The Silence of Trees

by Valya Dudycz Lupescu

  "Dear Nadya,

  Halya and I…"

  The writing was not Pavlo’s. I stopped reading. This was Stephan’s note. Pavlo had hidden it from me. I had been sleeping on it all this time? He had lied to me. He had robbed me of the chance to say goodbye. Pavlo had stood there and told me he did not open the envelope. What else had he lied about? That moment I felt like I had never really known my husband. What else had he been capable of?

  For a moment, I thought about throwing the letter away. What would it change to read his words? He was dead. But my curiosity was too strong, so I continued:

  "Dear Nadya,

  Halya and I were so relieved to hear from the American named Sonny that you were alive and had a family in Chicago. I’m sure that Halya explained our situation in her letter. It’s a blessing that I found her. We have a good life together, a happy life. Your sister, my wife, is a passionate, amazing woman. She reminds me of how you were: brave and adventurous. We had a son named Mykola, who died too young. He was our joy, and a part of us died with him. The rest has been filled with the ups and downs of life. We work, we play, we dance, and we laugh. What more is there, really?

  I hope that you have been happy in America and that you found love and friendship. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again, and we can share old stories.

  Yours truly,

  Stephan"

  That was all. No declarations of love. No heartfelt apologies. Just a quick note about how happy he was with my sister. I felt betrayed and sad. I had carried a torch in my heart for him for all these years. All along, he had been alive and making a happy life with my sister. I should have been happy for her, for them. I should have been relieved that Halya found someone to care for her. She lost everyone that night too. It wasn’t her fault, but still I felt jealous. It was my own fault. If I had only gone back, I could have taken care of Halya and been there when Stephan returned. If only—

  My chest felt tight, my nerves raw and exposed. I looked again at the note, the neat handwriting. "Dear Nadya". My Stephan. But not mine. Can you ever really let go of a love that shapes you, that changes your destiny? Maybe it was just because he reminded me of a time when I was younger, full of hopes and dreams. Maybe it was because I promised to love him forever. Maybe it was okay to love him still. Ana used to say that love is one of the greatest natural resources we have on the planet.

  "Darling, love isn’t exclusive. You don’t run out of it," Ana once said while slipping garlic and basil into a dark blue glass container of olive oil on her counter. Ana said that blue glass was the best because it kept things fresher.

  Because Niki was out of town on business, I had come over for pizza. We had been talking about old lovers. Actually, Ana had been talking about her old lovers. I hadn’t specifically mentioned Stephan.

  "It’s like this olive oil," she continued. "Old lovers are the spices that give life flavor."

  "But I feel guilty thinking about someone from my past," I said. "Someone I had loved before Pavlo."

  "Was he your first true love?" she asked me.

  "Yes," I said with a sigh.

  "Well, you shouldn’t feel guilty for thinking about him. I would guess that he probably symbolized something in your current relationship now that’s missing. Maybe it’s the romance?"

  "Maybe." I said. "But I still feel guilty. Don’t you have any kind of herbal concoction to make me forget?"

  "I’m an herbalist, Nadya, not a sorceress."

  "Same thing, really," I said, sipping my cocktail. Ana had tried her hand at making a fruity pineapple drink. It was sweet and sour. I loved it.

  "Don’t feel guilty, Nadya. I think about old flames from time to time. I even fantasize sometimes." She winked at me and continued, "I love each of them for the things they taught me . . . about love, about the world, about myself."

  "Each of them? So many?" I asked.

  Ana pulled back her shoulders, stretched her neck proudly, and said, "I am not ashamed of my past. I didn’t meet Niki until I was much older, and in the meantime, I had a lot of fun. Niki and I have talked about all this. He knows everything." She looked me in the eye. "Maybe you should talk to Pavlo?"

  I burst into laughter, imagining the conversation. "No, Ana, I don’t think so. You and Niki are unusual; you’re lucky." I said.

  "Yes, he’s a soul mate. No question. But I loved others before him, and I didn’t stop loving them when we were married. Sure, there are shades of love, but don’t think that the minute you have a ring on your finger, the past is erased and the future is sealed."

