On the Nature of the Girls’ Fate

“Are you dressed yet?!” Ludmila did not give her peace.

“Aye, Mum!” she shouted with little thought.

“Liar,” Anti hissed, and he flicked her naked backside with a birch in their mother’s style.

Eiri leapt up in pain and surprise at the same time. Anti did not wait for her response; he dropped the switch and darted away before his sister could turn round.

“And don’t forget to bring a basket!” he mimicked Ludmila, sticking his tongue out at her and hiding behind the stove.

Furious, donning that ugly dress, Eiri picked up a flexible cane and pursued the fair-haired rascal. But instead of their usual chase round the stove, Anti sprinted towards the door, seeking refuge behind his mother’s skirt.

“You chickenshit!” Eiri shouted in disappointment.

Ludmila appeared in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “I’ve had enough of this!” she declared in a tone that made Eiri’s bum crack tighten. “Fetch a basket and let’s get going. And hand over that birch you’re hiding behind your back. I’ve a feelin’ we’ll need it,” ordered Ludmila, extending her hand.

As soon as Eiri caught sight of Ludmila, her posture stiffened like a ramrod, and her eyes shifted upward to the low attic where they were drying the gathered herbs. She swallowed nervously in response to the command and lowered her gaze.

Shuffling in her lapte—bast shoes woven from the bark of linden trees—Eiri approached the irate mother and obediently handed her the birch twig. Though sturdy, the shoes chafed her bare feet, a reminder of her mother’s insistence that she toughen up.

She glanced at Ludmila’s enraged face and hastily brought the wicker basket—the very same one she had forgotten in the woods at the start of spring, along with the lungwort flowers she had gathered to treat Anti’s chest cold. The compelled return for the basket, as nightfall approached, resulted not only in her mother’s reprimand but also in several nights of nightmares. The recollection of the dim forest and the eerie sounds that had to belong only to the creatures from ghost stories gave Eiri goosebumps and contorted her countenance.

“Why’re you gawpin’ like ye’ve swallowed a toad?” Ludmila snapped, her patience wearing thin.

“Yuck! A toad,” Anti peeked out from behind her skirt.

Their mother turned round and exhibited the birch to him, a stern expression on her face, without uttering a word or making any threatening gestures. It was enough to show him to make him understand she was in no mood for ploys.

If only the same would carry weight with her. Ludmila glanced at her daughter, who could not hide her annoyance.

Eiri gave a reproachful look to their mother, who was beginning to show the first wrinkles round her brooklime-blue eyes. The square shape of her medium white face appeared visually slimmer for her hazel-blonde hair, which flowed down over her loosely tied bodice and partially covered the sunburnt nape of neck. The corners of her wide, slender lips turned downwards, and though she appeared stern and menacing, she was only exhausted.

Ludmila wore a loktushe—a white bonnet, the emblem of a married woman—atop her head. The bonnet’s crisp linen folds framed her face, a stark contrast to the loose strands of hair escaping its edges. The pea-green skirt that extended nearly to her ankles, overlaying her long white shirt. A girdle with pouches for gathering herbaceous plants encircled her waist above her pregnant belly. She had feet swathed in foot rags and shod in low, heel-less, soft shoes fastened round her ankles with twine. These shoes, known as krpce in the local region, were tailored from a single piece of cowhide. Soft and flexible, they clung to Ludmila’s feet like a second skin, their worn edges a testament to years of use.

“Let’s go,” commanded Ludmila

At that moment, the anguished cry of Ivan resonated from behind her. Eiri and Anti jerked in alarm. The herbalist from Goldiloop pivoted on her heel and hurried out to her son, with the older children following suit.

The youngest member of their family sat on the doorstep beside his mother’s wicker basket. A small knife lay on the ground in front of him, its blade exposed, whilst its leather sheath was a little way away. Ivan clutched his bleeding finger, and his cries intensified.

Anti widened his eyes and hissed as if he could feel his brother’s pain. Eiri tensed up.

If he’s cut himself bad, we ain’t goin’ nowhere. A saving idea flashed through Eiri’s mind, followed by the pang of searing shame. Ludmila let out a deep sigh.

“Show me,” she urged her son, bending over her pregnant belly. Ivan obediently raised his arm. Ludmila grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him to his feet, and then she briefly examined each of his hands.

“You’re fine,” she delivered the stern verdict, wiping a drop of blood from his index finger with her thumb.

Anti breathed a sigh of relief, whereas Eiri could not help screwing up her face.

“It hurts!” Ivan complained.

“Then you should remember it,” said the seasoned mother sternly. “I told ye not to touch the knife. But you didn’t listen, so it’s your own fault. I ain’t gonna pity you,” she reprimanded Ivan for his mistake and straightened up.