The Story That Cannot Be Told

by J. Kasper Kramer

  And then I realized where I was.

  The house was totally dark, all the curtains drawn over the windows.

  “Hello?” I whispered, barely audible, my voice still lost somewhere far away.

  Some of the other children said that Old Constanta was a witch, a strigoaică, and that if you didn’t keep your promises, or if you tattled to the teacher when someone cheated off your test, or if you didn’t share your best food at lunch, she would snatch you out of your bed and drag you back to her house to cook you up in her sour soup. They said she could put a spell on you so that even if you screamed while you boiled, no one would hear.

  Something shifted near the far wall. Something crouched in the corner. Claws extended from gnarled, rotting fingers. Dry, slit lips pulled back over pointed, glistening teeth.

  I squeezed my eyes shut hard, desperately wanting to run.

  There was a faint, rattling laugh. “Come nearer, child, and I’ll light a candle.”

  My eyes opened wide. It sounded like a witch’s trick, just like something the Mother of the Forest would say, but I rose from the floor, peering into the darkness. I edged one of my feet a step closer, fists gripping the straps of my schoolbag.

  A match was struck and a flame seemed to float in the air on the far side of the room. When the candle caught and flickered to life, I shielded my face with a hand. Old Constanta was lying in bed, eyes closed, a quilt up to her neck. Her skin was so thin I could see her veins under the surface. Her hair—what was left of it—was so white it looked like misplaced tufts of down on her embroidered pillow. I squinted till I was certain. My mamaie’s work.

  The comfort of the familiar sight faded quickly. The old widow had not moved, had not breathed since I could see her in the light. For all I could tell, she was asleep or dead or a fake—a doll made of sugar, perhaps, meant to lure me closer till it was too late. Every nerve in my body told me to open the door and run, but when my eyes wandered the room, I spotted something that made my feet stick in place.

  I needed to speak to the old woman. I hadn’t realized it till now—till I’d seen what was sitting on top of her table.

  “Have you lost your tongue?” a voice asked.

  I turned back fast, but her eyes were still closed, her body still hidden under the quilt.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Speak up, girl.”

  “No,” I said, louder, clenching my jaw.

  “I thought you’d be a brave one, coming into the witch’s house on your own,” she wheezed. “But you sound frightened as a mouse.”

  I swallowed hard. Had her lips moved? I couldn’t tell beneath the shadows dancing over her bed. She turned her head to look at me, and her eyes were pale and foggy. I held my straps tighter.

  “I am brave,” I said. The rattling laugh again. I took a step closer. “And you’re not really a witch.”

  The edge of what might have once been a smile appeared at the old woman’s mouth. “What am I, then?”

  “You’re the one who brought the baskets to my uncle when he was sick.”

  She lifted the bald place where her eyebrows should have been. “Me? A crippled, dying old thing? I can’t even get out of bed. There’s a metal pan on the chair here beside me. Do you know what it’s for? Would you like to find out?”

  I took another step forward. “The wicker basket, the one that you used, it’s right there on the table, with the same cloth and everything. You wanted me to come in here. You wanted me to see.”

  This time the laugh turned into a wet hacking. “It’ll get your legs chopped off, that curiosity. I could lay a wolf trap at the feet of a girl like you, and you’d still stomp toward the bait. You’re as bad as your mother or worse.”

  A smile spread across my face. “So it’s true, then, the story about her and you. You went up the mountain together?”

  “All stories are true in some way,” she said.

  “Did you really meet wolves in the forest?”

  At this, her eyes widened. “Oh yes. And not just any wolves. Your mother went up the mountain many times. The White Wolf always followed her. He was always watching.” When I didn’t say anything, she continued with a smirk. “You’ve seen him too. I can tell. It’s a great honor. He’s the guardian of these mountains, you know. The rest of the world, they’ve forgotten him. They sacrificed their wolves to the Romans and he abandoned them. But not here. Not us.”