  She sat down next to me and continued, "My theory is that the happier you are, the more love you have to give. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that human beings were put on this earth to love."

  Ana smiled that big toothy grin. "That’s what gives life meaning, darling. The rest of it passes the time and creates drama, but love . . . love is what makes it all worthwhile. Think about it, you have such a big family, so many kids and grandkids . . . you love them all, yes?"

  "Yes, but that’s different—"

  "Shush. Not so different. Listen, I’m making a point. You aren’t afraid of running out of love for them?" She took my hand. Her fingers smelled of garlic. "And you love me, right?"

  I felt myself blush, "Of course, Ana. You’re my best friend, my sister."

  "And I love you . . . as much as I love Niki, Nadya. If you were a man, I probably would have run away with you years ago." She winked at me and let out that loud, unapologetic laugh of hers. "My point is that love doesn’t have limits. It’s people who set limits for love."

  "What about marriage?" I asked, determined to make my point.

  "Marriage?" She laughed again. "Think about all the couples we know who are miserable in their marriages. Everyone’s kids have grown up. Just see how many of them split up—or at least have separate bedrooms—once their kids are out of the house "

  "No, marriage doesn’t guarantee love. Marriage is about creating a partnership for all kinds of practical reasons—like raising a family, which is easier if you know your partner is going to stay around. It’s also a way to make sure that we don’t die alone. Ultimately, that’s what we’re all afraid of: being left alone. So marriage seeks to quell that fear. Hopefully you grow old together. If you’re lucky, you marry your friend."

  Ana stood up to make us some more drinks. "Or in cases like yours, dear heart, you need to make friends with the man you married. Unless you want a divorce?"

  I could feel the warmth from the alcohol in my head. It made me feel freer, more confident. The words flowed a little more easily. "No, Ana. Divorce is not for me. Pavlo is a good man, a kind man. He’s a good father. And he . . . is my friend. We have our Saturday morning coffees. We talk about the week, and he actually makes the coffee."

  "And he loves you, Nadya," Ana said, bringing over another drink. "I don’t think you see how much he loves you."

  "He loves the way I take care of him," I said.

  "No, he loves you, darling." Ana sat down again. "I don’t know about this man from the past, who he was or what he meant to you. But I do know that Pavlo loves you right now, albeit in his own way."

  She took my hand again. "Let yourself love the past, but live the present."

  My Mama used to say that marriage is a way for two souls to be united for eternity. But was it marriage that united the souls? What was it about a ritual that could make it so? Maybe it was a silent declaration in your heart that united the souls. What happened if you made that unspoken promise, but then married another? Could you ever break that covenant? What happened when your beloved died? Could your soul be joined to more than one person?

  I was exhausted. It was too much to think about. Pavlo had lied to me. Halya was alive. Stephan had been alive. They had loved one another. Now we were both widows. At least I had a large family; Halya was truly alone. I would have to call her, but not yet. I wasn’t ready.

  I got ready for bed and crawled under
the warm blanket. I lay there thinking about the letters. Stephan had written that Halya was a brave and adventurous woman, like I had been. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. I had lost touch with my adventurous spirit, and I didn’t know how to get it back.

  I lay with my back to the wall. If Pavlo had been alive, he would have been curled behind me. He always slept closest to the wall so I wouldn’t disturb him when I crawled out of bed in the morning. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine that he was still there in the darkness.

  "Pavlo, why did you lie to me?"

  His voice whispered from the darkness: I’m not the one who’s guilty here. Ever since I met you, I loved only you. I never wanted to be anywhere else but by your side.

  "But I would never deny you anything that you cared about," I said. "I would never steal from you."

  Oh no? Never?

  "No. Never." I responded, but I felt a stab of guilt in my belly.

  I saw you, Nadya.

  "What? When?" I was afraid. But he couldn’t know. He was drunk that night.

  I saw you burying something that night.

  Oh my God. This was too much for one night. Too much.

