Chapter 3: coming home
The girls couldn’t walk very fast, and it took all day to get home. Grat cried all the way and by afternoon developed a limp.
Hrech tried to cheer the girls. “Everyone is going to be thrilled to see you back at the village. There’s going to be a big party!”
The girls did not look any happier. Javor chimed in with “Yah, everyone is going to celebrate. They’ll be so happy!” He put his arm around Elli and patted her shoulder like his father used to do to him when he was small.
That surprised Hrech—Javor had never been able to follow his lead spontaneously like that before.
“My mother,” Grat sobbed. She fell to her knees.
“I’m sure she’s okay, Grat,” Hrech lied, his hands on her shoulders. “I saw her with the other ladies before Javor and I left. She was just a little roughed up.”
Hrech’s words did not reassure Grat. She sat in the tall grass, weeping. The boys could not get her to stand.
Elli put her head on Javor’s shoulder. Like a pot boiling over, her grief finally came out, but unlike Grat, Elli cried quietly. Once she sniffed “Papa, oh, Papa,” but nothing else was intelligible.
They stayed in that spot until the boys pulled the girls toward a stream and made them drink cool, fresh water. The girls stopped crying, but Grat could not look at either of the boys.
Finally, Hrech managed to get them moving again. It was a sombre journey. Grat wept almost continuously, but at least she managed to keep walking. Elli followed her, eyes unfocused.
A rabbit suddenly hopped through high grass. “Hey, look at the bunny!” Javor cried out. “I hope she’s not too far from home! Hey, bunny—why do you wiggle your nose? Do I smell so bad?” He laughed and looked at the girls, but they did not respond.
“Look, the bunny is running toward those trees,” Javor continued, trying hard to break through the girls’ mood. “Hey, do you think it wants to climb the tree?” He looked at the others, grinning.
The girls ignored him, and Hrech just gave him a strange look. No one ever gets my jokes, Javor thought.
Javor had another idea. “Hey, do you girls want to climb a tree?” They all stopped and stared at him. Javor jumped to the closest tree, grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. He loved climbing trees. He looked down at the others. “Come on up. It’s nice here among the leaves. You can see far, it’s comfortable. Come on.”
The other three looked at him with expressions that he could not read—he could not read many expressions. He jumped down and gave up trying to cheer anyone. The walk home continued in silence except for the sound of wind in the leaves and the calls of birds. He looked up at the sky, at the high, wispy clouds fanning out like white hair, and below them, another layer of puffy white clouds, like small loaves of flat bread.
His mind drifted forward, and Javor pictured coming home with the unhurt girls. He imagined a shout from the circle of huts as a lookout saw them approaching. He could see a crowd running out to greet them at the foot of the hill below the village. His father would clap him on the shoulder and say “My boy, my boy!” He could see his father glowing with pride, see his mother smiling and weeping at the same time, her worries banished, relieved that her last son had returned. He imagined Roslaw, the headman, clapping him on both shoulders, grinning from ear to ear, proclaiming him the hero. The villagers would give him flowers and bread and mugs of ale. Elli’s mother would hug him, and then Elli would kiss him again, and so would Grat, and even that scrawny, nasty Mrost would have to congratulate him and acknowledge him as the hero. And the next day, they would resume their interrupted solstice celebration and Javor, would jump over the bonfire and everyone would cheer.
And Elli will be my girl, and we will be betrothed and then married before the fall.
He did not let himself think of the dead Avars, or of Elli’s murdered father.
The sun was setting before they saw Nastasiu’s circle of huts nestled against the hill.
“Something’s wrong,” said Hrech. There was no sound coming from the village, no dogs barking, no babies crying. No one shouted as the four young people and two horses came closer. No one came running out to clap Javor on the shoulders.
Hrech ran to the first hut and then stopped dead. The hut had collapsed, its thatched roof spilling onto the ground. A corner post, thicker around than a man could reach with two hands, had been broken as if over someone’s knee.