  The snow was coming down harder outside. When I peeked out the curtains, I could see the soldiers at the tavern, still playing cards. The Securitate officer had joined them, but he kept looking over at the house.

  I knew that the smart thing to do was go home, but the taste of a forbidden story had filled my mouth. My bag slipped from my shoulders.

  “Old Constanta,” I asked, “do you know the story that cannot be told?”

  “Every story can be told.”

  “Not this one. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

  And then, before I knew what was happening, she started to speak. The words of the story were right there, right in my ears, filling up my whole head. My fingers itched, wanting something to write with. I wouldn’t remember the details, not all of them. When she was through, I waited in silence for something to happen, hairs standing up on the back of my neck. The story that could not be told had been let free in the room. I felt it there, hanging between us. But the walls didn’t cave in. The floorboards didn’t split open under my feet.

  “I swear I won’t tell anyone else,” I finally said.

  “Why not?” Old Constanta asked. “It isn’t a good enough story for you? Can’t suffer these old peasants’ tales?”

  “No! It’s just… Mamaie and Tataie made me promise.” And then, in case she really was a witch, I added quickly, “And I’m not the kind of person who breaks promises.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Old Constanta, and her eyes closed again. I thought she’d fallen asleep till she whispered, “It’s a code, child. That’s why they want it kept secret.”

  I frowned. “A code? Like spies use in the American movies?”

  My lips clamped shut and I heard my father shushing me, hissing that the movies we’d seen together could get us in trouble. If the old woman noticed my slip, though, she didn’t care.

  “They use the story to tell one another when unwanted guests—like your soldiers—are on their way to the village. The White Wolf protects us. If people say he’s near, it means there’s something coming that we need protection from.”

  For a while I stood there thinking. If it was a code, of course they wouldn’t want just anyone telling it. It made sense that it was kept secret.

  “Thanks for the story,” I said, picking up my schoolbag. “And thank you for helping before, even if you won’t admit that you did.”

  The candle fluttered. I opened the door a crack, making sure we were still alone.

  “Old Constanta,” I said, looking back at her once more, “do you think they’ll really do it? Do you think they’ll destroy the whole village?”

  Her eyes opened a final time, facing the ceiling as if in prayer.

  “They’ll try,” she said. “They’ll tear down our homes and make us scatter like rats. They’ll find your poor uncle, too.”

  My heart caught in my chest. My hand tightened around the door handle.

  “But then,” she said, her breath shaking like there were stones in her lungs, “then the White Wolf will come down with his armies. He’ll come down and he’ll rip off the beast’s head.”

  Cunning Ileana and the Mother of the Forest

  When news about the monarch’s campaign of terror finally reached the mountain castle, it was clear that things weren’t going so well for the three princesses’ father. The monarch had begun to question the emperor’s loyalty, concerned that his supposed ally had had some part in the very rumors they were out silencing. In response, the monarch had sent troops to the castle to spy on the girls. H
is soldiers were noisy and brutish—not very good spies at all—and they spent all day playing cards and drinking wine and being generally awful houseguests.

  Fortunately, the youngest princess had made a new friend—a quick-witted girl knight clad in fantastic, hand-carved metal armor. Ileana and the knight began hiding stockpiles of swords and arrows and catapults, just in case things got bad.

  One day, while reviewing the castle’s diminishing stores of provisions, Cunning Ileana heard the middle princess crying. She ran at once to her room and threw open the doors, thinking the soldiers were up to no good. Instead, though, she found her sister tucked in bed, stinking something foul.

  Sweet, sweet Ileana, the middle princess croaked, I’ve fallen deathly ill and smell really bad! At this rate the boys will run away before I even start chasing them!

  Ileana gagged, clutching her throat through her chain mail. It only took a quick glance around the room to see that the middle princess had hidden onions and garlic in every possible crevice.

  Have you got any idea what’s to blame? Ileana asked, but the sarcasm must have been lost in her gasping.

