DAY OF THE DEAD

DAY OF THE DEAD

Thick fog has covered the sharp rocks, twisting and turning in the valley, looking cold and murky.

The trees bow as if they are complaining about the weather… dozing… once in a while losing a sickly yellow leaf. They are secretly crying… one could barely distinguish their cries from the sounds of the dry wind that beats them.

The flocks of sheep are gone from the grazing hills and no longer bleat on the flat rocks where they used to lick salt from when they were lambs. The youthful, ringing and fresh voices are gone... The reeds extend over the eroded country road and are tangled with the grass. There are no footprints.

There is silence...

And life continues in complete absence of man... Much water will flow and many ages will pass… much will change but no one will be able to prevent the birds from flying high through the piles of pink clouds over the long, stretched out Vardar. And the people, whenever there is hope, will sing about their fate with the words of the new years.

Lost in her thoughts, wearing a homespun vest whose edges were bordered with three layers of braided wine-coloured woven yarn, all stitched together with gold thread, the old woman was walking alone. She paused and cast a glance toward the mountain; the burned down scorched tree trunks, looking like people stood there… looking back. She got a chill down her spine. The dried up water ditch seemed to reach out to her and grab her by her hand… When the woman reached the boundary of her property she straightened, composed her old figure, mustered enough strength and said:

“Good day garden...”

“Good day indeed. You came back… looking even older… much older. Your hair has turned white. You need a stick to support yourself walking...” the old woman replied to herself.

“Many years have passed… my garden. You too have aged and turned ugly. It’s been many years since you have produced anything. Today I came to see you… today is the day of the dead. I came to collect some flowers,” the old women said.

“I know, Bozhana, I waited for you but as you can see I am all naked. The tame flower has long gone. It left with the young...” the old woman replied to herself.

“Then allow me to at least visit you again… see you all; the field, the meadow, the grove..., I have not seen you since I fled… go get you out of my dark and desolate thoughts. I left the silence and walked across the field. Everything was silent in my house. Only I spoke… I talked to things when I used them… I cursed them, swore at them, cried over them and sorted them and some I treasured like my own eyes...” said the old woman.

The soil in the fields looked compacted and the fields themselves looked naked… sprawled across the valley… separated only by boundaries indicating that they were shared pieces of land...

The old woman threw a glance at the wide valley. “The soil is now resting… It sustained us for a long, long time with its crops…” she whispered while standing still like a rock. She smiled… her secret smile stretched out her wrinkled cheeks.

“Sit down Bozhana… Don’t stand there! Your legs hurt. Sit down on the stone! You rarely come here… you only come here in those days you celebrate...” she said to herself.

“I came here because I was coming here since I was a young girl… you remember? You remember how mischievous I was then? What was I? A barefoot little girl! Was it my grandfather or my great grandfather that separated you from the other fields… that put those boundaries there… I have aged much and I don’t remember… but I do know… they told me that this tragedy and this piece of land are ours. I was a curious girl… I was 19 years old when I met Done. He was returning from shepherding. His mossy face was ruddy, his sickle was shining in his hand… he was gathering wheat stalks on

the side of the road… he looked at me sideways... And now, when I close my eyes, I see him like I saw him then. He was carrying his shirt over his shoulder and on it he rested his sickle… his chest was baked like a hard stone. His smile made me feel more striking...” said the old woman to herself and paused for a moment.

The old woman sat on the stone. Not far from her there was maple tree growing. Bozhana kept looking at it. The valley was lit with yellow and pink beams of light emanating through the clouds and evaporating the last vestiges of the morning fog.

The village, nestled on the sunny side of the hill, looked bright and alive, even though now there was no human life in it.

“Done was a hard worker… he reaped the rye masterfully. He was quiet when he worked. He cut the stalks of grain and piled them in small piles, one beside the other, like children lying side by side. He and I were always the first people to go to work. All the others were still sleeping when we left for the fields. One time we slept here, near that tree over there at the end of our field. We slept on top of Done’s homespun coat.

This was our first night sleeping in the outdoors. Done’s strong hand stroked my cheeks, forehead, hair… from inside of his palm I could hear his heart… it was happy listening to his loud heart hammering. I asked him: ‘Done, do you think we will live happily…?’ and he said:

‘Oh, I think so… I believe we will be happy…’

He then said: ‘If the land and the water are divided equally among the people, and if we have our own field, and if we plow and sow it, then we will reap our own rye… and yes, we will be happy...

