Eight knots. Anna Efimenko
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you?”
“Something like that. The druid believes that the word written or printed has great power. And Mr. Kelly calls it, let me think, propaganda! “Propaganda of dogmatic monotheism and broken hearts.”
“Why broken hearts?”
“Because we are forbidden to be alone or often meet with those whom we are not engaged or not married.”
“This is a fine kettle of fish,” the girl said in a sepulchral voice.
They hadn’t been back to the topic of gender relations in the village any more.
They still managed to do the shopping at the fair before it closed up. Vita bought apple cider and Pagey got an impressive dried roses herbarium for no good reason.
On the way to the station, he pointed to the cider and herbarium trying to make an impression, and said trying to look smart,
“We’ve bought Venus plants, haven’t we? By the way, I know the Roman pantheon as well as ours! The apple tree belongs to Venus because its fruit is a symbol of motherhood and prosperity. A rose means a woman. A lady. Noble and beautiful,” saying these words, Pagey blushed crimson red and turned away.
Vita stepped closer and stretched out her hand to pull a strand of hair back from his face behind his flaming ear.
“Beautiful, you say?”
He stared at her, staggered by the intimacy of the gesture. No one ever touched his hair, cared about him to be attractive, demonstrated excessive tenderness. Lekki provided him shelter and home. Sometimes, the herb-woman visited them and clipped Pagey’s dark streaks making him look decent. Hom occasionally patted him on the top of his head – it was a playful gesture of being silly, a gesture of being in game. No man in the world dared to put his hair behind his ear like that.
Pagey was finally able to exhale,
“We should go back.”
The journey to the village was long and clinging to winter’s chill. The train, for some reason, stopped at the Rotten field and did not move for more than an hour. With nothing better to do, Pagey and Vita were drinking tea in the dining car, cold and stale. Rose herbarium being bought at the fair shattered into small dried pieces and could not be restored.
This day subsequently threatened to become one of the happiest in their lives but so far neither the assistant to the beekeeper nor the Gever girl could not imagine anything like this.
* * *
As they were coming up to the village along the river, the boatman pointed sharply to the wild river bank covered with tall reeds.
“Come out here,” he said.
“But why?” Pagey began, but the man cut him off abruptly,
“She gets out here. She can’t be noticed at the river crossing with you.”
Approaching the shore, he raised his oars. Pagey helped the girl to get out of the boat and without saying goodbye, just silently watched her sneak among dry reeds covered with hoarfrost and headed to her place at the wasteland.
Hom was already waiting for him near the crossing. Annoyed and cold, he walked up and down the pier. When he saw the boat, he could not stand up,
“There you are! Been looking all over for you. Lekki said you had left.”
“I’m not a baby, I can get back home on my own!” the young man snapped back stepping ashore.
“But I was worried about you crossing the river.”
“Don’t be so silly.” Pagey began but immediately checked himself.
No one should speak of insidiousness of the river in the presence of Hom. Everyone was afraid to stir up memories of the drowned Woolf in him. Though so many years had passed, it seemed as if the ghost of the boy still followed his friend, and there was no escape from this chase.
The boatman, having finished his business and bolted the pier’s fence, did not seem to be in any hurry. He just inspected a velvet bundle which he took from his inside pocket but immediately hid it back and silently watched the bickering of two village youths.
“Why is that pervert looking at us?” Hom growled and turned to the man, “Hey, mister, isn’t it time you closed the crossing for tonight and go home?”
“I’m not in a hurry,” said the boatman carelessly, lighting another cigarette that flickered brightly in the winter darkness. “I still have to bring the watch being mended to the druid, so there’s no hurry. The druid goes to bed late.”
Hom, leaning towards his friend, noticed ironically,
“Imagine: this low-down guy dares to go to the druid at the manor.”
Pagey did not like Hom’s mood, so he toned down deciding to flatter the blond using the most surefire way – pretending to be in need for someone else’s rhetoric and intelligence,
“Tell me about the winter night, smart man.”
Hom blushed. Clearing his throat, he put on a solemn face and started,
“At this time, the Sun-God is just being born. The sun is reborn from icy blackness because the day slowly begins to increase during these long winter nights. The darkness retreats to admit its complete defeat finally and everyone can witness the victory of the King Oak.”
“Does King Oak always win over the winter?”
The snow stopped crunching. They stopped in front of the hill. Hom nodded wrapping himself deeper in his plaid scarf,
“Always. And this year, I was chosen to be the King Oak.”
Pagey whistled in admiration. Ancient duel of two kings, Oak and Holly, was an important amusement in the village. In the summer, Holly won and pulled the outgoing year, in the winter the victory went to King Oak and symbolized the revival of the sun. Two guys flaunted in straw and green branches usually clobber each other struggling to amuse those gathered around the campfire but the winner was still pre-ritual.
Last summer, Charlie, a miller’s son, a bowlegged shortie was appointed on the role of King Holly, and he was so frantic about his victory that his friends made their jaws hurt with disgust.
So now Pagey was relaxed,
“Good news. Good luck! Get this clumsy idiot properly.”
Hom frantically stared at his friend,
“Aren’t you going to the fire?”
“I promised my Vita…”
“Promised my Vita!” At these words, vomit came up to Hom’s mouth.
“A girl from the outsiders’ tribe? I don’t want excuses!”
Junior spread his arms out,
“I can’t, Hom. I promised.”
“Got it,” the young Kelly sharply nodded. “So that’s whom you’re trading me for.”
“I’m not trading you for anyone!”
A whistle of a locomotive, shrill and loud, like the death-cry of a Banshee3 from the marshes sounded far away across the river. Hom instantly perked up.
“What’s the matter with you?” Pagey looked at him anxiously.
“Don’t think that’s the sound is so promising?”
But Pagey didn’t know what he was after.
“Hom, it’s just a train whistle. Sounds like a Banshee augural death to someone if you ask me.”
Hom seemed confused more than ever. Feeling uncomfortable to unnerve his friend,
Banshee is a harbinger of death in Celtic folklore. According to legend, this mythical woman-mourner lives in the swamps. Banshee makes a shrill cry before someone should die, the one she mourns.