  Heartache, said the middle princess. You know my string of pearls twined with golden flowers? The one my first crush gave me?

  Not really, said Ileana.

  Well, I was flinging it around and it broke! said her sister. Only a witch can rethread it, since it’s enchanted, so I begged my beloved to take it to the Mother of the Forest.

  How incredibly stupid, said Ileana.

  Listen, won’t you! He’s been gone for three days and I just know something terrible has happened!

  At this the middle princess started crying again, and Ileana sighed.

  Don’t worry. All right? I’ll go find the Mother of the Forest, she said. For even though Ileana knew this too was a trick, she still loved her sister dearly and would have done anything for her sake.

  After packing a basket for her journey, Cunning Ileana headed off into the black woods. It wasn’t long till things started to get pretty creepy. In the dark, hollow spaces of tree trunks, eyes followed each step that she took. Mist wisped along the mossy forest floor. The call of an ancient owl echoed through the dusk. By the time Ileana reached a dreadful little house in the woods, nestled beside a gurgling river of pitch, every hair on the princess’s skin was standing up straight. She knocked once, and when she heard a muffled cry for help inside, she pulled an axe from her basket and chopped down the door.

  There, tied to a chair and gagged, was the Mother of the Forest, skin sucked to her old bones like a skeleton, wormlike hair squirming around her loose, ragged garb. At her bare, wrinkled feet was the middle princess’s pearl necklace, all fixed. Cunning Ileana hurried to the old woman’s side and began undoing her gag. When the Mother of the Forest could speak, she reached her bound, shaking hands toward the princess’s basket.

  I’m starving, she managed to whimper. If I don’t have some food, I’ll die.

  I’ve got some bread with jam, said Ileana, and she took her own rations and fed them to the witch.

  Just then there was a great flash of light, and the Mother of the Forest began spewing strange, glowing words. Cunning Ileana shielded her eyes with a hand till the curse had been cast. When she dared to peek between her fingers again, though, everything looked quite normal.

  What was that all about? Ileana asked. Or at least she would have, if she’d still had a voice. Her eyes went wide in terror and she grasped at her throat.

  Oh, child, said the Mother of the Forest, still bound to the chair. Oh, you poor, poor dear. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m not really as bad as they say. If you’re kind to my trees and you leave me to my prayers, I’m usually a mild, sensible woman. But a few days back, this vile prince captured me, and you know how that sort of thing ends—I had to grant him a wish. Can you believe he wished that the first person who offered me help would go mute? I shouldn’t have been caught in the first place, but I’d found this broken pearl necklace outside my door, and he snuck in the back while I was busy rethreading it.

  Ileana pinched the bridge of her nose and then reached into her basket to pull out a quill and pad of yellowed parchment. She wrote, If you really feel that bad about it, you’ll help me.

  Ehhh, said the Mother of the Forest. You can’t expect me to give wisdom out for free. Every cursed princess from here to Japan will come knocking. Think about my reputation!

  Cunning Ileana rolled her eyes and reached again into her basket for the jug of magical saliva from the balaur.

  Is that what I think it is? asked the Mother of the Forest.

  The youngest princess nodded.

  Now, that’s what I’m talking about! said the witch. Since I can see you’re such a generous girl, I’ll let you have a fairy log from my river. That way, if you’re ever in trouble, you can escape in a hurry. Go ahead and take my pearl necklace, too. It’s caused me nothing but drama, and it’s gaudy anyhow.

  When the Mother of the Forest finished explaining the finer points of fairy logs, Cunning Ileana did her best not to look irritated and wrote, This is really great, but how exactly do I reverse the spell?

  Oh, dear girl, don’t you know? Someone can steal your voice, but they can’t give it back. If you want it, you’ll have to find it yourself, said the witch.

  The princess sighed, but then she noticed movement down the hall—a shadow the size and shape of the middle prince. She wrote, The boy who caused all this trouble is hiding in your back room.

