way,” Kata pleaded. “I don’t like it when you change the words.”
The kind face crinkled in a curious smile: “I don’t change them on purpose, dear. I change them because of the way I feel at the time. Sometimes I think of my Mihailo. If I knew that he’d be killed and that I would be left alone, would I have still married him? Sometimes my own feelings end up in the story.”
“And would you have, Bako?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Would you have married Deda Mihailo?”
“Yes, I would have, my love. My answer is always the same. Yes.”
“Do you still miss him, Bako?”
“Every waking moment, my love.”
“Even when you’re telling me stories?”
“When I’m with you, my little swallow, my heart is full. But you can miss somebody and still be happy with other people. I’m always happy when I’m with you. Don’t you ever forget that.”
The story continued: “With Zephyrus in such a state, the weather around the world changed. It was either too cold or too hot. Like when we pray for the rain, but it doesn’t come and the wheat and corn dry up. So people began praying to Zeus.”
“Zeus was the most important god,” Kata announced.
Grandma nodded. “Hearing so many prayers, Zeus asked all gods to investigate. But the gods knew just how much Zephyrus loved Hyacinthus, and could not snitch on one of their own. It would’ve been the same as snitching on one of your friends, like Maja or Miladin.”
“I would never do that.”
“And neither could they. Crops wouldn’t grow, and famine overcame the entire earth, people dying of hunger, everywhere. As bad as the potato famine in Ireland. Worse than the Great Depression in America and Canada.”
“Is that where Deda Mihailo may be hiding? America or Canada? You said so. You think he’ll come back some day?”
The eyes softened: “I pray every day that he might walk through that gate and see you. He would be so proud. You are his spitting image, in body and soul, my little butterfly. You have his energy, his enthusiasm. But you also have this … this natural curiosity. It’s a gift, I know. But sometimes I … worry about it.”
She returned to the story: “River Acheron became jammed with souls travelling to the House of Hades. The oracle of the dead, who guarded its bank, fell into a deep sleep.”
“Like our watermelon farmer? The one we saw sleeping by the Sava? Remember Bako? When you came on our school trip?”
Grandma sighed. “Ivan drinks, dear. Sleeps wherever he happens to fall, until somebody finds him and drags him home.”
She continued the story: “More and more souls kept arriving and the river groaned from all the weight. Hades heard it and demanded an explanation. So the River Acheron asked Zeus to meet one of her nymphs at the dark gorge where the watercourse enters the underworld. That was a scary place. Dark and mysterious.”
“I sure wouldn’t want to be that nymph,” squeaked Kata as she pressed herself even tighter against her grandma.
“I don’t blame you. But the nymph wasn’t scared of Zeus. She was at home in that dark and mysterious place. And she was very beautiful.”
“As beautiful as Angela?”
“Could be, dear.”
“Did she have a baby, too?”
“Maybe, dear.”
“Did her baby have a father?”
“Must’ve. Everybody has to.”
“Angela’s baby doesn’t have a father.”
“God is her father, dear.”
Grandma got the story back on track: “The beautiful nymph hoped to use her feminine wiles to soften Zeus’ heart. And Zeus was very, very handsome. No woman could ever resist him.”
“And why not, Bako? Why could no woman resist Zeus?”
“Hmm … You certainly know how to ask questions, my little swallow. You can add this one to your list of puzzling questions, dear. You’ll understand some day. When you grow up.”
“But my list is getting longer and longer. And I see no answers.”
“Zeus was in one of his bad moods. He was a little like your father when he has words with your mother. Moody.”
Kata shook her head to dislodge the quarrelling voices from her thoughts. “I hate it when they fight. Sometimes when I sleep in my own room I can hear them, shouting.”
Silently she summarized Zeus’ character: The most important god, irresistible to women, and moody like my father, she listed, folding a finger for each trait.
Kata held her breath. This was the part she adored – when Grandma puts on her romantic voice and describes the old willow that couldn’t draw Zeus out of his bad mood.
And sure enough: “Under the gigantic willow tree with the crown reaching up to the sky and the weeping branches tickling the ripples of the river Acheron, the nymph played Zephyrus’ sad love song to Zeus.”
Kata closed her eyes, feeling the cool seclusion under the canopy of weeping branches, deafened by the water surging into the bottomless gorge that led to the underworld. The nymph was tiptoeing from rock to rock, swathed in mist rising above the rushing water. From somewhere far away the storytelling voice continued: “She wore …”
The nymph’s transparent gown of morning dew shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow. She loosened her dark glistening hair so it fell to her knees. She sat on the rock’s deep green moss and surveyed her surroundings with brilliant turquoise eyes. Raising a flute to her rosy lips, she began to play Zephyrus’ sad tune.
“And what did Zeus do, you ask?” The storytelling voice interrupted Kata’s vision: “Well, believe it or not, he got upset. He accused her of using her feminine wiles to soften his heart.”
Kata opened her eyes as the nymph and the gorge with green moss and the rushing water and the gigantic willow tree vanished into … the underworld?
“Zeus ordered Zephyrus to resume his travels, at once. Zephyrus begged Hyacinthus to join him. But Hyacinthus preferred to listen to music, especially the lyre and the flute.”
“Like the flute you gave me? The one you got from a gypsy?”
“Yes, dear.”
“The gypsy who helped you when you broke your hip? The blacksmith?”
“That very one.”
The story continued: “And Hyacinthus liked to read poetry, especially by Homer, just like you like to read fairytales. But most importantly, he liked doing all these things with Apollo.”
“Apollo was the god of music,” Kata interjected.
Grandma nodded. “He was Zeus’ son. Made sure that everyone, huma
n and divine, obeyed his father. Because, as we all know, Zeus had to get his own way.”
Number four. Kata folded another finger: Had to get his own way.
“Apollo also talked to prophets and oracles and warned people of future events. But sadly enough, he wasn’t able to foresee Hyacinthus’ future.”
“And why not, Bako?”
“Well, I really don’t know, dear. Maybe he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. And sometimes things just happen.”
Why could Apollo not foresee Hyacinthus’ future? Kata resolved to add this point to her List of Puzzling Questions.
“Zephyrus became enraged with jealousy. Evil thoughts filled his soul. He tried to fight them. But the blood in his veins turned to poison. When he saw Apollo throwing a discus, he blew at it, causing it to change its course and kill Hyacinthus. From Hyacinthus’ blood sprang this beautiful flower, and Apollo named it Hyacinth.”
Kata knew that at this point in the story the romantic voice would drift off, and Grandma’s face would slump into the forlorn look she adopted while talking about her Mihailo. Not the right time to ask questions about evil thoughts. And then she heard a noise, like a bird thrashing its wings. She darted into the garden and lifted a blossom.
“I found it! It’s not under the cherry tree. It’s here!” Kata yelled.
Grandma approached cautiously.
“Oh! Just a dead bird.”
Then she pushed the hyacinth aside with her foot and revealed a whole heap of feathers. “It’s a … swallow …” she said in a faltering voice. She stared at the child. “What do you mean it’s not under the cherry tree? Did you see somebody do something to a swallow?”
“No, no! I came to look for it under the cherry tree. But it wasn’t there.”
“Why did you come to look for it? Did you, or did someone else … who?” Grandma was not smiling. Kata wished she never had to see that dreaded look – the look that infused those kind eyes with fear.
Summer of The Dancing Bear Page 3