  I saw the bloodstained rags. You went to the grove of dead oak trees and dug with your bare hands. Why didn’t you tell me, Nadya?

  "I didn’t know how," I answered. "Why didn’t you tell me you knew?"

  I kept hoping some day you would tell me yourself.

  "Oh, Pavlo." I wanted to turn around, to see if he were really there. To touch him, but I was afraid. Afraid of what I would see. Afraid he would vanish.

  "All these years, you never told me," I said.

  All these years you never told me.

  "So you kept the letter to punish me? Is that why?"

  The envelope was already open. The letter from your sister was not there. Only the note addressed: ‘Dear Nadya.’ You ask why I took it. Curiosity? Jealousy? I could say it was to protect you, but in fact, it was to protect me.

  "You robbed me of the chance to say goodbye," I whispered.

  And what did you rob me of, Nadya?

  His words stung, and I began to weep. "I’m sorry, Pavlo."

  I felt a kiss on the top of my head, and I knew he was gone.

  My sleep was fitful again that night, filled with disturbing dreams. In the morning, I woke early and returned to the pile of mail on the table. The letter from Halya was still there, as was the envelope from Andriy Polotsky. I opened it, and inside was a ticket to see his latest play Angel’s Lullaby, this time in Chicago. No note, just a single ticket for opening night on the following week. I set it aside, not planning to go. I had had enough brushes with the past. I was ready to start living in the present.

  If only my Baba were alive, I could ask her for some herbs or an incantation to chase away the sadness and doubt, to rid me of ghosts and regrets. Baba always knew the right thing to say or do.

  I remembered that when we went to visit her, just after our Dido Mykola died, Baba would sometimes light a red candle and recite the following verse while gazing into the flame:

  "Dear Father, Holy Spirit of Fire,

  be kind and gentle to me.

  Burn away my heartache and sorrow,

  so my heart can be free."

  Baba did this ritual nightly, to help ease the pain of her grief. I once asked her if it really worked.

  "Of course it works, little mouse," she answered, collecting the melted wax to place in a bowl of water. The shape it took would give her hints about the future. "The Holy Spirit of Fire is powerful," Baba continues. "He can create and destroy. Fire is one of the greatest gifts we have been given. It brings us life, and we must honor it."

  I decided to try for myself. I took out a new candle, a red one, and set it on the table in front of me. I drew the curtains and turned off the lights. Because the day was overcast, the room was quite dark. I lit the candle with a match and imagined the pain being burned away from my heart. I repeated the incantation:

  "Dear Father, Holy Spirit of Fire,

  be kind and gentle to me.

  Burn away my heartache and sorrow—"

  I wasn’t able to complete the verse because suddenly a bird flew into the glass of my kitchen window, and the candle flame I had lit shot up to the ceiling, burning a dark spot in the shape of a cloud onto the plaster. I crossed myself and threw the candle into the sink.

  I wasn’t sure what to do next. I was shaken and unsure of what had transpired. I only knew that it was a bad omen, a sign that all was not well in my home and my life. I needed help. I decided to call Katya.

  "Are you busy?" I asked her over the telephone.

  "What’s wrong Mama?" she asked, her voice anxious.

  "I need help. You have all kinds of strange friends, don’t you?"

  "What kind of a question is that?"

  "I just mean that they have a wide range of interests, right?"

  "I guess so, Mama. What’s this all about?"

  "I’ve had a rough day and a weird omen. My house has an unpleasant feeling, and I need some help, some advice."

  "You think the domovyk is unhappy?" she asked.

  "Worse, Katya. He may have left, and I’m not sure if something else has come in his place."

  "Do you mind if I bring a friend? She has experience with this kind of thing," Katya said.

  "Yes, please do. The more help, the better. I’ll make some tea." I walked over to the cupboard.

  "We’ll be right over." She said.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Within the hour the doorbell rang. I opened the door and standing beside Katya was a tall, striking woman with long, black hair streaked with grey. For a minute, I thought it was Ana. There was something about her that reminded me of my friend. Maybe it was the mischief in her smile or the intensity of her eyes.

