Lapvona(65)

‘You’re only nervous,’ she said.

‘Hold your hand up, the blood will drain down,’ Grigor told him.

‘You’re the one who’s nervous,’ Jon said to Vuna. The two of them had been irritable and angry for weeks now. They blamed each other for their bad moods, but really it was an effect of energy put upon them by Grigor. He was the one who made them irritable and angry. He was like a raven, judgmental and repetitive, staring down from the rafters and asserting over and over again that the world they lived in was a sham. ‘But it doesn’t bother me. I’m free,’ he proclaimed. His freedom was grating on them all. Finally, they had told him to keep his freedom to himself, and he had agreed.

‘I am nervous,’ Vuna confessed. She had good reason to be. She was pregnant—she could feel the thing inside her, like a gnarled fist twisting in her womb—but she hadn’t told Jon yet. She wanted to wait until she was sure. She had miscarried before, and Jon had blamed her. A week of silence and snubbing, his cold back turned to her in the bed, no warmth or comfort, only shame. He had sneered at the blood in the water when she did the washing, tears and snot dripping down the poor girl’s face. This time, she hoped, the babe was more certain. Keeping the secret made her feel powerful and ornery, a feeling she didn’t often allow herself. ‘I’m nervous because you hurried me out the door!’ she said to Jon. ‘And now my cap is crooked.’

‘What do you care about your cap? You’re a married woman. And you barely have any hair.’

‘It’s Christmas,’ Vuna hissed. ‘Everyone wants to look their best on Christmas.’

Grigor held his tongue. He and his wife had bickered, too, of course, but they’d had an easier time of life. They’d had only one son on the first try. Jon’s mother had been smart and hearty. Vuna was more delicate, quick to blush and fume and cry, but not weak, no. She had a wisdom that nobody could recognize; the deaths of her children hadn’t torn the innocence from her heart, but had calloused her against her own rage. She knew that fighting was pointless. As a woman, she would always lose. It was not her place to stage a battle, but to back away to preserve what life she had left to live. Grigor felt sorry for her. In his eyes, her passion had been depleted. But he pitied his son more, as Jon had no clue how ruinous his rage was to his own spirit. Grigor could see him aging day by day, the creases in his brow deepening like burrows, or like tracks from the plow. Good that Jon’s mother died before the grandchildren were slain. She would have been bitter until the end, would have talked ceaselessly about the injustice, turned hard and rancorous. Nobody would have been capable of putting up with her fury. Grigor’s angst was nothing in comparison. There was no right way to deal with grief, of course. When God gives you more than you can tolerate, you turn to instinct. And instinct is a force beyond anyone’s control.

Grigor didn’t miss his wife, he realized as they walked up the road toward the manor. If she were there now, she’d be leading the way, telling them all what to do when they arrived. ‘Let me do the talking,’ she’d say. She’d have had no patience for Grigor’s new outlook. And she would have disapproved of his relationship with Ina. She’d have kept me trapped, Grigor thought.

‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ his wife would have scoffed.

Grigor wore his old brown coat, which was tattered at the cuffs and collar and stained with black mud along the hem, and the same pants and tunic he’d worn for decades. He felt this was appropriate—why should he pretend to be richer than he was? Jon and Vuna wore their red garments under their coats. They walked on into the bright light. The snow was no longer falling, but the wind picked up the glitter of the top layer of white and swirled it around in the light shivering through the naked trees. The swirling snow instantly dissolved in the sunlight. Vuna and Jon walked up ahead, Jon going first. Something was amiss between them, Grigor thought, realizing that he, too, was nervous. He quickened his pace to catch up. He didn’t want to walk in the bright light alone.

‘We haven’t brought a gift,’ Jon said, grinding his teeth.

‘We pay our taxes. That’s gift enough,’ Grigor said.

‘We had no time,’ Vuna said.

‘You could have wrapped up a cake,’ Jon said.

‘What cake? I made no cake.’

‘You could have.’

‘When could I have made a cake, Jon? Did you know we would be invited?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘Then don’t blame me.’

‘Nobody’s blaming you, Vuna. But you might have made a cake. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Shush,’ Vuna said. They kept walking.

‘Ina will be there,’ Grigor said after a while.

‘That witch?’ Jon sneered. He was still sore about the cake, even though he knew it was ridiculous.

‘Don’t say that,’ Grigor said. ‘Ina must be the reason we have been invited to this feast. She is a friend to me. You’re hungry, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ said Vuna.

‘Then maybe you should go home,’ Jon said crossly.

‘Don’t be cruel,’ Grigor said to Jon. He turned to Vuna. ‘You’ll be hungry when you smell the food, don’t worry.’ She said nothing. ‘Maybe Ina can fix you something to calm your nerves.’