They didn’t understand. Over the shoulder of one hung an old hunting rifle. The other, her chin propped up by a massive goiter, carried a stick with a sharpened animal jaw fastened to the end. Armed, as always. And now Margarete alone.
He asked again, this time pantomiming a nun’s habit, pressing his hands in prayer.
They laughed and shared a glance. Yes, yes—this in Polish. Tak. Tak.
“Where?”
Again they exchanged glances, turned back to him, and shrugged. Now he pointed up the road. They nodded, smiling, following his gaze.
Yes—again in Polish. One of the women pressed her hands together, laughing toothlessly.
Yes. So perhaps he was right after all.
Dobruy vechur!
He quickened his pace. The trail rose, flattened and rose again. The sun was gone, but thankfully the clouds were high and distant, the peaks alight in alpenglow. A warm wind rustled the trees. He took swift, long strides, trying to think of what to say if he found Margarete. Would she be angry with him? Or just grateful he had come for her? Certainly, she would understand why he was worried: the night, the risks of traveling alone. He hadn’t wanted to disrupt her solitude, he’d tell her; he only wished to know that she was safe. On the trail, he hadn’t meant to speak so rashly, to ask her questions she couldn’t answer. He could be anything for her. A husband, or someone to seek shelter with in the high grass by the water, away from disease and war. Or, if she wished, they could start anew, doctor and nurse.
It took him close to an hour to reach the top. By then it was dark, the moon a sliver. In the distance, he heard the faint, familiar drumming of artillery. But it was far, so far that when the wind picked up, he heard nothing but the trees.
As he reached the ruins, he saw that they were empty. He called her name. An animal scurried on the low wall and vanished into the shadows of the watchtower. Again he called, picking his way through the stones and stunted pines, now with the lantern. But nothing.
At the fallen staircase, he stopped, uncertain where to go. His face felt warm, his hands shook a little; he told himself he must keep calm. He thought back on the villagers, the old woman pressing her hands together in a pantomime of prayer. But had she truly understood what he was asking her? Or was she just mimicking the motions of this stranger with whom she couldn’t speak?
Again he felt his worry massing. Had Margarete returned already? But then he would have heard the church bells. Or had she come to the ruins, as he’d expected, but taken another trail from there?
From the watchtower, the path ran either down into the neighboring valley, or up along the ridge. But neither made any sense for her. The ridge led on to even higher terrain of stone and tarns. It was forbidding country. Soldiers were lost up there, he knew; it was where Horváth was found.
Horváth. The memory surfaced, and he had to fight it off: body, wheelbarrow, the peasant in his sheepskin cloak and hat.
Above him, clouds were moving in from the plains, and light rain began to fall at intervals. He checked the ruins one last time and turned to head back down, when a flicker of grey across the neighboring valley caught his attention. He stopped and turned down the lantern. He saw nothing; it must have been a trick of his eyes. But then again it was moving, down below, a skirted figure slowly making its way up toward the opposite ridge, a blanket held above her head.
He shouted her name, but now the wind was too strong for her to hear him. So he began to pick his way across the ruins, joining first a narrow descending path, and then a broader trail, which rose up the valley before crossing to the facing slope. He hurried; she was only minutes away, but he would lose her if she passed beyond the ridge.
He called again. The figure halted and then began to climb more quickly through the grass. Again he called. She seemed to hear him, for she turned and looked, then hastened on. Now he found himself confused. He could understand why she might have wanted solitude. But to flee at this hour of night was madness. Perhaps it was delirium, he thought, perhaps the fever had returned.
He was running then. The lantern was useless, heavy, swinging, the light reflecting off the mist and making it impossible to see. He left it on the trail, to collect on his return. He stumbled onward; by the time he reached the opposite slope, she had vanished from sight. But her passage was marked by a clear track in the crushed, wet grass, and he left the trail and followed her path as it rose and twisted, and at last, at the summit, plunged into a dense stand of trees. There, a heavy mist was pushing up from over the other side of the hill, and for a moment he found himself unsure of where to go, when a flash of her habit again caught his eye. He followed, through the trees, and out into a clearing, where he stopped. Nothing. He advanced, more slowly now. Again he called. The fog hung low, impenetrable. The air redolent of pine. He could scarcely see twenty paces ahead.
A voice, Stij!
He turned. She was standing off to the side, in the waist-high grass, rifle raised to her shoulder. A girl of perhaps twelve, dew-drenched, panting, kerchief pushed back far on her head. Around her shoulder was slung a heavy bag. From the highlands, probably, coming home from scavenging for food.
Stij! she said again. Stop.
Then more words.
He slowly raised his hands. “Ne rushume,” he tried in Ruthenian. I don’t understand. His doctor’s vocabulary, now so useless. Where does this hurt? Stay still. Breathe.
She didn’t answer. She will kill me, he thought, a strange man pursuing her through the valley at night. Then, again, she began to shout. The words were angry, scolding. He had the sense that other grievances were being voiced. He lifted his hands higher. The rifle twitched; he flinched. Again: she was motioning him to move. But he hesitated, afraid of showing her his back.
Again the muzzle twitched, and she made a show of taking better aim. So he backed away, slowly, until the mist closed over.
For a long time he stood in one place, until he felt that she was gone. Rain had begun to fall, and a stronger wind shook the grass. He was soaked now, and he took the blanket from his bag and put it over his shoulders. It was time to head back. He was at the edge of the clearing, about to head into the trees, when the wind shifted, and very briefly, but very clearly, he heard the sound of bells from far away.
He entered the forest again and began to circle, looking for the path he’d followed after the girl. Again he heard the bells. His spirits lifted. Signaling to me, he thought: she’s back. Now the visions that he had fought to keep away—a new fever, a fall, an attack by wild animals or soldiers—all vanished. There was a much simpler story, he thought, hurrying onward. She went to think over his proposal; now she had returned. She would laugh when he told her about the chase, the windswept slope. He wondered about her answer, what she had decided. He allowed himself the thought of her beside him, of lying down together in the mist.
The forest, which he had remembered as a narrow stand, seemed now much deeper, and he walked for some time before it opened onto another clearing. He wished again for the lantern. He could not find a path, so he looped back through the grass to a pile of stones that he didn’t remember seeing before. He turned and headed back downhill, again looking for the path to the ridge. But the mist was thick and the way was uncertain. He cursed. They would be worried back at the church.
Maybe she deserves to worry a little, running away like that.