5

St. Andrew’s Eve

A few days after Radu’s funeral Peter went into Chust. His father and he were owed money by various people for deliveries of logs, and Peter knew it was better that he collect it than Tomas, who might spend half, or worse, in the inn before he got home.

It was a bright day, but the snow still lay defiant on the ground, with promise of more hanging like a gray blanket in the sky. Peter was passing the wooden well at the northern end of the village when he saw the first plumes of smoke curling up into the air. He was puzzled at first, but then remembered that it was St. Andrew’s Eve.

As he rounded a corner there was the first bonfire. Slung over a fire pit, a huge iron cauldron was spewing coils of steam into the cold morning. Around the fire stood a paltry crowd of people, each waiting patiently with a wooden bucket in hand. They took no notice of Peter as he passed, on his way to his first call, the priest Daniel, at his house.

In the square was another bonfire, with an even larger cauldron, and even more people waiting, with their buckets. By the cauldron stood Teodor, the feldsher, and a fat man whose name Peter didn’t know. Teodor seemed to be in charge of the fat man, who filled each bucket from the cauldron as it was presented to him. Occasionally Teodor would wave the man away and stand by the cauldron, muttering something over its steaming mouth. Whether the muttering was ill temper at a job badly done, or magic, Peter didn’t know. If it was magic, Peter wondered what the priest would have to say about it. After a while, Teodor would stand back and nod for the work to begin again.

It was a messy, smelly job, and now Peter could see what he knew was in the cauldron, for there were thick black patches that had been spilled here and there in the snow-packed square. Tar.

All across Chust—and, Peter knew, probably all across the country—people would be doing the same thing. Daniel’s house lay on the far side of the square, by the narrow alley that led to the church, and Peter could already see the priest, brush in hand, outside his house. Daniel dipped the fat, short, round hog’s-hair brush into the tar, trying to be quick before it set again. He was working laboriously, painting the tar onto the windowsills of his house. People were working on their houses around the square, some slowly and methodically, others fast, but all around the village, every window frame was being coated with the thick black tar. It was tiring work; the tar cooled rapidly and got harder to use, and the clumsy hog’s-hair brushes came apart all too easily.

Peter stood right behind Daniel, but the priest was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t notice. He had moved to his door, and after he had covered the frame with a good layer of the stuff he scraped the last from the sides of his bucket and daubed a large, untidy cross on the door itself. He stood back to inspect his work. He would have liked to have made a better-looking cross; he would have to get some more tar.

“Does the protection of the Lord need the help of tar, Father?” asked Peter.

The priest jumped, then turned to see Peter.

He scowled, dropping his empty bucket to the ground. His hands were sticky, and he tried to wipe them on his robes, but it was no use.

He was a tall man, balding, with a sharply pointed beard that mimicked the sharpness of his nose.

“St. Andrew’s Eve, Peter,” he said, as if that was an answer. “You and your father would be wise to take the same precautions. It’s a long journey from here to St. George’s Eve. And it can be an evil journey.”

Peter agreed with that, at least, against his better judgment. He thought of the Miorita: it was when the shepherds had come down from the hills for the winter that the murder had happened. The whole dark winter lay before them, and the winter was a dangerous place to be. It was just that Peter didn’t have much faith in tar for getting them through the long winter months. By spring, by St. George’s Eve, flowers and holy sweet basil would be growing in the pastures, showing that God’s power was increasing again.

In the towns they’d lived in, no man of religion would have abided such superstitious practices. But here, in the depths of the forest, it was different. Somewhere among the trees the path that led directly to God had gone astray. It had got lost among the folktales and superstitions and the hushed talk of the fireside.

Don’t get involved, was what his father would have said, Peter knew that. He decided to take his father’s advice for once.

“Father Daniel, I’ve come to collect money. We brought you two loads last week.”

“You did bring me two loads, but then there was a funeral to pay for.”

“What has that to do with us?”

“The woodcutter was your friend. Since there was no one else to pay for the funeral, I’m going to take it from what I owe you. I will pay you for one load of wood only.”

“He was no more our friend than he was yours!” Peter said angrily. “Someone from Koroceni ought to pay.”

“Well, you go and find someone from Koroceni and I’ll happily take their money for the funeral.”

“That was no funeral anyway,” Peter said, knowing he was speaking rashly.

Daniel opened his door, then turned, pointing a long finger at Peter.

“Be careful what you say. He was lucky he got buried at all. We did our best for him. You should pray that it is enough!”

He made to go inside and was shutting the door when Peter stepped forward and stopped it from closing with one strong hand.

“Father,” he said, as firmly as he could. “Our money.”

Daniel glared at him.

“One load only.”

Peter nodded. He could see he was not going to get any more from the crooked priest.

“Wait there,” Daniel said, and Peter obeyed, but kept one foot inside the door. He and his father had been cheated too often for him to be careless about things like that.

The priest returned and grudgingly placed the few coins in Peter’s hand.

“Take my bucket back to Teodor,” he said. “Tell him I need a little more. Tell him we all need more tar.”

Peter stepped back from the door and picked up the bucket from the snow. He shoved it into Daniel’s hands.

“Tell him yourself. I have money to collect.”