Читать книгу The Harvest of Chronos - Mojca Kumerdej - Страница 4

Then I looked, and there was a white cloud, and seated on the cloud was one like the Son of Man, with a golden crown on his head, and a sharp sickle in his hand.

Another angel came out of the temple, calling with a loud voice to the one who sat on the cloud, ‘Use your sickle and reap, for the hour to reap has come, because the harvest of the earth is fully ripe.’ So the one who sat on the cloud swung his sickle over the earth, and the earth was reaped.

— Revelation 14:14–16

In Syncopated Rhythm

Hills of tender green were scattered about in syncopated rhythm, and the late-morning sun, which bathed the land in apricot light, announced that the cold which had paralysed the province right up to the first days of April was slowly releasing its icy grip. On a distant ridge, a little village was bashfully uncovering itself, wedged into a rounded slope and pierced through by the bell tower of a church. The bright-green forests revealed that the trees within them were mostly ancient beeches interspersed with lindens – trees that in these parts and those times held special importance for the populace. The hard wood of the beech tree had economic importance, for it produced the most bountiful warmth in household hearths. But for other fires, not meant for heating homes, it was best to use faster-burning woods drenched in animal fat, which were then tossed into a pile. On some occasions, linden trees were involved. To be sure, when it blossoms the linden gives off a heady perfume and its dried flowers have the power to soothe coughs and reduce fever, but the wood of the tree, with its particular softness, is also ideal for carving gods. And carving and cavorting with lindenwood gods was sufficient reason, in the late sixteenth century, for the carvers and cavorters to roast at the stake and be burned to the bone.

The old trees kept watch over memories from an age the local populace did not remember first-hand but that still rustled in secret among them. The little villages, sprinkled with modest churches, were watched over by the tall and mighty old trees, and, not infrequently, an oak might hold the foundation and walls of a church in the tight grip of its roots. As evening approached, the little churches would ring their bells and announce to honest folk that it was time to milk whatever there was to be milked and to fill their stomachs with whatever there was to fill them, so they wouldn’t churn and growl until morning, and then to go to bed and, before falling asleep, if their bodies allowed it, make a new Christian – a Catholic one, not a Lutheran! And then the churches, too, would shut their eyes and still their bells in a well-deserved slumber. That was how things were supposed to be. That was what was demanded and expected of a God-fearing people.

But not everybody kept these customs. Just as eyelids should be shutting out the visible world, the hours arrive when the dark world awakens and with it the ancient forces that supposedly lay vanquished and rotting beneath the little churches. When the evening bells have finished chiming and diligent hands have done what remains to be done, all in keeping with secular and religious law, there are a few who then start lifting the heavy lids off household chests, opening cabi­nets, pulling up a floorboard or unscrewing a panel in the wall, and as they look to see if anyone is watching, they take out various dried and fresh herbs, clay pots and bowls, glass jars large and small, roots, ointments, desiccated toads, insects and snake heads, which they place all around them, preferably on the floor, lest what they do be noticed by an intrusive eye from behind the curtained window and tightly closed shutters. Or perhaps, sitting or crouching amid all this paraphernalia in a windowless black kitchen by the light of a candle, they begin to consider what mischief might be made that evening. Would it be a good idea, is it the proper time, to take revenge on a neighbour – although they could just as easily do him evil for no other reason than the pure pleasure of it? Is tonight the night for wreaking havoc on a henhouse and binding the fowls’ guts so they never again lay a single egg? Oh, right! They could see if that woman has already given birth, and if she hasn’t, or is only now in labour, they could twist the umbili­cal cord around the little head in her belly so that not even the most skilful midwife would be able to disentangle the child.

