Taming Devils (I)

*Disclaimer: This story is set in the world of Hailb ringer: A Romanian Folktale and may contain spoilers for those who have not yet read the book

April 1431 (AD 6939), Northern Wallachia

These parts of the world were unpredictable. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the hooves of those born in the saddle not too far, towards sunrise. Leaving their infinite plains, hungry for the riches grown in the heart of the civilised West. The ones eating their gods. The Moldavian folk stood against them for ages. But marauders would still slip through the defences, settling on the hills or traversing the lands and hiding deep in the mountains, unafraid, or perhaps unaware that other perils, ancient ones had their homes there.

If he closed his eyes he could not only hear them howling at the sky. He could hear swords and axes clashing into one another. Some were echoes of battles that had happened long ago. Some echoes of battle yet to happen. For he had years since he had taken the silence oath. He had time to understand that you could hear a great deal more things in the silence and solitude, than in the spoken word.

But within all those faraway battlecries, another sound, an older, blood chilling one grew like rot in a tree trunk. Hidden to the common ear or mind. Ancient and bringer of doom. Growls that had been with him since he was just a boy. And it was these smouldering snarls that made the monk open his eyes and pull the horse from its gallop, giving it time to rest after days of running towards the North.

The monk turned his gaze, with his heart quivering. At last, they took the bait. He had no reasons to worry for his comrades. They could continue their journey. They had to continue their journey. Besides, the Salman was not ready for demons. His mission was still sprouting. Maybe one day, once he finds his purpose, he could help. But not yet. Turning to the dark-blue twilight sky, the monk had another ally for the time being. His Saviour showed him mercy and taught him how to survive for many years. Faith has proved rewarding.

“…by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world”, he whispered with passion, seeking the aid of the Archangels. He made the sign of the cross, kissed the cross dangling at his neck and kicked the horse, riding towards the upcoming evening.

*******

1419 (AD 6927), Moldavia

It wasn’t customary to bury dead animals. If disease or exhaustion took them, people would throw them in a great hole in the ground, dug out somewhere outside the village. In the late spring, black locusts that would usually grow around the pits would bloom and spread their sweet perfumes, but even this wouldn’t cover the putrid miasma that would rise from the shallow grave during hot summer days, after the sun hit on the dead carcasses.

But he thought it was fit to bury the mare. You see, the young man believed that animals had a soul too, just as any other creature. A soul that deserved a proper communion with the welcoming earth. One that deserved guidance in the afterlife and salvation, just like any other soul. At least that was what he believed; the vicar that taught him both the written word of man and the unwritten word of God might have thought it was heresy.

As rain began pouring and the darkness covered the sky, he threw the shovel aside and brought his hands together, whispering a prayer.

Besides, it wasn’t his mare, but his brother’s. He felt responsible for the animal’s death. Day after day, since he came to this abandoned skete with the plan to restore it, all he did was work. Since the cockrow and until the first barn owls’ hoots, he would leave the cottage, throw the axe in the cart and take the horse to the nearby forest, by the lake. He would work tirelessly to keep his mind busy. He would only stop for water and a piece of bread at noon, then return to chopping. He would overburden the cart with wood then whip the poor animal to carry it to the settlement.

The horse died of exhaustion. He was supposed to take the horse back to his brother once he finished work. He wasn’t going too now. And he wouldn’t return either. His brother was right. He was useless to the family. He might as well live out his days in the woods, where he wouldn’t bring any more damage to anyone. He would throw himself at the mercy of God.

He had enough wood now, so he could rebuild the old cottages and the small church that the monks left behind many years ago. And this would keep him busy for a long while.

A sudden thunder could be heard mourning in the distance when the lad stuffed the wooden cross in the ground, marking the mare’s grave. It was a violent one, the man thought. Surely the wheels of Santilie, the rain guardian, stumbled through the clouds and uprooted a tree somewhere far away. It was time to find shelter.

The young man spent his evening vainly trying to build a fire in the small hearth, but the ash and the wood were damp. He repaired the roof a month ago, the way he knew how, but water was still leaking through the wooden clapboard. He was shivering and he was starving. He now thought it was a mistake to bury the horse. He could have eaten its meat, like he heard the pagan Tatars did.

He cried and continued rubbing the sticks together, blowing and adding thin wood shavings and leaves, may God help him see a thread of smoke or something. Anything.

‘Begone, you worthless bastard!’ his older brother’s words sounded in his mind. ‘Begone to where the devil weaned its horse.’ He could not even build a fire; how on earth would he build a church?

‘Dumitru!’

He raised his eyes from the ground, and wiped his tears and rain off his face. Just when he gave up and threw the sticks into the ash and kneeled on the floor overwhelmed with hopelessness, a red, bright blaze ignited, biting the leaves and the shavings greedily. But instead of adding more wood and tending to the lively fire, the man’s attention was completely grabbed by the whisper coming from the dark, far corner of the abode. The one mentioning his name.

His heart skipped a beat and his breath quivered while he squinted his eyes, unable to raise off the floor. The new light coming from the fire would cast strange, moving shadows on the walls. He would here voices and see things now. Hunger and loneliness would do that to a man, he tried to convince himself as soon as he regained some of the air back. With an eye to the wall and one to the fire, he slowly reached out to another piece of wood and fed the fire. The warmth was soothing and he believed more and more that it was just his imagination playing tricks on him. But then he heard it once more.

‘Dumitru!’

The man turned rapidly, this time stumbling on his back, as it was no longer a whisper. It was a grave voice that sounded so close to him that he could almost sense its breath into his ear.