That night I again snuck to the church, this time with two eggs. Outside the door, the wicker basket was full. A hard chunk of aged cheese. A new bottle of alcohol. Uncle Andrei could not sit up anymore. He ate an egg when I offered, but when I tried to help him drink, he got sick.
“Will you wrap me in bear hide?” he chuckled. I could feel the heat coming off his skin without even touching him. “I’ve no peace to make, false priest.”
I poured alcohol over his wounds, but he barely reacted. I tried to ask him questions and he almost wouldn’t speak at all. The only thing that could rouse him was explaining again that I wanted to bring someone to help.
He gripped my wrist till it hurt—strength somewhere still in him—and said through his teeth, “You promised.”
When I returned to the cottage that night, I looked for the owl and stared straight at the eye in the roof, half hoping someone had seen.
The next day was Sunday, so both Mamaie and Tataie were home. I kept quiet by reading schoolbooks and writing reports.
“Such a fast worker,” Mamaie cooed. “Where did this motivation come from?”
I stuffed my face full of garlic chicken liver at dinner so I wouldn’t have to talk, careful to not bite my tongue. My grandmother said that was the surest way to know if somebody was telling lies.
And then, for the third night in a row, after I was certain the rest of the village was sleeping, I snuck out again. This time there was only one egg, but the basket, once more refilled by the stranger, was still waiting at the broken doors. I entered the church and called out to no answer. I stepped forward slowly, eyes adjusting to the light.
Below the altar, Uncle Andrei was facedown on the floor.
My heart leaped into my throat as I dashed to him, dropping my things, breaking the egg. When I touched him, his skin was so hot that I jerked back my hand. I started to sob, shaking my uncle as hard as I could, but he wouldn’t wake. The run back home was a blur. I burst into my mamaie and tataie’s room, completely hysterical, and they both sat up with a fright.
Down the hill, Tataie knocked—anxious and hushed—on Sanda’s door, and the two of them helped carry Uncle Andrei through the town and into my grandparents’ yard. Under the gaze of the cottage, his eyes drifted to the roof and then lolled into his head. When they laid him down on the kitchen floor and he finally spoke, no one else understood. No one else paid any attention to what he said during that fever, papers always still gripped in his hand.
But I listened. I knew.
“They’re watching,” he breathed, barely alive.
Cunning Ileana and the Balaur
Summer in the mountain palace turned to fall, and still there was no word from the emperor, off fighting for the monarch in his wicked campaign. Princess Ileana hadn’t gotten over her father’s abandonment, but she had found some happiness in her new home. The mountain castle was peaceful and lovely. At night, yellow stars twinkled from a deep blue sky. Woven blankets of rust red and sage hung on the stone walls, and the sweet scent of flowers wafted in through the windows. Unfortunately, while Ileana had been exploring the mountains, her two older sisters had started stealing secrets and helping the evil princes plot their revenge.
Though exceptionally clever, when it came to the people she loved, Cunning Ileana was far too trusting. She didn’t at all suspect that her sisters were out to deceive her, so when the afternoon came that she heard the eldest princess crying, Ileana ran at once to her room and threw open the doors. Her sister was tucked in bed, face pallid and gaunt.
Sweet, sweet Ileana, the eldest princess croaked, I’ve fallen deathly ill and look utterly average!
I can see that, said Ileana slowly. Obviously, her sister’s face was only caked with makeup. Do the doctors know what’s to blame?
Heartache, the eldest princess replied. I begged my beloved to slay the balaur at the peak of the mountain. Legends say his saliva can harden into the most radiant gems, and I selfishly wanted to have some. But my prince has been gone for three days, and I fear something awful has happened! If you could go up the mountain and check on him, I’m sure I’d get better at once.