Then they heard weeping and sobbing. They saw bodies between the huts. A dog sprawled, its neck broken. Mara, Javor’s neighbour, slumped over a rock, legs at unnatural angles. Her children cried over her body. As the four young people turned to survey the scene, they saw men and women binding each other’s wounds.
Javor went to a man sitting in the dirt, holding his head. “What happened?” The man turned around; it was Roslaw, his face covered in fresh blood. There was a new bruise under his eye in addition to the scar he had received from Krajan, the Avar.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“We brought the girls back. Did more soldiers come?”
Roslaw shook his head and turned away. Tekla, his wife, a very thin woman with bulging eyes and grey-streaked black hair, answered. “Not soldiers, boy,” she said. She appeared shaken but unhurt.“A monster. A monster. It killed so many, then ...” and she broke down, kneeling in the dust, weeping.
The only thing that Javor could say was “There’s no such thing as monsters …” He turned. Elli’s eyes were wide, searching around the village. Grat just held Hrech’s hand, insensate.
Elli shrieked “Mama!” and ran across the village. Lyuba, her mother, came out of her hut, eyes wide in disbelief. Mother and daughter embraced, weeping. Javor could see a red wound across Lyuba’s forehead from the Avar’s blow.
Hrech led Grat to her hut; her mother had not come out. “You’d better check your home, Javor,” he said.
Javor felt as if there was only an empty space in the middle of his body. He ran to the end of the village.
His hut was standing, but the thatch over the doorway was gone, as if ripped away by a huge claw. In the dying red light he saw his father lying face-down in front of the door. In his hand was his long scythe. Javor could not breathe. One side of his father’s skull was caved in and matted with blood. Slowly, Javor bent down and stepped carefully over the body into the hut, not daring to think about his mother.
He had to wait until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and then he saw Ketia lying on the floor, her back against the cold oven, as if she were trying to warm her back. But her legs were splayed awkwardly, and her head was slumped forward.
Javor put his hand on her shoulder and felt wetness: blood. He pushed her head up and it lolled to one side. Javor was numb. He couldn’t move. His hands dropped and then his stomach heaved. He barely had time to move his head away from his mother’s body before he spewed a thin stream of bile onto the ground.
When the retching passed, Javor carefully pulled his mother toward him, holding her head gently so that it would not fall too far forward. He pressed her tightly to his chest, hoping that his life, his heartbeat, could somehow flow into hers. He did not hear the thin whine coming from his throat, did not feel the tears on his face. He wept, rocking his mother’s body until night filled the hut.
Hands gently laid Ketia on the floor. Other hands pulled him out of the hut, but he could not see whose they were because his eyes were blurred. He stumbled into the arms of ... he blinked until his vision cleared. Photius, the Greek traveller, the strange man who had wandered into the village two days earlier, the day before the solstice. Javor found his feet and stared at the stranger in his wide-brimmed hat and ragged grey cloak, holding his long walking staff, unscratched, unhurt.
Javor’s mind reeled back. He saw his father two days earlier, walking into the woods to gather honey before the sun set. That was when the stranger had walked into the village: tall, thin, older than any many Javor had ever seen before, weari
ng a long grey cloak and a strange hat with a wide brim that were almost exactly the same shade as his long grey beard. He carried a long walking staff, but it seemed unnecessary.
He strolled casually into the centre of the village, where the men were resting and talking after working in the fields and before going home for their evening meal. The women would have supper ready when the sun’s rays shone level, into the eyes.
“Good evening, gentle folk,” the stranger said with a heavy accent. “Can you tell me the name of this village?”
“Holody,” said Roslaw, the headman. They actually called the village Nastasiu. Holody meant simply “fort”—they did not trust outsiders. Best to give away as little as possible. The holody was a small log palisade around one of the hills beside the village.
“What a charming little hamlet.” As if he were a native, the old man sat on a stone among the villagers. “And would you kind people have a bit of water for a thirsty traveller?” Someone passed him a clay cup and he gulped it down, then held it out for more and got it. Would they give me water if I just held out a cup? Javor wondered.
