I
Up on Piscul Măgurii, the world feels closer. You can almost touch it with your eyes. You’re standing on a patch torn from the roof of the world.
Voicu raised his weather-beaten hand to his eyes and let his gaze wander, up the hill, down the valley, following the course of the River Olt; he crossed it with ease, without getting wet. The gaze does not get wet when it crosses the Olt. Only tears can wet it, when they flow in streams, washing away the sorrow that clings cunningly to the edges of one’s thoughts. He felt so powerful, on his little patch of sky, perched somewhere on the roof of the world. He had a whole world lying at his feet. He raised his arms to embrace it. He loved the world and sought to embrace as much of it as possible, but the sky stopped him, for it had just then set up a barrier to prevent the clouds from flowing beyond the boundary. But there was such peace in the air that the creature rose from its nest, just like that, to write down its wish as far as it could reach, to be there, to be known, for a fleeting moment of eternity.
It would have remained like that, for a long time, until the sun set to visit the moon, but beyond the Olt, without lowering its gaze, at the same height as Piscul Măgurii, it appeared to it, just like that, clearly, a boundary fenced in by flames, their golden glow playing towards the centre, revealing a face, only to then fade into another colour, like a gate, resembling a fortress wall.
Catinca tiptoed closer, careful not to touch the curtain of clouds, lest she spoil the image. She looked closely at her son, and joy blossomed in her heart. It was as if it were Spirea. For a moment, she thought it was Spirea. It was not Spirea; it was merely his young sapling.
— ‘Come on, Mum! You just stand there gazing into the distance whilst I wring my hands until my knuckles crack. What are we doing in this world? Come on, tell me! What are we to do about Greere’s Mill?’
— Mum, over there beyond the Olt, straight ahead of us, in the other realm, can you see something surrounded by flames, like a frame, just as I saw the icon of the Mother of God in our church?
— I can’t see a thing! What am I supposed to see? It’s just the rainbow. Haven’t you ever seen anything like this before? It’s been raining beyond the Olt and here we’ve got sunshine. These are heavenly matters; we can’t understand them. Heavy burdens weigh upon us. Do you know how heavy? I’ll tell you. As heavy as millstones!
— You really can’t see it! Where the rainbow rests, there’s a pattern from which silvery flames shoot out, dancing right up to the middle. What on earth could that mean?
— It means you want to cross the Olt; that’s what I thought.
— You think that if I cross the Olt, I can reach the end of the rainbow? Not a chance! It keeps moving. I’ll never be able to reach it!
— It’s not the rainbow that’s troubling me. It’s something else. Look! I reached into the chest and pulled out the bag of gold coins. We have to buy back Greere’s Mill. As you know, I pawned it to cover our troubles, but after the trial I’m free of it. We’ll pay the debt, and that’s it—we’re off the hook. But you see, the money is cursed. It brings us great misfortune. Nothing remains of it; it all goes to waste.
Go, Mother, to the hermitage, across the Olt to Frăsinei. There’s a Father Policarp there. People from all over seek him out for all their troubles. Ask around until you track him down. Ask him to perform a service to lift the curse from the money, so that we may lay hands on it. Then make a memorial offering, with a long-lasting commitment, as he will teach you, for the soul of Spirea, your father, with rest and all that is fitting, for he too was a man in this world. And finally, let him read even more fervently for your good fortune. Do not include me, for I am deeply tainted by sin. Otherwise, I would have gone there long ago, but I thought it better that an innocent soul should go there.
Voicu found it hard to tear his gaze away from the motionless scene. He carefully tucked the image away within himself and turned to Catinca, assuring her that he had listened to everything she had said.
— All right! And how would you like me to cross the Olt? I’ve never crossed over to the other side before!
— That’s the thing! How do you cross? The way everyone else does. By boat. There’s a boatman called Pătru who knew your father well.
— Why should I cross the Olt? I’d rather go to the village, find the priest, and have him read something to us.
— Listen to what I’m telling you! It is only on the other side of the Olt, at Frăsinei, that we find protection and absolution, because, stone by stone, Spirea himself laid the foundation of that blessed church after escaping from the prison at Văcărești.
He willingly took on his penance, as a token of gratitude for the kind words spoken by Abbot Calinic, who is now a bishop on the other side of the Olt, where you’re looking right now.