Now, everyone knows that balauri are fierce, finned dragons with far too many heads and that trying to fight one alone results in nothing but death and dismemberment. Ileana was sure the princes were playing a trick, but she would have done anything for her sister’s sake, so she packed a basket for her journey and went up the mountain anyway. At the top, she found the aftermath of a great battle. It had taken not one prince, but a whole troop of knights, to injure the serpentlike balaur and tie down his twelve thrashing heads. As Cunning Ileana approached, she noticed the thin line of a trip wire, meant to release the ravenous creature when she got near. She also spotted the eldest prince hiding in the bushes, waiting to watch her demise. Ileana took a careful step forward, avoiding the wire, and the balaur snapped and slashed out of reach, a broken wing writhing beneath its restraints.
Go away! roared the first of his gigantic brown heads.
Be gone, little girl! growled the second, bearing fangs long as swords.
Ileana took another step forward. I’m not here to hurt you.
Did you hear me? I said go! hissed the third. I’m dying of thirst, so if you come any closer, I’ll drink up your blood!
The other nine heads snarled such foul, nasty things that even drunk poets wouldn’t repeat them. Ileana ignored all of it, raising her basket and offering the balaur her own rations of water. His twenty-four eyes blinked in surprise. After she’d given each of the beast’s twelve heads a drink, she crept forward again and picked spears out of his scales, then bandaged his broken wing.
Thank you, said the balaur when he felt better. I’m sorry for being so grumpy.
That’s all right. Ileana shrugged. Everyone says things they don’t mean sometimes.
Before she left, the balaur let her fill a jug with his saliva.
A tiny drop will make a pile of gems, he told her. You’ll be rich for the rest of your life.
Cool, said Ileana. By the way, did you know that the monarch’s eldest son is hiding over there in the bushes? He’s the one who ordered those knights to attack you.
And with that, Ileana “accidentally” tripped over the hidden wire, releasing the balaur, who immediately descended on the eldest prince and ate both his arms.
At home, the cunning princess gave her oldest sister a vial of balaur saliva.
Oh, Ileana! You shouldn’t have! said her sister, mesmerized by the sparkling spit. When she finally pulled her eyes away, she added, Er, what about my beloved?
I’m sure you’ll hear something soon, replied Ileana, smiling.
Sure enough, when the first prince arrived back at his palace missing half his limbs, the two other sons of the monarch became even more enraged than before. They sent word again to the elder princesses, describing their next horrible plan. Being foolishly in love, and really, really just terrible people, the sisters once more agreed to help trick Ileana.
The White Wolf
I was sure my uncle would not last the night. He looked so much worse with adults all around, with lamps to brighten the cottage. I wouldn’t leave his side, no matter what anyone said.
“Don’t go,” I whispered, tears squeezing out of my eyes.
Somehow he was still alive in the morning. And the one that followed. And the one that came after that. My days ran together, sitting by Tataie’s bed, where Uncle Andrei rested, bringing him water and soup when he woke, holding his good hand when Sanda came to see how he was. No one dared send for a doctor.
Since I didn’t know when my parents would come—or if they’d ever come at all—nothing mattered more than my uncle. So I kept near him, whispering stories I believed I’d forgotten, hoping they’d keep death at bay like they sometimes did in fairy tales.
Things went on like this till one day my vigil was interrupted by a timid rap on the front door. When I opened it, I found Gabi standing on the porch, holdi
ng a parcel of medicine from her mother. Her eyes widened. Mine did too. We still had not spoken since the day she’d saved me from the wasps. She handed over the parcel before hurrying down the steps and into the yard. Even in her brace, she was faster than most kids I knew.
A couple of days later, when Gabi came by again, I looked out the window and saw her set down a new parcel on the porch before knocking, clearly intending to take off. Mamaie opened the door and caught her by the sleeve.
“Gabi, dear! Come in and have a treat.”
My grandmother drew out one of the benches and forced Gabi to sit at the table. Then she motioned for me to come join, and the two of us sat there staring at each other in silence. Mamaie gave us bread with quince jam and glasses of fresh, warm milk with cream at the top. Gabi’s dark hair was even thicker up close, so bushy it couldn’t stay put under her polka-dot scarf. She was short and bony, with a fragile little frame. I gulped down my milk, and she did too, each of us watching the other. After that she stood, a frothy white mustache under her nose.