There were, to be sure, more than a few midwives among those who hatched such schemes and nursed such dismal thoughts – the very women the populace was obliged to trust on such a sensitive and important occasion as the birth of a child. It would not be the first time that, right after a woman gives birth, the midwife hurries outside with the newborn, lifts him in the air and thunders out curses, summoning her dark master and offering him the baby as a gift. And her master willingly accepts these unbaptized little souls. Sometimes he will take both body and soul, and people then wonder why the child died so unexpectedly when there was nothing at all wrong with the mother’s belly, either during the birth or before it. Sometimes the hornèd one leaves the body alone for a time, bringing up the soul inside as his very own child, who does evil at his bidding. Some of them really are his children, although this is not always apparent at first glance. The child seems healthy and active enough, no naughtier than other naughty children. But eventually, the observant eye begins to detect certain suspicious and revealing signs. For instance, farm animals are afraid of the child, while foxes and wolves approach him boldly and roll on their backs at his feet like a pet cat or dog. Or when he walks past a crucifix, it tilts and turns so that if the Saviour really was nailed to it, all the blood would rush to his head. Accidents start happening in the family and no one can say why – and this in a family that is devout, where everyone has a good, pure heart and harsh words are never spoken and the rod always spared, unless the punishment is well-founded and necessary, a family who crawl on their knees in the great processions around the altar and even give to the church a little more than they are able to, who have no dispute with their neighbours or with anyone else in the village, not the priest or the count or any other authority. And then one day the mother slips and falls on her back and cannot get out of bed any more. And a few weeks later, one of the children breaks out in a festering rash, and even after the barber has let his blood and applied leeches to cleanse the poisons from the body, the child gets weaker and his skin turns sallow, until eventually, pale, ashen and emaciated, he sleeps the sleep of eternity. And that’s not the end of it. The family has not yet fully recovered when another son falls out of the cherry tree, hurting himself so badly he’s no good for anything until the following spring; with his broken fingers, he can’t even crack nuts or do the other small chores by which the populace gets through the long, cold, dark winter hours.

And to make matters worse, after a night in spring the fifteen-year-old daughter throws up her morning porridge and bores her eyes into the floor; and when someone asks her what’s wrong, she bursts into tears, clasps her hands in prayer and falls on her knees, begging Mary for help, because she doesn’t know what’s wrong. And she does well to pray to Mary, who more than any saint, male or female, let alone Jesus or God, understands why a teenage girl might first feel sick in the morning and then, despite not eating very much, grow larger by the day. ‘Tell me his name!’ The father is pummelling his daughter, who bears the blows meekly through her tears, for she knows she has honestly earned them and is now paying the price for her short and sinful life. ‘His name! His name!’ the father shouts, bellows, thrashes her. ‘You have defiled our family’s name! Never in recent generations has anyone in our family whored herself so young!’ (This, in fact, may not be true, for who knows whose seed a woman carries? Sometimes the woman herself doesn’t know, and in those days, the man she names as the father could as easily doubt her as take her at her word.) And because her father’s hand does not relent, the girl agrees to tell him, to show him, everything. He cracks his knuckles and looks around. Should he grab the musket, which he uses from time to time for poaching deer on the count’s hunting ground? Or should he take the sickle, the axe, maybe the scythe? Or merely a knife and with threatening looks make his daughter understand that she’d better not dally with the information. He moves a step closer, grabs her head and turns it towards the picture of the Virgin Mary that is hanging on the wall, and the daughter blurts out the first name that comes to her.

‘Who? I don’t know him! He’s not from our village!’

‘Of course he isn’t!’ the daughter weeps. ‘It didn’t happen in our village!’ While her young brain is weaving a story, the father holds his head in his hands, turning it right and left and roaring like a bear that she must have seduced him, she must have offered herself to him, since he’s seen the way she struts around showing herself off, even in front of those seven oddities on the Kostanšek farm, who most people, when they see them, turn away from and cross themselves.

‘But it’s not my fault! I was forced to do it!’ And so the daughter begins her tearful narrative.