— Explain it to me clearly! So that I might understand too. Whenever you’ve told me a bit about what happened back then, I haven’t really managed to make much sense of it.
— If your mind is lost in the clouds and you won’t lend an ear to your mother’s words, what can I do for you? At least listen to me now, with greater attention: your father was at the camp in Râureni, alongside the so-called Magheru, and after things went badly there, he didn’t give up; he carried on the uprising here. He did not hand over the documents or the weapons. He roused the whole community, provoking the rulers, who did not sit idly by. The Grand Caimacan, Constantin Cantacuzino, called on the imperial army for help, so that he might put the rebels to the sword. And so the Cossacks came upon us, as did Fuad Efendi’s Turks. They captured our Spirea, along with 150 or more of his followers, seizing their weapons and any other documents found in their possession. They deemed 23 of them to be the most guilty and put them in chains to be imprisoned at Văcărești Monastery.
That was when my ordeal began. I pawned the mill and made my way, knowing the route like the back of my hand, to Văcărești, to free Spirea from his chains. I turned a blind eye and handed out money left, right and centre to all those self-important folk who promised the moon but did nothing. So I was left without a single penny. It was only the Heavenly Father who guided my steps towards Cernica Monastery, with the thought of asking for mercy so that I might reach your home. It was such a miracle that my flesh still trembles at the memory. Father Calinic, who was then the abbot of that most blessed monastery, listened to all my troubles, comforted me with his, which shone from his radiant face, and directed me to go into the church to the icon of Saint Nicholas to pray as I saw fit, to tell the saint everything that weighed upon my mind. So I did. I drenched the floor with my tears. A stream of tears flowed from my eyes, but even now I do not know where they came from.
I stayed there for three days and three nights, as is the ancient custom in the holy monasteries. It felt like the blink of an eye, a dream; otherwise, the passage of time weighs heavily upon me. I had become as light as a feather, and an incomparable stillness had descended upon me. And then, how can I put it: Father Calinic appeared before me, and he was overjoyed that my prayer had been answered. I listened and could no longer speak; I had lost my voice. I drank in his words, and they stuck with me.
‘Go in peace, for you will find your husband at home!’ That’s how I heard him. And I, being the foolish woman that I am, left speechless, didn’t thank him. I think I kissed his hand, but I wouldn’t swear to it, that I did even that. I’d shrunk to nothing, absolutely nothing.
Just imagine what parental care means! Do you think he’d have let me go off on my own like that? I’d have been lost. I was in a right state. He entrusted me to some merchants who were travelling to Ocne for salt, and they left me on the other side of the Olt, in Râmnic.
That’s how it was! When I got home, here in Piscul Măgurii, Spirea was with you. Then, as you know only too well, you were just a few years old yourself, but you like to keep me here so I’ll keep telling you stories. How it was this way and that way, digging right into my soul, as if I weren’t already miserable enough.
Spirea had come back a mere shadow; there was no strength left in his bones. I tended to his wounds as best I could, until I got him back on his feet. Yet all he could think of was rebellion. He spent the whole day cleaning his weapons. When he heard that Bishop Calinic was building a new church at Frăsinei, he didn’t think twice; he crossed the Olt and helped as best he could. He received a token of gratitude for the kind words Bishop Calinic had spoken on his behalf to those in authority. He returned peacefully and, not long afterwards, passed away, to the place where we all eventually go.
In his final words, he left us a pouch of gold coins, but it is ill-gotten money, burdened with many oaths. It is money collected for weapons. That there is no longer any need for weapons, that all is peaceful now, is another matter. But we cannot touch it, for it is bound by oath.
You’re looking at me as if you’re seeing me for the first time. I say you should make up your mind, for it’s getting late and night will catch you on unfamiliar roads.
— I’m following in my father’s footsteps; I’ll do as you say! But won’t I be in great danger with all that money on me?
— Don’t worry! If you’ve set out on this path, you’re under protection; not even the wind will touch you. Now, what am I teaching you? You’re a grown man. You’re not going to keep it in plain sight, are you? Hide it under your belt. Tuck it in tightly and don’t mention the money to anyone. I’ll give you spending money, and you mustn’t touch the purse until you’ve set it aside.