“Thank you,” she said to my mamaie, hobbling to the door. Before she opened it, she turned back, looking at me. I waved, and in return I got the tiniest smile.
The next time Gabi came, I wrote her a message telling her some things that I liked. I folded the paper until it was shaped like a treasure box and put a little flower bud inside. I handed the message to Gabi on the porch steps, and she came back later that afternoon and left her reply on my window. She’d refolded the note and colored it so it looked like a golden apple. Inside, she’d drawn an excellent picture of a cow wearing boots. That was when I was sure we’d be friends.
Uncle Andrei began sitting up by himself. He didn’t need me to feed him anymore either. When he started talking in sentences, asking Tataie where his papers had gone—when he seemed to finally know where he was—my grandparents sent for Sanda. She checked his wounds, looking closely at the stitches. She replaced one of his bandages and took his temperature, too. The crease in her brow smoothed. She patted my cheek on the way out the door.
“I think you’ve done it, dear girl.”
“Done what?” I asked, fearful.
“I think you’ve convinced him to stay.”
Mamaie was fussing over my uncle, so I followed Sanda out onto the porch. Gabi was sitting on the bottom step.
“Go ahead,” her mother urged, motioning in my direction.
Gabi stood up with her hand on the rail. She licked her lips and then looked at the ground.
“Would you like to play?” I offered.
Sanda smiled, but her daughter stayed silent.
“We could read books if you want,” I suggested. When Gabi made an ugly face, I said, “Or would you like to see the baby chicks?” Her eyes widened. “There are seven now. The littlest ones can fit in your hand, but the older ones are starting to look like real chickens. It’s my responsibility to feed them and name them.”
She turned to her mother, who gave her a nudge. I reached out my hand on the way down the stairs and Gabi took it, her fingers so light it felt like she wasn’t even touching me. Together we walked around the side of the cottage to the backyard. I showed her the goats and opened the cage with the chicks. I meant to get out only one, but they all got excited, peeping and hopping, and several escaped. I screeched and Gabi giggled as we chased them, yellow down fluttering everywhere when we stuffed them back in their house.
“Do you have chicks in the city?” she asked when we finally managed to close the cage.
I shook my head.
“How about bugs? Do you have to catch them for homework?”
“Not for homework, but I have to catch the roaches for Mama when we find them in our apartment. She always tells me to smoosh them, but I usually just drop them off the balcony ’cause I think, you know, they’re people too.”
“Gosh,” said Gabi. “You’re very thoughtful.”
After that, she and I were inseparable. Uncle Andrei continued sleeping for much of each day, so while my grandparents were away in the fields, I’d play with Gabi in the yard. When she asked about my parents and uncle, I told her the truth but not all of it. In return she told me how her father, Petre, had died when she was little. She also told me about how much she hated the other children in the village, and I agreed that mostly they were horrible.
“Why’d you save me from the wasps, anyway?” I asked one afternoon.
She just shrugged. “Everyone’s always playing tricks on me, too. And wasps are very dangerous. Their stingers have venom that gets in your blood, and when they’re upset, they can send out pheromones that alert the rest of the hive.”
“Pheromones are so crazy,” I said.
Really, I didn’t know what pheromones were, but I was impressed that she did.
It wasn’t long till I started telling Gabi my stories. She quickly became my biggest fan. My new friend was better than me at lots of things, though, like science and drawing and catching insects. She taught me how to tell if a pig was coming down with a cold and what plants were good to eat if your stomach felt sick. Sometimes we’d walk to the valley and watch the other kids play, whispering secrets as we peeked around corners. Gabi was good at spying, just like me, and on the rare occasions when the other children caught us watching and started to tease, she’d respond by hocking gigantic loogies. This was one of my favorite things about her, but I was worried, because it was why everyone called her Gabi the Spitter.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “They used to make fun of my brace, but now they don’t even notice it.”
