Anna Efimenko - Eight knots

The boatman was sitting on the dock cleaning the clock disassembled directly on his knee with a brush. Clock maintenance was his second job. Having spotted the young ones, the man narrowed his eyes with distrust,

“Where are you two going?”

“To the cities,” Vita cut off dryly.

“The two of you?” the boatman persisted.

Pagey began to make excuses,

“We’re just going shopping at the fair. Lekki is aware. And the others. We have to get to the train, and we’ll be back tonight.”

The boatman, putting the watch parts into his inside pocket, raised and began reluctantly to untie the rope from the dock,

“Well. After all, I have to make a living too. But if you get involved in something indecent, guy, I’m turning you over to the druid, you know.

“Indecent!” Pagey could hardly force himself to keep silent in response. There were loathsome rumors about the boatman. Old Kelly used the word “what” instead of “who” when he was talking about the boatman, thus dehumanizing, depriving of virtues, depriving of spirit. An item, not the individual – that’s how they tried to depict the boatman in the village.

However, despite his bad reputation, Pagey always admired the skills of this man to do the crossing and watchmaking business, Pagey also admired the boatman being sarcastic, making nearly incendiary remarks, and even his appearance. To tell the truth, Pagey was still hoping that his real father lived somewhere in the village, and the boatman was fit for this role. He looked like one of the blackberry family fraught with darkness with his clear marine blue eyes, and pale skin but there was always certain urban dandyism about the boatman: lighters, cigarette cases, cufflinks on the cuffs and watch guards always polished to a shine, leading from the vest pockets to ideally sewn buttons.

Yes, he perfectly fitted for the image of Pagey’s nonexistent father, and the young man was too happy to think the story of his own origin every time he personally saw the boatman.

Meanwhile, the oars started splashing across the frozen water, cracking the thin ice.

The cities were crowded and filthy. The houses impended over the narrow streets, hiding the sun. People elbowed each other in the fair turmoil. Everything was decorated with green, red and white lanterns, symbols of Yule, called Christmas here, which remained the same everywhere.

However, during these days in the village, dairy and plow cattle was deliberately treated with tastier food, sometimes even bringing a real human meal to the barn. No one did anything like this in the cities, considering it silly superstitions and remnants of the past.

Pagey and Vita wandered around the trade rows for a while and decided to get a bite to eat.

“I think, I’ll buy some garlic croutons,” she said firmly.

Pagey snorted,

“What a choice!”

“What’s wrong? Of course, it’s not a good choice if you’re going to kiss. But I’m not.”

“Crushing defeat!” a young man falsely slapped himself on his forehead.

When the owner of the bakery, a disgruntled old woman with a long face asked what they were going to buy, Vita remained adamant,

“A double helping of garlic-flavored croutons please.”

Unable to breathe, unable to react, unable even to blink, Pagey leaned back against the wall and, kept looking intently at Vita, he suddenly burst out laughing.

And they had croutons and drank ale, and snowflakes of the stunning beauty whirled behind the misted window of the bakery. When it was quite dark, the young couple moved back to the station hoping to catch the last train.

Halfway back home, Pagey had a secret he decided to share with Vita,

“I’ve got galipot. Resin from coniferous, plenty of them growing between the executioner’s home, and the Hom’s. I also have some beeswax from the apiary. Do you see the point?”

Vita shook her head blankly. Then the young man took a paper bag with a scattering of small black beads out of his pocket. He took out a bead, put it in his mouth, and chewed.

“You can order as many garlic croutons as you like. And you can kiss if you wish.”

“How cunning you are!”

Having poured a few beads of galipot, Vita thoughtfully rolled them over the palm of her hand, which was warming inside the glove, and then asked,

“The herb-woman has told my sister in her letters that all the villagers deliberately keep away from the rest of the world. But you came freely to the cities today, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. The druid inherited the lands from the former lord, his father, and immediately started to build the community in the way it would have been thousands of years ago. I don’t really care about any of this, but Hom used to say that if things had gone differently, we would have worshipped the one God and there would have been no bonfires and no drunken binges.”

Having listened to the story, Vita nodded,

“It was this freethinking that instigated our people to settle at your place for a while.”

“How did you feel in other places?” Pagey asked.

“We were always free to do as we pleased. But good fortune to be free can be hard. You know. Women with guns and all that. My sister was once caught behind the marketplace in Avignon and her hair was cropped short. If you don’t want long hair, don’t have hair at all. The crowds rioted in the streets, pelting us with stones, apple cores, and spits. So, I’ve had a good beating.”

“But how?” the lad was amazed. “Why do you look so confident?”

“Well, combat childhood can tough up anyone.”

“I can see your point! You know,” he whispered. “Lekki found me as a baby, I was constantly taunted by villagers calling me a changeling brought by fairies. They threw matches at my back to see whether I would start laughing. Horror.”

The Gever girl patted him on his back trying to cheer up,

“We’ve both been through hardships. Well, the world can be merciless.”

Pagey still couldn’t believe his luck – how he, a paltry apprentice from the apiary, had suddenly met someone who supported him. Who shared his views and followed the same direction. However, he suddenly remembered something that made him seriously nervous,

“Hold on. You said that the herb-woman wrote a letter to your sister?”

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”

“We’re banned to write letters.”

“What the hell is this?” Vita didn’t believe.

“Letters, telegrams, all printed materials are banned.”

“So, you can travel to the cities, but you can’t read newspapers from the cities or correspond with people from here, can 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.