— Now then, you’ve set off like a whirlwind. It’s as if the mill’s off somewhere. What can’t we put off any longer? Let’s think it over, let’s ask someone else…
— Voicule, when I’ve said something to you, that’s that! Do you want us to stay like this, a laughing stock to everyone? To let everything go to waste, to see our hard-earned wealth scattered to the winds? Do you deliberately want us to remain serfs? Spirea is turning in his grave.
— You talk like that here and there, but you won’t even look beyond the Olt to see that place locked away as if in a cage. Look, I’m going! But give me… I don’t even know where to start.
— What should I give you? Come on, just say it!
— I’m not going barefoot or in peasant sandals over to Schit. With a pouch of gold coins at my waist and barefoot! Give me my father’s boots, so I can look like a proper man.
Catinca didn’t reply, but then Voicu wasn’t expecting an answer either. They understood each other without words. They communicated with a glance. He let his gaze wander once more beyond the Olt and found it hard to tear himself away from the edge of the world, where he could see, as clearly as the palm of his hand, everything contained beneath the dome that covered him. He shook off the burden that weighed him down, firmly grasping the thread of life; he charted the right path in his mind, but did not let himself be overcome by his thoughts, and asked:
‘Since I must go, will you show me the straightest path, so that I may reach the Olt as quickly as possible?’
‘No big deal! Go through the forest, head down towards the Trant River, and then just follow the river’s course, which will take you straight to the Olt. After all, that’s where it flows into. It won’t take you long. Let’s say the sun moves about two palms’ width across the sky.’
Without another word, she hurriedly got him ready for the journey, entrusting him with the pouch of gold coins, which she’d kept hidden away until the time came to be released from any oath.
Voicu descended from Piscul Măgurii, heading for Zăcătoare, to reach the Olt as quickly as possible. He knew the area well, though he had never set foot in the other realm. A sense of the unknown surrounded him and bombarded him with all sorts of questions: What would the world be like on the other side of the Olt?
With boots too big for his feet, yet giving him confidence with every step—for Spirea’s boots had travelled far and witnessed countless things, yet they say nothing, they have no voice; they simply go about their business with solemn determination.
He lengthened his stride, so vigorously, treading heavily and not haphazardly. Let the earth feel that he was wearing boots. He knew its harshness, being barefoot most of the time.
He reached the Bishop’s Cross. There are many crosses standing as boundary markers. Voicu knows them all, but the most imposing and closest to him is always the Bishop’s Cross.
He approached slowly, as if he did not want to disturb the tranquillity of the clearing. That is only right when you stand before a Holy Cross, even if it stands at the edge of the forest.
The cross is large, carved from stone. It bears many inscriptions. Voicu ran his hand over the ornate script, as if he wanted those words to take root within him. He knelt on the ground and touched the stone of the cross with his forehead. The arms of the cross bend, flowing, as if to embrace the edges of his thoughts. Voicu’s thoughts are scattered. It soars as far as the setting sun, beyond, to the other realm.
There, in the clearing, a service was being held in profound secrecy. Voicu could neither see nor hear. His forehead had merged with the stone, whilst the trees bowed their branches in reverence, responding to every ray of light with the rustling of leaves and fragrant tears flowing from the trunk, thus transformed, suddenly, into beads that strung themselves across the clearing. They now bore witness to all they had seen, through thousands of prying eyes, adorned with faded green. The fir tree shuddered, bursting into loud sobs, with large, fragrant tears, an offering scattered across the clearing.
Voicu untied the pouch of gold coins hidden beneath his belt and placed it at the foot of the cross. He looked all around to make sure the wicked man could not see him. People, being people, go up the hill, down the valley, and when they catch sight of money, they change. Their blood boils. Their minds grow dark and they do evil. He need not fear a thing. He stands before the Bishop’s Cross and is under its protection.
He heard a crack. There was no one there. A weeping willow was loudly counting its prostrations, opening and closing the spacious hollow that had formed within it. It had long been searching for a hermit to shelter it from the bad weather.