Eventually, my uncle started showing real signs of improvement. He began walking around on his own and sitting at the table for dinner. He was especially talkative when Sanda and Gabi would come up to join us. Uncle Andrei apologized for the things he’d said to me in the church—at least for the things he remembered. No matter how hard I pried, though, he wouldn’t answer most of my questions, and sometimes he got grumpy just at me asking.
“But how did you escape from the prison?” I whispered over cheese mămăligă.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older. Now finish your food.”
“But how did you know I was hiding in the village?”
“I didn’t. I only knew your grandparents lived here. Stop pestering. Don’t you have homework to do?”
For a while it felt like the world was okay. Uncle Andrei assured me that soon my parents would come take me home. He said that after some time passed, the Securitate wouldn’t be so mad anymore. He said they’d probably forget all about his poem and my stories. He promised my mother was safe. He promised no one would find us in the village. He promised the salt with the sea.
Because I loved him, I believed all his lies.
About a week before school was to start, my mamaie caught me by the ear, my mouth still full of dinner as I rushed out the door. Gabi was coming up the path in the woods. I could hear her calling my name.
“Wait, child!” Mamaie said. “Chew your food.”
I did as I was told, and she put her hand on my cheek to get my attention. My tataie stood up from the table. My uncle’s lips were pursed tight beneath black-and-blue eyes.
“Stay near the house tonight, Ileana. Can you do that for us?” asked Mamaie.
I hesitated. Gabi and I had plans to go down the hill. She’d seen me earlier that morning in the fields, when I was picking fat green caterpillars off tomatoes, and she’d told me Ioan had caught a snake and was going to keep it for a pet. This was a tragedy, of course, because Ioan had once done the same with a lizard and it had died in less than a day. We were planning to spy on the innkeeper’s son to find out if he still had the snake, and then rescue the poor thing, if needed. The mission was too important to cancel, but all the adults in the cottage had a particular look on their face, so I lied and said I’d stay close.
In the yard Gabi and I concocted a plan. After making a show of singing and running and being generally obnoxious, the two of us crawled un
der the house and listened to find out if the adults were preoccupied. Through the floorboards came splinters of light, muffled talking, Mamaie at the loom, and Tataie tuning his fiddle. Satisfied, we took off down the hill.
At the bottom we searched for Ioan and the other boys from town, but they weren’t near the school, and they weren’t near the little creek by the road. We wound up outside Ioan’s house, where he lived with his family in a room in the back. The other rooms were the village’s tavern and inn. Even when I was allowed down in the valley, we weren’t supposed to play by the tavern. People were always smoking there, and some of the townsfolk called Mr. Bălan, Ioan’s father, a slug and a sot because he always showed up late to help in the fields. Gabi and I agreed the innkeeper wasn’t so bad, though. He was potbellied, with a big, toothy smile, and when kids were around, he’d reach into his pockets and pass out sugar cubes. Usually, though, we tried to stay away from the tavern to keep out of trouble.
At the back of the building, Gabi peeked through a window; then we both ducked to the ground. The sun had started to set, and in the tall grass we were hidden by shadows.
“Ioan’s already in his pajamas,” Gabi said. “Probably being sent to bed early for doing something mean.”
“What about the snake? Did you see her?”
“No. But he might have her in a box under his bed. That’s where I’d hide a snake. We could climb in through a window and check.”
“I dunno,” I said. “Maybe his parents made him let it go. I don’t want to risk my life for a snake that doesn’t need saving.”
Gabi sighed and slumped back against the house.
“Yeah. Me neither,” she said. Then she turned to me, quite serious. “But if I find out he hurt her, he’ll pay. I’ll figure out a way to get Old Constanta to curse him. She’s a witch, you know. Roma used to come to the village, and she learned magic from them.”
I scrunched up my nose. “My tata says Roma can’t really use magic.”
The Story That Cannot Be Told Page 10