All the villagers stared at the old man without saying anything. Finally, Roslaw demanded “And who might you be, stranger?”
“My name is Photius.” A Greek!
“And where do you come from, and where are you going?” Roslaw asked.
“I come from Constantinople, but by way of long journeys through many troubled lands, and I am headed north.”
“What are you looking for?” Roslaw continued, but he was drowned out by an excited babble as the village’s entire adult male population forgot their caution and marvelled at this rarest of sights, a stranger.
“Constantinople! Have you seen Constantinople?” “Are its walls really made of gold?” “Were they built by a god?” “Is the war with the Persians over?” “Is Justinian still the emperor?”
The stranger was laughing. “So many questions! I’ll answer them all, of course, but first you must answer a question or two of mine. Is there somewhere I can spend the night? And can I get a little something to eat here?”
Looking at Photius’ wrinkled face, Javor had a horrifying thought. “What do you know about this?” he demanded, his voice a hoarse whisper.
The old man shook his head, his long beard waving. “Less than you, my boy. Please, sit by the fire.” He pulled out a wineskin from under his cloak and gave Javor a drink. Then he gave him a small piece of cake. Somehow the cake was nourishing. He felt stronger, calmer.
The sun had set and the sky was nearly black. In the firelight, the Greek traveller appeared strange, different from anyone Javor knew in some way that he could not define.
“I’m terribly sorry about your parents, boy,” said Photius in a gentle, yet hoarse voice. “About your whole village. First raiders, now this—it’s too much in two days.”
“I’m not a boy anymore. I’m 15 now.”
“Ah. Well, that may be fortunate.” The old man took a drink of wine.
“Who did this? Did you see?”
Photius nodded. “Oh, yes. A monster.”
“Don’t tell me stories ...”
“No story, Javor. It was a monster, twice the size of a man. It swept into the village like a whirlwind, knocking down houses and killing to inflict terror. It was looking for something, something it found in your house.”
“In my house?”
“It came straight toward your hut. Your father tried to bar it, threatened it with his scythe, but the monster knocked him down in a heartbeat. Your mother didn’t even have time to scream. At least, for them, it was quick.”
“But why?”
“Think, Javor. What did your family have that no one else in this village has?”
The answer hit Javor like a bucket of cold water. The amulet! He sprang to his feet, stepped gingerly past his father’s body again—someone had pulled Swat to one side and arranged his arms and legs so he did not look quite as horrifying. Inside, he tried not to look at his mother, but saw that someone had straightened her neck and arranged her hands across her chest.
Her hands: he could see her delicate, clever hands taking out a wooden box from somewhere in the hut—her hiding spot. He could see her hand brushing her long hair over her shoulder, then lifting the wooden lid with an air of reverence and expectation. It was evening, and it was dark in the hut. Ketia lit one candle, so Javor knew she thought was she was about to show him was important. She looked into his eyes, and he knew that she expected Javor to be thrilled about whatever was in the box.
Javor remembered hearing the neighbours, Borys and Mara, gossiping with Javor’s father outside. “Can you imagine!” Mara was saying. “Right in front of everyone, she takes a stranger into her house!”
“He’s an old man. I hope Ehnyi doesn’t wear him out tonight!” Borys laughed. Mara and Swat laughed along.
Swat spoke up. “It will be good for Ehnyi, to have a man in her bed—” Borys and Mara laughed loudly at that.
“Mama, why am I so different from both you and Papa?” Javor asked suddenly.
Ketia was used to Javor’s sudden shifts in focus. “We’re all a little different from our parents, Javor.”
“Yes, but Hrech looks like his mother, and a little like his father. So does Elli. But I’m so much taller than you and Papa.”
“My grandfather was a very tall man, taller than you,” she answered. “You’ll still grow a little, so you could reach his height. And I want to show you something he gave to me. He told me to give it to my most deserving son. Now hush.
