Journey 3 - The Fairy

Cumpene

It was about four o'clock in the morning when he heard human speech. Two of them, apparently. And they were approaching. There was the trot of a horse. Who could it be? And where have they gone off to in the dead of night?

After yesterday's wind, the forest was quiet again. It was disturbed, as usual, only by the night creatures. An owl flapped its wings, frightened by the approach of humans. A ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho!

They stopped right at his feet. There were two of them, as he had sensed them from afar. An older but still strong peasant and a younger one.

- Is that Mr. Elijah?

- That's Spiridoane. I spotted him about three days ago, when I came with the cart to decorate the gate. You know my youngest daughter, Irinuca, is getting married. A gentleman from town is taking her.

This tree is only good for pulling planks to trim my kitchen and big house. It's all hanging in the cradle. My grandmother has put up a shawl to give us a bit of a spin... Give it here so we can take a neck, and let's get to work, lest the sun catch us and the feast, God forbid, protect and keep us. Spiridoane, take the axe and let's begin.

That's as far as it went. Perhaps I was destined to leave the forest and move into a house of householders. Spiridon rolled up his sleeves, made a big cross, spat in his palms, and the first blow of the axe fell on me.

- What are you people doing here?

Out of the darkness of the forest, a green-clad silhouette with a gun slung over his shoulder emerged.

I knew him well. He'd come by a couple times to measure me with his forest compass. Other times he would stop at my foot and take a clump of rabbit's tit, which he chewed with relish. We were good friends.

- Elijah, Spirdoane, is that you?

- Aoleu, Mr. Feaster, you've really spared us! Now what can we say.

You won't believe us if we tell you we've come for the handful of handicrafts.

- I believe you. You've come for the sponges. Spiridon chops them with an axe, you, Mr. Elijah. you pick them with the goat and the horse carries the prey down the brook down to the joagăr where you slice them and put them in a stew. Is that so? Who gives the cream?

- Don't mock us, Mr. Face. How come you're out in the middle of the woods at night? How do you know us in the dark?

- So, Guță gave you up. He was cleaning the altar, in the holy church, when he overheard you talking to the priest about coming early in the morning to the joagăr to cut some planks. The Venetian's dick. The one who works on the table and the house in the parish of Father Macarie and at the joagărul his holiness. I'm talking about the new one the two German craftsmen from the city put up last month. You know it, don't you?

- Guță? I know him, I know him, how can I not know him, give him the disease! I've seen him a couple times. The old maids talk on the fences that they'd be with the old lady. Why, their sins. Now, now, Mr. Feaster. You've got me in the bag. We are men of humanity. You know me well. When it comes to it, I don't haggle. We'll make peace. You know I'm related to the mayor. A little distant, but they still call us kin.

- I can't, Mr. Ilie. I just can't. The new postmaster came straight to me. You know the mayor won't mess with him either. Remember that about two months ago he didn't even forgive Vasile, his lad Mr. Secretary at the town hall, when he started that fight at Ion Huțulul's tavern. He's got big prop in town. He told me to let you put the tree down so I'd catch you red-handed. He said to confiscate your horse. I'd use my gun if I had to. But I know you're a good man. I pitied your white mane and your village name. You've only got that forest near Chetrosu. How did you get greedy for the good state?

- Oh, bad watch, Mr. Feaster.

- Bad timing, if you say so. But before noon, come with Spiridon to the station to make a statement.

- But Spiridon is not to blame. He's my nephew by my sister Zamfira. He couldn't say no when I asked him to help me.

- Nephew, nephew, he was at the scene. Look, Mr. Elijah. I'll put in a good word with the postmaster. You talk to the teacher, you're brothers-in-law. You might get off with a fine.

Slowly, slowly, the voices receded, fading into the thicket.

* * *

The sun rose from behind the ridges, drying the dew pearls on the blades of grass. At the foot, the bite of the axe was filled with golden resin. A curious ant, perhaps attracted by the strong odor of the healing tear, caught itself in the sticky clench. Perhaps someday, millennia from now, the tear would turn into amber nestemata, as he knew his ancestors' ancestors had done millions of years ago.