‘One night, after saying my prayers – the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Angel of God – I fell asleep listening to the breathing of my brothers and sisters sleeping next to me. But then, all of a sudden, I wake up. I open my eyes and look out of the window at the moon; it’s glowing with a strange reddish colour and is so big it’s like it’s trying to break into the room. That’s scary enough. But then I go numb with horror when a shadow darts across the glowing moon and covers it in darkness. A moment later, a hideous crone is standing in front of me, and her twisted fingers are reaching for my face and she’s laughing through her jagged teeth. Her hair is all tangled and she’s laughing and laughing and grabbing at me with her crooked fingers. I try to turn away, I really do, but right beside my bed the hag keeps shifting from one foot to the other with a broom between her legs. I want to cry, but nothing comes out of me. Then she takes the broom in her hands like this’ – the girl demonstrates – ‘and does like this.’ And to make clearer what she’s saying, she slides the invisible broomstick between her legs. ‘The old hag is rubbing it up and down and back and forth and back and forth and … Yuck! I’m so disgusted I cover my face with my hands, only my fingers are open just wide enough to see what she means to do with me. The hag keeps rubbing and rubbing until the stick is dripping wet, as if it’s slathered in hot pig’s fat. Then she grabs me, shoves the broomstick between my thighs and, with one hand clutching my body so I can’t move, let alone wriggle out of her grasp, with the other she grips the greasy, slimy stick, and all at once we’re flying through the closed window, right past the picture of the Virgin Mary, who turns her eyes away in shame. Help me, Mary, help me, I sob, but the Virgin only clasps her hands more tightly and sheds a tear, so I realize that if Mary can’t help me, only God can. And I will need God’s help, because wherever I’m flying on this broom, this wild night, it will very probably be hell. And so it was!

‘We go off to a mountain – that one there’ – the girl points through the window at a hill not very far away. ‘There’s a clearing up there where you have a good view down – you can even see our house and our field – and a cold stream runs through it. From the air I see people in the clearing, a little way from the stream, people I don’t know, men and women staring up at the sky as if they’re waiting for us, and – oh, it’s horrible! – they’re all naked, stark naked, with their arms lifted in the air towards us. When we land on the ground, it starts. No order at all, everyone together, like in our pigsty if not worse, doing things with each other that not even animals do, and meanwhile they take me to the middle of the clearing, where a strange altar has been set up. It’s covered in bearskins, or maybe sheepskins, I don’t remember very well since I was shaking all over with fear, and I was also a little dizzy from the broom ride.

‘There they undressed me and poured something awful into my mouth; then they pushed me down on to those foul-smelling skins just as everything around started glowing red. The earth opens up and out flies someone with big horns on his head and a tail on his backside, which he’s whipping left and right like a dog, and there’s a kind of filthy ooze dripping from his mouth. It’s looking bad for me, as bad as it can get, I think, and I’m terrified. The hornèd one is standing over me stomping his hoofs, like this and like this’ – she reaches her arms out towards her father’s face and beats her fists together. ‘Then he opens his mouth up wide, and a long burning tongue hisses out and licks my naked skin, and it stings something terrible. Next, they bring a man over, and the evil one pushes him on top of me and then, dear God, it happens, and it lasts and lasts until the only thing I want – me, a poor girl forced into sin against her will – is to die right then and there, even without confession, even in that vestibule of hell. But suddenly, a ray of wondrous blue pierces the red glow and turns everything around me green, until finally there’s nothing but a

heavenly blue sky. Then a strong wind blows away all those wicked people, all those bodies, and the hornèd one is swallowed up by the earth, just as earlier it had spat him out. In that heavenly light, I’m the only one left in the clearing when an enormous white bird appears, flapping his wings above me and cooing and cooing. “Birdie, oh birdie, who are you?” I ask, and he flies down right next to me, his wing tenderly brushing against me, and he says, “I am the Holy Spirit, dear sinner, a sinner by no fault of your own.” What happened to me next I don’t know, since I woke up in the morning on my own straw mattress and, miraculously, I didn’t have a single flea bite.’