A person cannot ask for more joy that that. The plowman is happy to reap what he sows.

Look out there… there is land for everyone… the soil has opened its chest for everyone – for people to live! Do you see how much one grain of rye can give us...?’ asked Done.

I don’t know why but I loved those words he spoke… they gave me great joy.

I held him in my arms and kissed his warm and sun-burned face. And now, every time I think of this I cry. I don’t know why. One time he hugged me and rolled me over the rye, he then squeezed me and yelled at the sun:

‘Hey, sun! Look… this is my wife… Look at her and pay me with your sun rays and with your bright light...’

I could not restrain myself with the joy that flooded my chest...” she said. The old woman then looked away and remained silent for a long time.

“Bozhana, when you used to come here… remember… you brought a cradle with you and made shade for it with stalks of grain… now you say nothing about that... where is your family Bozhana?” the old woman heard a voice in her head that shocked her. She then rose up from the stone, adjusted her vest, put on her head kerchief and said:

“Stop tormenting me… You can see I have no more tears… There were seven cradles… that’s why I ran away from home. Their death was very hard for me… I am a mother who has experienced terrible blows of fate. Who will measure my bitterness? Many times I have asked the Lord to let me die... Lord, I have no more strength in me... let me die, please, I beg you dear Lord let me die...” she cried out.

The old woman then looked up… at the village… nestled on the sunny side of the hill and remembered… she remembered the houses burning… the wind blowing… tongues of flame sticking out… black smoke rising… swirling in the wind… and red sparks flying…

She feels unrest deep down in her soul. The village is very old… it remembers the green gardens and fields growing around it every year… except for now… now the fields are white fallow and the sunny side of the hill is in ruins...

Bozhana’s heart began to beat irregular… it lost its rhythm… her hands began to shake.

“My dear field,” she let out a loud scream, “you have been resting from the harvest. You know me well… you have known me all my life. Now we are here all alone… you and I… Today is the day of the dead. Tell me my dear field… tell me my dear birthplace… in which times and which mother has suffered as much… from seven to have none! I buried my husband… I lost Georgi, Petre, Vasil, Elena, Risto and Velika...

When Done was still alive he went looking for bones, following the blood trail… inquiring… he brought Georgi and Risto’s bones home. He then died and left the rest of the bones uncollected,” she said and then stopped moaning.

“I don’t know, Bozhana... Only the most frightening tree stumps remember such bad times…” she heard a voice in her head saying.

“Oh, let it be me… let me be the last mother to wait for her sons like this. Please God don’t let another mother suffer like this... Let no other mother wait like this… Every time I look at the top of the hill, with every dawn that passes, I cry… I cry for my children to quickly return home... I only have a little corner of my life left. When my home was burning that corner was saved by going abroad.

I went to see him… my youngest son… he now lives in a foreign country. He has been erased… he is no longer a son of this country, but he is my son... my son!” she said out loud while crying.

“I know, Bozhana, I know… don’t cry, it’s my fault for asking you…” said the voice inside the old woman’s head.

The old woman then looked up and said: “I don’t know if this is light or dark” and while looking at the sun she cried out: “Ah, sun... sun, you shine warmth as you look down on the earth... talk to the people!” then she looked down at the ground and said:

“And you mother earth, you who feed the people… who have settled all your parts... you, dear earth, talk to the people. I have another son

and he is a son of this country because he was born here, in this place…” said the old woman and closed her eyes.

“No, Bozhana, there are many voices like that… you, yourself, need to speak to the people…” said the voice inside the old woman’s head and continued:

“You are a person too. You are in your own country. You gave birth and cradled seven children here.”

The old woman slowly, step by step began to move...

She again began to feel the coldness in her soul… and in the valley!

“Go Bozhana, go…” said the voice in her head.

“I am going, the dead are calling me… if I am still alive, I will come back again. I am losing my strength with each passing day... Yesterday in my sleep they were all collected around me saying: ‘Why don’t you want to rest a while, mother, you are so worn out and tired... Let us warm your hands. Eh! Your hands... are so cold and wiry!

Why are you saying these things, why are you being so cruel...?

Go mother go... go and live with Borche, even though he is far away from us, he is the youngest… let him look after you…’ said the voice inside the old woman’s head.

“They left crying… I scolded them and told them: ‘I don’t want to leave… I want to be in this country where I was born’…” said the old woman.