Two carts of wood were set on fire beneath the ancient walnut tree. The crowd gathered. The sun went down. And in the dark the nestinari danced. At last the dance was finished. Quiet, exhausted, the nestinari ate their meal inside the shack. Outside, the crowd dispersed and it was time for Grandpa too to go back home.
At the threshold he bid the Greeks goodnight. He promised to meet them at the mayor’s house at sunrise. They’d go to his grave once more and then — the road and the mountain.
“Till morning,” Captain Vangelis said, too tired to raise himself from the floor.
“Till morning,” Grandpa answered. He picked up the candelabra, the icon lamp, and hurried to return them to the church.
Father Dionysus was sitting on the church steps.
“So it’s over, this godlessness of yours?”
Tired, Grandpa sat down by his side. The Pope offered him a smoke and Grandpa lit up.
“I’m tired, brother,” Grandpa said. He knew he should be going home to Lenio as quickly as he could and yet his feet were brittle iron thrown into the furnace — the soles, the tendons, every little bone had caught aflame. His shoulders were on fire; his back was breaking. So just a little rest, he thought, and he’d be going home.
“I’m tired. Dear God,” he said again. “What are we doing, brother? We’ve ruined half of Klisura. Changing these people’s names.”
“Dear God,” the Pope agreed, and he too lit up. “Have mercy on us all.”
They sat like this. The night grew very dark around them. Thick clouds had swallowed up the moon. A little rest, Grandpa kept thinking, a little rest and I’ll be on my way.
And then a dog started barking far away. And after that a closer dog, and then one closer still. The priest stood up. He pushed the door open and soft light spilled out from inside the church. It was in this light that they saw Vassilko, out of breath, covered in dust, weeds and dry leaves tangled in his hair.
“Breathe, damn it,” Grandpa cried, and helped him to his feet.
For a long time Vassilko couldn’t say a word. Stuttering, he reached into the bosom of his shirt; stuttering, he pulled out a piece of rope and lashed it across Grandpa’s hands. Of course, this wasn’t rope. It was a braid of human hair.
EIGHT
“MY DADDY has a hundred white sheep,” she sometimes told my grandpa. “There isn’t a bachelor in the village who wouldn’t want me as his wife. Yet, here I am, at your threshold, a jar of yogurt in my hands.”
Each day at the threshold Grandpa scooped up yogurt from the jar. He knew full well he’d have to come to a decision soon. Take the girl and the hundred white sheep, or push away the jar, before her heart had shattered.
He led her on. Day after day.
And in the end, is there a force darker than a woman with a broken heart?
NINE
LENIO, BEAUTIFUL LENIO. Lend me your eyes so I may see all that you’re seeing. Lend me your lips and your ears. How rosy the cheeks of the baby. How soft his skin when we kiss him. Is this his heart beating or is it yours I can hear? Or is it my heart that won’t stop knocking?
A fist. Yes, a fist is slamming the front door. And a voice is calling.
Mina. The shepherd’s daughter. I can smell her, stinking of wet fleece. I’ve seen how she watches him, how she turns crimson when he steps near. I’ve seen how she watches you and turns green with venom. Saint Kosta never chose her. The teacher never chose her. What does she want, the spinster?
“Lenio, beautiful Lenio, come out without fear. Your father has gone to the mayor’s house and your brothers have followed. But the coals are still glowing under the old tree. No one will see you. No one will hurt you. Dance in the fire. I’ll stay here and care for the baby.”
Across the yard Lenio runs, out of the house gates. Up the road, through the bushes. Her feet burning, they don’t touch the ground even. When she steps in the river, the water hisses. The air is hissing as she swims through it.
There, under the walnut, some embers still glisten. But when your feet touch them, they will all wake up in fire. Wade in the coals, Lenio, fear nothing. A giant is coming to meet you. He steps out of the dark shack, there, can you see him? Tall, terrible, handsome. Hold his hand, don’t let go.
The fire in the coals turns liquid, turns to blood, dark and flaming. Spilling from your chest, from my chest. Flowing out of you and into me, out of me and into you. Both ways, both directions. Hold the hand, Lenio, don’t let the hand go.
Your father’s hand, the saint’s hand. My hand, Lenio. Hold it.
TEN
THE DANCE WAS FINISHED, the crowd dispersed. The nestinari had retreated to their shack, but soon they too would be going. Their vekilin, the village teacher, had already left to take the candelabra back to the church. Even the storks had grown quiet up in their nests. Wind whistled in the branches of the walnut; thick clouds blanketed the moon, and on the riverbank, Vassilko lay in hiding. Once the Greeks had left the shack there would be no one there to see him. Alone in all the world, he’d plunge himself into the embers, invincible, barefooted. So what if whole patches of the embers were turning black; others still glistened. But he would have to enter soon. Why were the Greeks not leaving?
And as he lay, Vassilko heard twigs snapping, the rustling of grass. The splash of water. Who’s that wading through the river, crossing the meadow, running toward the tree? Those braids swaying, Vassilko can’t mistake them. It’s Lenio, the teacher’s girl. Trampling on the coals! She’ll put them out!
He gets up, dashes through the stream. If she can dance, he’ll dance with her. And then he freezes. Someone has walked out of the nestinari shack — a terrifying giant. Captain Vangelis. There’s no mistaking the way he walks — as though he hates the earth and wants to hurt it with every footfall.
And who is that behind the captain — his eldest son? And after him — his other two?
One with the dark, Vassilko watches. But what he sees he doesn’t really understand. Why is Lenio prancing across the embers like this? Why is she running from one brother to another, bumping into one, falling down, then bumping into the next like a moth that shuffles inside a circle of shining lights?
Up in the branches the storks are waking. Is it the noise of their wings he hears, the rustle of running feet, or the boom of his own blood? The wind picks up some ash and slams it in Vassilko’s face. He blinks, he fights to see.
Was this a cry? The girl? A stork?
He wants to yell. Get back! I see you! A single word and he will save the girl. But he is too afraid. He’s seen their knives and so he watches, not even fifteen feet away.
The girl has fallen to the ground. She lies, unmoving. One brother shakes another by the shoulders. Captain Vangelis pulls madly on his hair. They look as if they too are just awaking from some awful dream.
“Quick, run!” the captain calls. Timid light pours out of the shack and Vassilko hears voices. Women are crying. He sees them swooping on the men. What have you done! In a daze, he nears the Greek girl. There she lies in the ashes, in the glimmering coals.
“Lenio,” he whispers, and shakes her. Not a muscle moves.
Beside himself, he pulls out his knife, cuts clean a rope of hair. The teacher. I must get the teacher.