  Then Ileana undid the rest of the old woman’s bindings and went right out the front door. While she was choosing a fairy log from the river of pitch, a great flash of light filled the cottage, followed by screams of sheer anguish. Ileana didn’t even once look over her shoulder.

  At home, the youngest princess gave her middle sister the enchanted necklace, good as new.

  Holy cow! It’s totally fixed! said the middle princess, rosy with glee. After a moment, though, she bit her bottom lip and asked, Um, you didn’t happen to run into my boyfriend, did you?

  Cunning Ileana really wanted to say something rude, but since her voice wasn’t working, she just made an inappropriate gesture.

  When the second prince arrived back at his palace covered in warts and boils and missing all his teeth, the youngest son of the monarch fell into an absolute tizzy of rage. He sent a third message to the elder princesses, demanding they lure Ileana to his palace and help him take revenge. If they didn’t, the monarch’s sons would absolutely love them no longer. In fact, the three princesses from the castle of the king in the south were growing more beautiful by the day.

  The two elder daughters of the emperor became worried. Even as dense as they were, and so stricken with love, they could no longer deny that the princes were outrageously evil.

  The middle sister tried to rationalize it. It’s her own fault, she said, swallowing hard.

  She’ll thank us when she’s happily wed, the oldest sister added sheepishly.

  For the last time, they agreed to trick Ileana.

  The Ural Owl

  When winter arrived, my grandparents were sure the gray Ural owl would leave. All year she’d lived in a rotted tree trunk near the yard, snatching up mice and lizards and songbirds. She liked to sit on the thatched roof of the cottage, staring down just like the eye in our attic. Her face was cute and round, and her feathers were fluffy, but her dark talons were sharp as paring knives. Mamaie always covered her head when the owl flew past.

  “Watch her now,” she warned. “That bird’s a death omen and violent, too. Those claws could shred you to rags.”

  Tataie shook his head when my grandmother left. “She won’t hurt you. She’s just protecting her family.”

  At dusk I would watch the Ural hunt. Graceful and fierce, she’d dive toward the brush, then swoop up with a shrieking dormouse or hare. Sometimes her mate came to join her, gliding over the trees with his dark-barred tail feathers fanned wide. He was much less impressive. Her
wingspan was longer than his—more than a meter across—and she dwarfed him in size. Clearly, she loved him for his voice. “Wuhu huwu-huwuwu,” he’d sing, deep and rhythmic. She’d bark back, hoarse and high-pitched, their duet echoing over the mountains.

  Winter settled in the village. November arrived in a bluster of snow, and my grandparents insisted the Ural owl would soon be gone, but she stayed.

  “Oh, that call,” my mamaie fretted. “Heed the signs, Ileana. There’s blood in the air.”

  “If we heeded every sign that you saw, we’d think the whole world was doomed,” sighed Tataie.

  My grandmother looked out the kitchen window at the valley below, where the soldiers were gathered around a great fire—the smoldering remains of a cottage.

  “We’ll find out soon enough if it is,” she said.

  That month, many more of the villagers left town. They pulled the nails out of their houses. They tore the doors right from their frames. The soldiers picked through what was left of the skeletons like carrion birds.

  The only bit of luck we got came from the snow. It seemed to have no end, piling up on top of the cottage and covering the whole world in white. This caused trouble for the Land Forces and Securitate officers, who didn’t know how to manage the weather as well as the villagers. The men were always grumpy, complaining about the cold, and their bulldozer got stuck coming up the mountains. Everyone in my country was used to snow, of course. In Bucharest it came every year, but not so early and never so much.

  “Winter’s just getting started,” said Tataie.

  “Did you catch any falling leaves this autumn?” Mamaie asked. “That should help keep you warm.”

  I hadn’t, but when I fretted about it to Gabi, she just rolled her eyes.

  “Superstitions,” she said. “Your grandparents’ stove is what will keep you warm.”