Her father, for some time now, has been holding in his hand

neither a farm tool nor a weapon, but a nearly empty flask of marc brandy. By the time the girl finishes her story, there’s a whip in his right hand, and with his left he tips the last drops out of the flask and then grabs his daughter and starts thrashing and thrashing her. The girl whimpers softly and waits for it to be over, when she catches sight of her mother in the corner, kneeling beneath Mary’s picture and rigidly moving her lips. When the father, teetering, has finished beating her – the drink is affecting his balance, allowing the daughter to avoid a few blows – he shouts, ‘Now get out of my sight and think again about your story. A name … I want a name! … You will tell me a name! And if you start babbling that rubbish to me again, don’t doubt I will tan your hide all the way to kingdom come and that Holy Spirit of yours!’

Aching with pains she then only vaguely feels – the real pain will come later when she’s lying on the hay – the girl, as she leaves the house to go to the barn, glances over at her mother, whose woebegone face is streaming with tears as she rattles off prayers beneath Mary’s picture, and it dawns on her, fine, none of it was really necessary. But why are you grovelling to Mary? What’s done is done. I hope you’re praying for the baby, your grandchild, that things will be well and it will all work out somehow. That some loser of a man will marry me, if only to get his nuts off on a regular basis. But honestly, she thinks, have I really thrown my life away with that unpleasant little adventure? Maybe, but then again maybe not and all I’ve really done is hurry life along a bit. I’ve had my fill of whoring, which would hardly be the case if I had waited for a suitor to come along and been innocent when I married – which in our cottages is not very likely. Anyway, it wouldn’t be my decision who I married. Papa would put his fist down and shake hands with whoever he thought was the best choice. I’m not the first or the last girl to make this pilgrimage in her rosy years. And as for him marrying me, well, he’s hardly the Holy Spirit, although at times it felt like the gates of heaven opened when I was with him, and the idea that he would leave his wife, children and farm for me and the baby, or even that he’d acknowledge the baby as his – that’s not going to happen, of course.

When I told him two weeks ago how things stood, he just shrugged his shoulders, turned around and tried to walk away.

‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean we? There is no we,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What you do with your bastard child is all down to you.’

‘All down to me? It’s you who were all over me! I didn’t make this baby by myself, you know.’

‘No, not by yourself. But who with, that’s something you’ll have to figure out.’

Oh, I just cried and cried. It’s all over, I thought. My life is finished. My father will kill us, me and my baby. But what’s done is done. I’ll keep it a secret a little while longer. I’ll bind my belly tight, and by the time he discovers the truth, the child inside will be strong enough to grab on to my heart with his little hands, avoid the blows, kick back at them and maybe live.

That part of the story my baby and I have just survived. But – she thinks as she settles herself on the hay and strokes her belly – does it all have to be so predictable? Do I really have to end up just another big-bellied waif? It’ll be hard finding any sort of husband for a girl with a bastard child: she’s good to bed but not to wed – that’s what the men will be spouting to each other – if she started so young, you can be sure that as soon as you turn your back or go away for a while, she’ll jump the first man she sees and plant horns on your head. So is that how it has to be? Hmm. Maybe not. Baby and me – we don’t have to give up so easily. In fact, we could strike back and make a rather nice life for ourselves. ‘So watch out, everyone, watch out! Revenge is on the way!’ she says out loud. Lying in the hay and grimacing in pain, she stretches her limbs like a cat as a smile forms on her face. Her fingers touch the corners of her lips, and she thinks her face has nearly forgotten how to contract and extend its muscles in laughter. But this was not a smile of satisfaction, let alone one of reconciliation with the world and with her fate. This was a smile that since antiquity has spread across the faces of generals preparing for military action as they survey the enemy in the distance while glancing from time to time at their own soldiers, who from that moment on are nothing but nameless particles in the organism they will soon unleash, which will destroy the enemy to the last man. The father of her bastard child she will tackle methodically, and not even his wife will escape without consequences, not even his children – well, she’ll have to think about the children. Her attacks must be planned with a clear head, her goals carefully chosen. It makes no sense to strike in all directions; that will only turn people’s stomachs. But if in your battles you carefully cultivate a certain purpose, shifting it back and forth between the front lines and the rear, people will come to view the war first as understandable, then as acceptable and later as inevitable, until finally it seems well warranted and just.