  "Hi, Kat’s mom. I’m Robin. So you have an icky vibe in your house and we need to get it out, eh?"

  I kissed Katya and said, "Hello Robin. Please, come in. Let’s talk in the kitchen."

  The women entered, removed their shoes and followed me into the kitchen. Robin had brought a bag filled with an assortment of objects. I was curious about the contents. She saw me looking at it and smiled.

  "I wasn’t sure what we would need, so I threw a few things together." Robin sat down at the table and looked around the kitchen. "So, what’s been happening here? I’m sensing a lot of emotion, sadness especially. You have any unusual visitors in the night?"

  I wasn’t prepared to share this with my daughter, let alone a stranger. I thought of the night when the vorozhka came. Did this Robin need to know my secrets in order to help me? I took a deep breath and explained Pavlo’s death, the letters and my feelings of guilt, anger, and betrayal. While I talked, both women watched me carefully, listening attentively. I realized that it was the first time I had talked openly like this since Ana died. It felt good to get some of my thoughts out. I missed the company of female friends. After I finished, Robin stood up.

  "Well, we can talk more later," she said, "but I need to get started, now that I have some perspective."

  From her bag she removed a large jar of sea salt, three large pillar candles, a bag of herbs, a small bowl of sand, disks of charcoal, some black stones, a rattle, a few sticks of incense, and some matches.

  "When did you last thoroughly cleaned the house?" she asked.

  "Just yesterday," I answered.

  "Perfect. That’s important. We need to turn off all the lights, and you’ll have to do exactly as I say. Please don’t interrupt or ask questions. You must trust me. Do you trust me?"

  I didn’t know this woman, but the facts that she was Katya’s dear friend and she reminded me of Ana allowed me to trust her.

  "I trust you."

  "Good. Let’s begin." We went around the house shutting off lights and closing curtains. Then Robin lit three candles, giving one to me and the second to Katya. The third she left burning in the kitchen. She lit the incense, and a warm, spicy sc
ent filled the room. She set the incense holder next to that candle and made a circle of the black stones around both. She put the rattle beside them.

  Then Robin lit the charcoal and set it on the sand. On the burning disk she placed several pinches of the herbs from the bag. New smells emerged, sweet and earthy, heavy and thick. She handed the salt to Katya and took the bowl in her hand. We walked into the living room and stood in the darkness. I could barely see Robin’s figure as she scattered salt in the corners of the rooms and created shapes in smoke from the burning herbs.

  I saw shadows in the corners, heard creaking and scratching. There, in the darkness, I felt like I was a child at home again, afraid of creatures in the dark.

  Don’t be afraid, a voice whispered. It sounded like Liliana, the vorozhka.

  Ahead of me, Robin had become transformed in the firelight. I saw her spirit as fierce and strong, like the vorozhka. This woman also had the spirit of a warrior. I had no doubt she could vanquish whatever had entered my home. She looked even taller in the dark. Her eyes reflected the candlelight, and her movements seemed bold and larger than life. It was like a terrible dance, the swaying of her arm, the way the smoke wrapped around her like a serpent, the sound of salt hitting the windowsills. I watched as something scurried across the floor. It must have been Khvostyk, but moments later I saw him dozing on the kitchen chair.

  We returned to the kitchen and set down the salt and burning herbs. Robin handed me the rattle.

  "Now I want you to go from room to room, and in every corner and at every threshold I need you to shake this rattle with all your strength. Hold firm to the intention that you want all negative energies to leave your home and never to return. You have to do this alone. We’ll wait here for you. Do you understand?"

  I nodded and walked back into the living room. I followed her directions and shook the rattle at the corners and thresholds, commanding the negative energies as she called them—evil spirits as I thought of them—to leave and never return. I felt cold, and the hairs on my neck began to prickle. Again, I saw the corpse of Stephan’s mother, this time standing in the doorway to my bedroom. She was one of the unquiet dead and must have followed me home.