Voicu paid no heed to the willow, nor did he understand its call. Even if he’d had that gift, it wouldn’t even have crossed his mind to live in a hollow, even if it was in a weeping willow. Or to stow the bag of gold coins in the heart-shaped opening. Instead, he placed the bag where it belonged, embraced the cross in gratitude for the protection he’d received on his journey to the land beyond the Olt, when he heard his mother’s warning in his right ear: ‘Don’t stand there gaping, or you’ll be too late and miss out on the blessing you must receive, for that saying that only we know.’
Little beads of resin, as tiny as the beads on a traditional blouse, scattered across the clearing, playfully clinking together before the Bishop’s Cross, spreading a sweet scent, as sweet as the honey in the hive, where the bees were busily at work, painstakingly placing wax upon wax, on a thread plucked from the lacy web of a lavish spider. They took care to erect a candlestick in the clearing, for those nights when the moon grew weary and lay overturned in the downy fluff of a sulky cloud.
Voicu caught the scent, but the branches rose, clapping their hands, to clear the way for the one who had, without realising it, taken part in their ritual in the clearing. Just then, a woodpecker was busily tapping away at the log. It was puffing itself up with pride, for no one knew better than it did. The sun stood guard. It had risen another palm’s breadth higher in the sky. It does not stop, as anyone might. It measures time. It bears no concern for Voicu. If it doesn’t want to hurry, there’s nothing he can do about it.
The toaca spurred his steps on, as he hurried down through the forest, taking the more secluded paths, so that he wouldn’t be caught off guard by an unexpected encounter – perhaps with a bad man.
He reached the Trantului stream. He didn’t have far to go now. According to his mother, it was a piece of cake. He followed the course of the water, and it led him straight to the Olt without fail.
He followed the sound of the water, which bubbled with fury whenever it struck a stone. The Trant Valley is full of stones; they are colourful, their shapes sculpted by the waters’ artistry. The waters caress them, cherish them; as they rush noisily by, they sing, recounting what they have encountered and how hard it was for them to turn the millwheel so many bitter times, receiving as their reward only a dusting of flour, escaping through the smiling cracks, just as a harsh word slips out and can never be taken back.
Voicu hopped from stone to stone, so as not to get his boots too wet. The waters judge him, and not as he would wish. They have their own judgement. They judge him by the weight of his boots, which brush against their backs. The law is different when the feet are free, unbound by leather, feeling the thrill of the waters, which rise to the ankles and, one by one, climb until they touch the crown of the head, cleansing it of all impurity, through the smile of the fairies, who are caught up in a dance upon the waters.
She quickened her pace, lest the sun rise too high in the sky. She would have stopped it. But the sun follows its own course; it does not bow to desires. Only the moon manages to lend a ray here and there, to warm lonely hearts in the dead of night.
He stopped, letting the sun rise as far as it pleased. He listened carefully, then tiptoed along the water’s edge. She realised. Two women were carefully washing the embroidery on their blouses, turning them every which way to ensure the painstakingly stitched patterns did not spill into the treacherous waters, carrying their craftsmanship off to neighbouring villages. But the Trant’s riverbed cannot hold so many rivers. It is only as wide as it can bear when torrential downpours come rushing upon it.
The women cherish the rivers painstakingly woven into the white fabric as if they were a map that holds the boundaries of their village together. Everything is passed down, following a tradition dating back to ancient times. It is as though it were a seal, placed close to the heart, which slowly descends towards working hands.
The patterns are kept in small chests, carefully hidden away, in a nook of the mind, bolted with large padlocks that dangle like young ladies’ earrings and never open, not even at the touch of the grass sought so eagerly by the beasts.
They worked diligently, their feet in the water, soaked from so much splashing that you could have wrung them out and laid them out to dry on the grass.
Voicu looked once, twice, but felt ashamed, thinking to himself that it was not right to sneak a peek at what the water managed to reveal, clinging to their bodies.
He drew the curtain of leaves aside, and all that remained in his mind was the image of the blouses lying on the slab, as wide as a tablecloth. He did not linger any longer; he quickened his pace, the full weight of his boots churning up the earth. The earth knew his footsteps well. He had passed this way far too many times.
He reached the spot where the waters were more chattering, releasing in small ripples so many stories, greedily lapped up by the wide mouth of the Olt. And happy were the eyes that found the strength to behold such joy, spilling from a hand poised in the air. Many emperors would have wished to see what was there to be seen, but they saw nothing, for their parched eyes were hastening towards the West.
