Кристиан Новак - Dark Mother Earth

Both of us were disgusted by the thought. We were certain we’d never do those things ourselves, whatever that meant, though Dejan once told me his plan was to live with a woman who had soft breasts and long red fingernails. He’d touch her breasts, knead them, maybe they would sleep in the same bed and watch TV together in the evening, but that was it. They wouldn’t make babies or anything like that.

“Breasts. Yuck. We definitely won’t be jumping in—we don’t care about that stuff, do we? We’re only going to ask them what they want with my daddy.”

“Okay. But I still don’t think they’re real.”

“Then you won’t be scared to go there at night. Or are you?”

“Scared? Take that back, or I’ll sock you. See you there, at midnight.”

I didn’t know what the maidens looked like. I imagined they wore long white gowns that drifted across the water and had black hair plastered to their pale faces. Their eyes were completely black, and they could see into a man’s soul, to steal what was warm in his heart. I didn’t know how I’d stop myself from running away when they appeared, nor how I’d ask them what I had to ask, but I knew the answer they might give me. My granny told me: a person can return from the land of the dead only if somebody alive is traded for them.

We agreed to meet by the old mill, where we’d heard the fisherman had disappeared a few years back. The mill was spooky by day, nobody had used it for a long time because the marshy backwaters of the river were dead, the water stagnant, the riverbanks boggy with water lilies and water striders. If phantoms were going to appear, this was the place. Dejan already knew how he’d sneak out of the house because he did it whenever his parents were grilling something and sent him to bed early. He’d stolen the extra key and hidden it, and after a while his parents stopped looking for it. I couldn’t go out the front door, but I was sure I could climb out the window. I was calm and settled that evening, I did everything I was supposed to without whining—I ate my whole omelet, brushed my teeth, and went to bed on time. I waited a few hours for my mom and sister to fall asleep. I shook when I remembered that outside the night would be dark and silent, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. If I could’ve, I would’ve let Dejan know we shouldn’t go just yet. Still, I didn’t want to ditch him after he’d been punished because of me. So I snuck to the door of my mom’s room and listened for her snoring. Then, over my pajamas, I pulled on tracksuit pants and a knitted sweater. I couldn’t get my sneakers so I pulled on two pairs of socks instead, one over the other, and closed the door softly. I moved two flowerpots from the windowsill to the floor and stood on a stool to reach the latch. I clenched my jaw, hoping the sound of my teeth grinding would stifle the creak of the hinges.

I raised the blinds slowly and felt coldness wash over me. There was something hellish in the outside world, as if a great evil were stirring that night, something that had compelled people long ago to build what they later called walls. I dropped down from the window and felt my socks get damp and cold. I glanced back. I probably wouldn’t be able to climb back in. Out on the street, I realized I’d have to walk past fifteen houses before I got to the turnoff that would lead me through the brambles to the riverbank.

I remember how each step and thought in the dark of the village was like a soundless creak, the kind you feel head to toe, like the shuddering of the support pillars that quiver and break when we feel terror. I clearly heard the air filling my lungs, held it back, then exhaled slowly. My feet and chest hurt from cold and fear. As I moved farther from the house, I became able to see more clearly. Outlines of homes and wooden fences loomed in the darkness. Each object had a ghostly calm. That night I came to understand the meaning of the word prickle . Later I often heard it described as tingling , but the two things are not the same. When your skin prickles, it’s like being sprayed with boiling and freezing water, a mix that’s neither hot nor cold but very uncomfortable. It’s when you become aware that you’re not all alone, and somebody who’s as lonely as you are wants to tell his story.

I figured out why the dirt around the village was always so dark, nearly black. Dark mother earth. When night fell, the thick darkness must have soaked into the ground. But the ground couldn’t absorb much more. I thought for a time that the blackness would hover above the ground and dawn would never break again.

The river reflected the brightness of the half-moon, creating more light than there was in the village. Still, this illumination was sinking into the petroleum-hued water more than shining from it. Everything had the smell of damp grass and manure. It was peculiar how such a large body of water could be so cursedly still. The river was to my left, but I was so afraid of ghosts that I chose to look to the right, into the pitch darkness. I walked as fast as I could, ignoring the bumpy ground aggravating my feet, which were beginning to feel as if they’d been sewn onto my legs. I tripped a few times, stumbling over roots or tall grass, but I was far enough from the water that I didn’t fall in. The voices I sometimes heard in my head when I was scared—mainly the voice of my uncle, probably the strongest man in the world—these voices had vanished. After a few hundred yards, I saw the dark outline of the old mill in the distance. I froze and fought the urge to run home. Since I wasn’t sure how I was going to get back into the house, I squinted and took the next step. Finally, like a child carved of wood, I mounted the concrete foundation on which the mill stood, went around the shabby hut, and sat where the mill wheel used to be. The particular smell of rot, the union of wood and stagnant water, filled my nose and lungs. I sat with my back to the mill and stripped off my wet socks. I waited for a time, shivering, and then I heard a rustling. I whispered, “Dejan?” a few times, each time softer than the last because my voice had frozen deep in my throat. Finally I saw my friend’s silhouette, it couldn’t be anybody else. I’d never been so glad, but when he came closer, we were both just as scared and alone.

“Waiting long?”

“Dunno.”

“Hey, you’re shivering. Are you scared?” asked Dejan, with a spark of hope.

“Cold. I couldn’t put on my sneakers, or I would’ve woken up Mom.”

Dejan pulled off his brown shoes and socks. He put his shoes back on and gave me his socks. We sat there like that and stared at the water.

“See anything?”

“Nope. But I wasn’t looking too close.”

“I can’t see nothing,” said Dejan grumpily, and I had the impression he didn’t want to stay long. He was scared, like me, but of other things. If his father found out, he’d take my friend’s head off. We sat there in the middle of the night, morose.

“I wanna go home,” said Dejan. He’d had the gumption to show up, and now he wanted to leave. Meanwhile, I was staring into the water, and my father’s face was looking out at me, clear as a bell. It wasn’t the living face I remembered, but the bluish-pale puffy face of the dead doll on the bier in our living room. I thought of the valley of dreams and the treasure in the hills, the fish restaurant, and the monkey wrenches. The voice in my head was whispering that I was scared to go home and ring the doorbell and see Mom crying and shouting that she didn’t know what to do with me and why wasn’t I like other kids. If I was going back, it had to be with Dad.

“Hold on. They’ll come.”

“Who’ll come? Are you crazy?”

“They’re in the water, we’ll call them… One of us needs to jump in, then they’ll come.”