In the war she is preparing she will at first be alone, but, like any good commander, she will gradually subjugate both individuals and the populace, who will be unwittingly enlisted in her army. She will play the helpless victim, which means she must choose her targets carefully if she wants to create the impression of a process driven by justice and humility before God. So she probably won’t go after the children. Anyway, his pock-faced daughter (who is her own age) is so ugly there’s little chance she’ll ever know passion, let alone love. And the other three children are still little so it wouldn’t do to make them suffer – that could bring down vengeance on her and her baby.

‘But why not use this opportunity and take care of everything that pains me in life?’ she thinks. ‘Sure, I’ve been a whore, but he wasn’t my first. Before him, years before, my own father got drunk and had his way with me right in our cottage. He was the first, and the next was my mother’s brother. And then there was the farmhand who grabbed my hair and pressed me up against one of the beams in the barn, and there was another time when some mowers pushed me into the hay and I don’t even remember how many there were. I know people do such things, but did I have to put up with it all? No! Nobody should do that to a child! It’s a sin, even if our priest never talks about it. And every time it happened, it hurt so much and I was so scared, I didn’t think I’d survive. But I did! And because I did, I’ll see to it that this wrong is put right. And I should do something about my mother, too, since she knew what was going on and even caught us at it a few times. But she did nothing. She just turned around and bustled into the house, kneeled down before Mary and prayed. So why didn’t you say anything to them? I used to ask her in my thoughts and from somewhere I’d hear her whining, “But I was afraid, I was so afraaiiid … It happened to me, too, you know, the same thing, when I was a child. Women are put in this world to kneel, and, whether on our knees or our backs, we must patiently bear it.”

‘Oh, is that right? Well, I couldn’t agree less! Surely, Mother, when you were a child and they were doing to you what they did to me, didn’t you pray to grow up as fast as you could and be married off to a man who wasn’t the brute men usually are? I have almost all of the names written down, not so I wouldn’t forget them but so I’d

preserve that memory of being unglued from my body in the midst of my pain and having a revelation, a revelation that sounds like this: We don’t have to accept what other people force us into. So anything that has ever been taken from me by force from this moment on becomes my weapon. I’ve heard and read that there are women who know how to rule entire kingdoms with their pussies. If that’s true – and I believe it is – then I, too, will create my own fiefdom. I used to blame myself a little for being naïve enough to think that if a man is nice to me the way he was, that if he doesn’t beat me or take me by force, it means he loves me. I know now it’s no good believing anyone, that I shouldn’t surrender so trustingly to pretty words or comforting arms, that I should never surrender and must always maintain control. Well, Mother, tell me because I’m curious: did the Virgin lay it on your heart, as you kneeled there snivelling beneath her picture, to patiently bear it the way you’ve done all your life? Or did she maybe point her hand in the direction of the man, your husband, who at that very moment was sticking it into me, and then look at you and say, “Now, Mother, go to the barn and take the pitchfork, or if the pitchfork is not at hand, take the sickle, and return to the house and swing it with all your might over the bed, only be sure that it is him you strike down and that she survives.” And if you later explained to people that he had taken his own daughter countless times, they would believe you, and I would have told them everything, too, and you and I would have run the farm together in peace.

‘But no, Mother, you have less sense than our entire henhouse! Whenever I suffered these unmentionable things, you would send me ugly looks as if to say, “It’s your own fault! Ever since you were a little girl you’ve had something of the whore in you. Even as a child you would point your finger at things – ‘Oh, look, Mother, look at the bull on top of the cow! And that bitch is in heat again!’ or, ‘What’s that sticking out the farmhand’s trousers? That thing he sometimes scratches so much it makes him grimace like he’s hurting all over, and then, when the pain passes, there’s a sort of white blood dripping off his hand? What’s the farmhand got in his trousers that I don’t have?’” And you would slap my face every time and yell at me and tell me not to look at such things, not to talk about them, because they’re disgusting and unsuitable for girls. Oh, but I will talk, and how I will talk! And I’ll point my finger at everyone who has ever done anything bad to me.

‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced I don’t have to meekly surrender. And what looks like my doom doesn’t have to be my destiny – my destiny is to turn things around to what’s best for me and my baby. If that’s God’s will, too, so much the better, although I’m not going to rely on God. Why should I wait around for someone to marry a disgraced girl with a bastard child out of pity? From now on, it’s me who does the choosing. My visits to the sacristy have served me very well. The priest always reimbursed me for my nice little favours by slipping a kreutzer in my blouse or giving me some little book to read. Back when he didn’t like Mary all that much he used to teach some of us children to read and write during our Sunday classes. I learned to read and write Slovene and German, and I took good care of the books he gave me. I’d read them at home in secret, so nobody could accuse me of wasting time on nonsense; then, at our next appointment, I would give them back to him and earn myself a new little book with my good works, which might not get me into heaven but they’d always get me a book and a coin, the priest said, who ever since that visit by the Church official has started giving us communion under one kind again. But I’ll leave the priest alone; that way he’ll stand up for me and support me. After all, when he hears my confession, he’ll be scared that he, too, might end up among the people I’m accusing, my tormenters and persecutors.

‘But what if nobody believes me? Oh, it’ll be hard for them not to! May is coming, and every day I’ll put flowers around the church altar and crawl on my knees from saint to saint with the rosary in my hand (I’ll wrap my knees in wadding so it won’t hurt), and during these scenes it’ll look like I’m praying, but what I’ll really be doing when I open my mouth is spinning the story I’ll use to bring justice to my life. I’ll keep the Holy Spirit in it, since I know that will make a strong impression on the community and the judge. White doves look like little angels and the souls of innocent babes, so whoever hears me talking will connect the bird to the baby in my belly, and to me, too, since I’ll look just like a wounded little sparrow. But birds don’t live on seeds alone; they’d rather peck on grasshoppers, worms and the flesh of other animals. And if a bird doesn’t watch out for herself, she’ll soon become someone else’s quarry.

‘So starting tomorrow, I’ll be good, pious and humble, or so it will seem. Now that spring’s here, I can easily sleep in barns and mangers, but I’ll need to get everything done by winter. And you who gave me this baby, you’d better be ready. Things are going to get hot for you, you selfish pervert, so hot that everything you have, everything you have ever known, will be going up in flames. Your life will turn to charcoal before my eyes, and my child, who from this day forth is mine and mine alone, will be joyfully kicking inside me while his father burns at the stake. As for my father, and my uncle and mother, too, I’ll weave them into the prologue of my tale and so be free of everyone who’s hurt me. And then with my baby and my little brother and sister, I’ll stay on the farm and run it myself, probably no worse than my parents are doing now. I’ll bring my brother up to be someone who doesn’t do the things men have done to me, and I’ll bring up my sister to follow me, and not our mother, in her actions and decisions.’

After weeks of not sleeping, she felt herself being slowly lulled to sleep as she lay there on the hay. Tomorrow was a new day, and with it a new life would begin. ‘Good night, little baby,’ she said out loud. ‘Good night, angel of God, my guardian dear. And you, too, Virgin, who endured what I must endure and accepted it all without complaint – but since it was God you were dealing with, I guess you had no choice. Good night to you, too, Holy Spirit, who I hope will be able to help me. But not to you, God the Father, since you take the side of men and fathers and let them do to us whatever they feel like, even horrible things. Good night to you, Baby Jesus, who will soon have a little brother. But grown-up Jesus, I’m not talking to you right now because of my problems with men, since, even if you’re special, you’re still a man. And good night to you, by which I mean me: you’re not to blame for anything, and you’re going to be a good mother to your baby and to your brother and sister, too, and when all of this is behind you, you’ll be the owner of a farm, and, with the good sense you have, which is not very common around here, you’ll find yourself a good husband, a father for the tiny tot and the other two little ones – and Jesus, I’m expecting you to help me with this because I want him to be like you – kind and tall and strong, and good-looking, too, with long wavy hair. Good night, world … good night, moon … good niiii …’