Lapvona(72)
‘Every new mother must be happy,’ Petra said after some time had gone by and Marek had given up on her answer.
‘She’s not a new mother. She’s been a mother as long as I’ve been alive,’ Marek argued.
Petra winced at her misstep. ‘You are right. She must be so proud to have you as her son, the lord of Lapvona. Just like Villiam, God rest his soul.’
He didn’t like to be reminded of Villiam. He had been so stunned by his sudden ascension to lord that he’d had no idea how to give instructions for Villiam’s burial—the one responsibility Ivan’s men would take no part in. Marek was paralyzed. ‘Where should we dig?’ the stableboys asked him. ‘I don’t know yet,’ Marek answered. ‘Leave him where he is, I guess.’ And then an Indian summer came and Villiam’s body bloated severely. His neck was thick and white and laced with yellow seeping into the white collar of his shirt, which had strangled his bloated throat. His eyes were swollen—they looked just like Ina’s horse eyes—and his lips had split, revealing his long, gray teeth, like something Clod had carved out of wood. Lispeth, on the other hand, had been buried right away by the servants. Klarek and Clod dug her grave in a clearing in the forest, where all the past servants’ bodies were laid to rest.
Finally, Marek assigned the task of burying Villiam to Jude. It seemed just punishment for his father’s coldness. Marek watched him digging from afar, forbidding anyone from stepping in to help him. In the end, the grave was very shallow, only a few inches deep. It was something to see, at least, Marek thought. The body didn’t disappear up to heaven—by burying him so poorly, Jude deprived him of his chance to ascend. So Villiam simply lay there under a thin blanket of dirt, slowly picked apart by magpies and rats and squirrels and mink, all the sweet little animals, God’s gentlest creatures.
‘And what about Jude, Petra?’ Marek asked, still picking his cuticles. ‘Do you think he is proud of me?’
Petra knew better than to answer.
‘Would you like a little song and dance?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
Her dance was simply a curtsy and sway and another curtsy and sway back. She sang nicely, Marek thought. When he’d had enough, he patted the bed beside him and said, ‘Stop and sit for a moment.’
Petra complied.
‘What is it, my lord?’
‘Do you think I’m ugly?’
‘Oh no,’ Petra said. ‘You have nice red hair, and your knees have such a nice shape to them.’ She traced his knee with her finger to demonstrate. Marek pushed her hand away. ‘My lord, what have you done with your fingers?’ She grabbed his hand and held his fingers close to her face to inspect the bloodied cuticles.
‘It’s nothing. I do it to myself. It distracts me from time.’
‘I should put something on these wounds,’ she said and went to fetch her salve.
* * *
*
Grigor moved into Ina’s old cabin and did the best he could to figure out what grew wild in the woods. He brought morels and wild asparagus to market. Dandelion buds and ramps, groundnuts and pokeweed that he found by the stream. Juneberries, hickory nuts, barberries, burdock root. Chickweed, pigweed, and acorns he found in a grove of trees further out past where he’d ever gone. He loved to forage. He felt wisdom in his eyes, directing him to scan the ground and follow the birds in the air to where food grew like manna from the trees and bushes. He traded the wild things for favors to help Jon and Vuna prepare for the baby. It was still months away, but he already loved the wee thing inside Vuna’s belly. He had big dreams for the child, to teach it the truth. He wanted to ask Ina if she would be the child’s godmother.
So one day, Grigor came to the manor to bring Ina a wreath of canniba along with the herbs he picked. Petra went down to greet him and to pay him with a bit of wool from the lambs. Marek watched from the window as the two talked in the yard outside the kitchen.
‘Vuna could knit some socks for her baby with this wool,’ Petra said.
‘Thank you,’ Grigor said smiling, and then he asked what he asked upon every visit. ‘Could I see Ina today?’
‘She will say no like she always does,’ Petra answered.
‘But today I’ve brought her some canniba. Maybe we could smoke some together, Ina and me.’
From the window, Marek watched Petra disappear back through the kitchen door. He heard her steps through the manor, up the stairs toward Agata’s room. She knocked. Marek went into the hall to listen.
‘Ina, Grigor is here. Do you want to see him?’
‘No,’ Ina said through the door. ‘I’m just putting the baby down for a nap.’
‘He has canniba today, and he has asked every time if he could see you,’ Petra said. ‘Should I tell him to go away?’
After a few moments, Ina went out into the hallway, much to Petra’s surprise. Nobody had seen Ina in a long time. The old woman looked younger than she used to. The comfort of the manor had done her good. Her hair was now thick and brown, hidden under a white veil and swept cleanly away from her forehead, which was pale and smooth. Her wrinkles seemed to have filled with joy, restoring her to a vibrancy that, in her previous decrepit state, no one could have imagined. Her bulging eyes seemed to have shrunk into their sockets, or perhaps her face had widened and rounded out so that they didn’t appear too large anymore. And her body had broadened, tightened against the clothes she’d taken from Dibra’s closet. From down the hall, Marek stared in awe at her changed appearance and at her smooth stride—had she grown taller?—as she hurried down the stairs. Petra followed her.