Wildwood Dancing

the bottom corner, as closed in on himself as Cezar had been.

Uncle Nicolae was lying on a board. They had brought him into the hall and laid him across two benches. There was a blanket over his still form with a creeping bloodstain on it.

His dog stood nearby, tail down, shivering. There were men everywhere—grooms, villagers, friends of Cezar’s who had come for the hunt—standing about, grim-faced and quiet. I just wanted to go. I wanted to be home, to be with Tati and Stela, to be able to lie on my bed and cry. I made myself stop beside Uncle Nicolae. Part of me was still refusing to believe we had lost him. He can’t be dead, he can’t. It must be a bad dream. . . .

I touched his ashen cheek with my finger. It was cold; cold 87

as frost. This was no dream, but the worst sort of reality. I muttered a prayer; my sisters echoed the words. We had reached Amen when Aunt Bogdana’s scream tore through the house.

My stomach churned. A wave of dizziness passed through me. You’re fifteen—nearly grown-up, my inner voice reminded me. I took my sisters’ hands in mine. “Come on, then,” I said. “We’re going home.”

Dear Father, I wrote, by now Cezar’s messenger will have brought you the terrible news of Uncle Nicolae’s death. They held a poman?a seven days later. Florica and Petru came with us, as well as Ivan and his family. There were lots of Uncle Nicolae’s friends, and folk from all over the valley, including Judge Rinaldo and, of course, Father Sandu, who spoke very well. The winter has already begun to pinch, and many people are in need of warm clothing and other supplies. All of Uncle Nicolae’s things were given away.

Aunt Bogdana wanted you to have his best embroidered waistcoat and his special writing materials; I have put them away for you. We have not seen Aunt since then, but Cezar has been at church. He told me his mother is prostrate with grief and wants no visitors.

I paused, quill between my fingers. It was cold in Father’s workroom. Outside, snow lay everywhere: piled up in drifts around Piscul Dracului, frosting the trees with white, blanketing the many odd angles and planes of our roof. Icicles made delicate fringes around the eaves, and the ponds were frozen solid. It was almost Full Moon again— two months since Father had gone away—and we still hadn’t received a single message from him.

“I don’t even know if he got my first letter, Gogu,” I said 88

out loud. “It’s hard to keep reassuring the others that he’s getting better when they know there hasn’t been any news.”

Gogu made no response. He’d not been himself since the terrible day of the hunting accident. Often his thoughts were a complete mystery to me.

“Come on, Gogu,” I said in exasperation, “say something.”

He turned his liquid eyes on me. Why not tell your father the truth?

“What am I supposed to tell him? That I can’t get any of the local men to come and work for us this winter? That the fences still aren’t fixed and we’ve started losing stock? I can’t worry Father with those things.”

Winters were always harsh in the mountains. All the same, Dorin could usually get men from the valley to come up and help us with our heavy work, for a reasonable payment. This year, when the men of the district were not busy keeping their cottages clear of snowdrifts, their hearths supplied with dry wood, and the river away from their doorsteps, they all seemed to be at Varful cu Negur?a, working for Cezar. Ivan had come up to give Petru a hand whenever he could, but the immediate work of the farm meant the bigger job of mending the fences had been put off too long. It must be completed before we suffered any more losses.

“I’m worried, Gogu,” I told my friend as I dipped the quill in the ink once more. “I thought I’d be able to manage better than this. I know Florica and Petru are working too hard, and it’s my job to get help for them, but I don’t seem to be able to do it. And I really don’t want to ask Cezar. He’ll just see it as an opportunity to remind me that girls shouldn’t trouble their pretty little heads with such weighty matters.”

89

Don’t bother yourself with him. Gogu had found an ink drop on the table and was dabbing it experimentally with a webbed foot.

“Stop it! You’re just making more mess for me to clean up, and I’m tired!” My tone was much too sharp for such a minor misdemeanor. I saw the frog flinch, and made myself take a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I told him, reaching a finger to stroke the back of his neck. “I’m upset. It’s not just the farm, it’s Tati as well. She should be helping me, but she’s off in a dream half the time. I know she’s thinking about him— about Sorrow. It’s as if the moment she clapped eyes on him, she forgot every rule there is.”

On this topic, Gogu had nothing to contribute. I picked up the quill again.

We would love to know how you are keeping , Father, I wrote.

Could you give Cezar’s messenger a brief note? I am not sure if you received my earlier letter; I sent it some time ago. Please be assured that we are all in excellent health and are coping well, though the weather is extremely cold. We’ve had word that the consignment for Sibiu was delivered safely and unloaded at the warehouse. Your agent there will arrange for the items to be dispatched to their purchasers, and he will hold the payments in his strongbox until your return. I have not spoken to Cezar yet about Salem bin Afazi’s goods. As I said, we have hardly seen him since the poman?a. Of this I was quite glad. I could not forget the image of our aunt bent over in her grief like an old woman, her hands lingering on each item of Uncle Nicolae’s clothing before she passed it to a ragged man, a skinny boy. I could still see Cezar’s stony face, which had seemed more furious than sorrowful.

As for Iulia, the shock of our uncle’s violent death had at 90

first left her withdrawn and tearful. Then, just as suddenly, she had become more willful and demanding than ever before, complaining about everything from the cold weather to the endless

?

diet of mamalig

? a? to the fact that Tati wasn’t doing her share of the work. To my surprise I realized that on this last count, Iulia’s dissatisfaction was justified. I kept finding my elder sister gazing out of windows, or staring into space, or taking fifty times longer to perform a simple task than she should. Challenged over this, she gave vague answers: “I don’t know what you mean, Jena.”