“Grandfather Medvediu was the biggest man in the town—the family lived in a real town in those days, far to the south of here. Not only was he big, he was the most handsome. All the ladies of the town said so. His golden hair gleamed in the sun. Like yours, Javor.
“Grandfather was a hero. He was in the Emperor’s army, and when he was young he went to fight against the Persians.” This was Javor’s favourite story. He had heard it regularly since he could remember and never tired of it.
“Grandfather Medvediu was a very brave man, and in the wars he won some treasures. Some he sold on his way home, but some he kept.”
“Did he really kill a giant, Mama?” Javor asked as he always did at this point in the story.
“Oh, yes. He was the bravest soldier in the army. One day, Grandfather Medvediu’s group found themselves in the mighty Caucasus Mountains.” Ketia’s voice always took on a dreamy quality at this point. “A giant had been harassing the people of the Caucasus. It was a huge ogre who stole sheep and killed shepherds. It would come into the villages and demand food."
“All the Emperor’s soldiers were afraid to face the giant, but not your great-grandfather. He took a sword and his armour and he climbed up the mountain to the giant’s cave. He challenged the giant: ‘Hey, ugly! Come and fight someone who knows how to fight,’ he said. And the giant came out. It was twice as tall as Grandfather, and it carried an enormous club. It swung that club right at Grandfather’s head, but your great-grandfather ducked and drew his sword."
“Their fight went on for a day and a night, but finally your tireless great-grandfather dealt a killing blow. He almost cut the giant’s head completely off, and when its body fell off that mountainside into a deep canyon, no one could find it.
“The giant’s cave was filled with treasures, but most of them were slick with the ogre’s slimy touch. Grandfather Medvediu did find two things that were fit for human touch.”
This was new—an element in the story that Ketia had never told him before. She pulled out a bundle wrapped in a soft white cloth from the box, . Javor leaned forward for a closer look until he could feel the heat from the candle against his cheek. He held his breath while Ketia opened the cloth to reveal a long dagger with a whitish handle carved to resemble a fish. Javor took it in his hand and carefully felt the edge; it was sharper than any blade he had ever seen and glinted in the candlelight. The side of the blade was engraved with a
spiral pattern and many small markings. “Runes,” said his mother. “They’re magical.” But that was all she knew.
There was a second item in the cloth: a flat piece of grey metal, about the size of Javor’s fist, but with an odd shape: ovoid, but with a flat side. It looks like a fish’s scale. Or a snake’s. It had a chain attached to a loop on top. Its centre was depressed and carved into a strange pattern. Around the edge were small figures, more runes; Javor had never seen writing, had never even heard of it. “These are magical, Javor. And since you will be a man tomorrow, I am showing them to you for the first time. They are my heirlooms, and when I die they will be yours. My grandfather told me that together, they would protect me against evil. And that is why the three of us are alive today, Javor, in such an evil world.” She took the dagger and the amulet, wrapped them carefully in the cloth and replaced them in the little wooden box.
Protect us from evil? Some magic. It’s protected this family so well, most of its children are dead.
The box was nothing but splinters. The cloth that had wrapped the amulet and the dagger was ripped. The monster had been after the amulet. Javor’s hand went to his rope belt and felt the dagger, covered with a fold of his tunic. It felt reassuring, somehow.
The magic is real. I took the dagger away, and the monster came and killed them.
Mama, Papa, I am sorry! I did not know!
He staggered outside and poured out his story to Photius: everything his mother had ever told him about her grandfather Medvediu, the amulet and the dagger, how he had taken the dagger to rescue the girls, how the Avars had been killed and dismembered. “And now, my father, my mother …” His voice dried into a croak. He reached for Photius’ wine-skin and drank, but did not taste it.
His uncle and aunt came up; they were unhurt. The killer had passed them by. His aunt led him to her house, put him to bed on a pallet of straw. After two days of trauma and chase, Javor quickly fell into exhausted sleep.
And when the rising sun woke him again, he knew what he had to do.