“They’re just hungry for spring,” Teodor reassures him. “It’s probably a male and a female. They don’t like people—they’ll keep their distance.”
Ivan wants to believe him, but he’s seen a carcass torn apart by coyotes. He and Petro found the dog in the middle of winter. Its belly and throat were ripped open, guts yanked out, mouth gaping, glossy eyes staring up at the sky. Red blood on white snow. Mama said the dog had gone into the coyote’s territory. But Ivan knew better; the dog was on their side of the property line. It was a lot smaller than a coyote, a mutt, all white with a brown patch over its left eye. It used to spin around and around in circles to get a pat on its chest. Ivan loved that dog, even though he wasn’t supposed to love him.
Animals were to be respected. Not mice and gophers and magpies. They were different. They were thieves. But farm animals had a job: to help humans survive, to work in the fields, to be food, to provide clothing, to be bred. But Ivan wasn’t sure the animals were only meant to belong to humans. He knew they could think and feel, too. Ivan spent countless hours staring into the eye of their cow, regaling her with stories and questions, looking for a response, a blink, a tear, a flicker of understanding. He knew she was listening by the way she hung her head and nuzzled against him. He could tell whether she was happy, hungry, had an itch, or was lonely. He knew she was afraid when Josyp Petrenko’s bull got loose. He knew she was sad when she lost her calf.
That was last spring. The calf’s hind feet came out first, which was bad. Mama delivered it. Ivan was supposed to go inside the house, but with Dania running back and forth to the well for water and Myron trying to hold the cow’s thrashing head, they forgot about him. Mama had to get the calf out before the umbilical cord broke and it tried to breathe. She wrapped ropes around the scrawny legs and pulled with all her weight. The cow bawled and writhed, slamming Myron against the stall. Its eyes rolled back in its head and the calf slipped out in a rush of blood and mucus. Splayed rigid and blue, its tongue hanging out. Maria hoisted the calf upside down to drain the fluids from its mouth and nose. After a long time, she cut the mangled cord and carried away the bundle in a bloodied burlap bag.
The next morning Ivan found the calf in the dumping ground. That’s where everything went that died. Five birch trees grew there, nestled in a tangle of tamarack and spruce. In their shade were the remnants of their lives: broken bottles and plates, a bucket without a bottom, a cracked axe blade, one shoe, a rusted pan, twisted wire, heads of chickens, bones of cats and a dog, and now the calf. He knew it would be there. It was still wrapped in burlap with only its snout poking out.
Ivan stayed with the calf all afternoon. He found whatever objects he thought the calf might like and set them in a circle around it. The top of a blue bottle, a pile of fresh-picked spring grass, a prairie crocus, and a strip of white birchbark. He talked to it, sang it songs, and brushed away the flies. He didn’t uncover it. He just wanted it to know that it wasn’t alone.
The next day, when he returned to visit the calf, it was gone. He searched a quarter-mile, but all he found was the burlap ripped to shreds. He wanted to believe that the calf had got better and walked away, but even back then his four-year-old heart knew the truth was much darker. That night he stayed with the cow. He looked in her eyes and could see tears deep inside. He stroked her nose and sang her bedtime songs until Maria carried him to bed.
The coyote yips again and Ivan shivers. It’s much closer now. Teodor protectively puts his hand on his son’s head. “Come on, let’s get inside.” They quicken their pace. They are only thirty feet from the shack when another howl rips through the night. It sounds as though it is directly in front of them. The fine hairs on Ivan’s arms bristle. Teodor stops him, his arm across the boy’s chest. He mouths the words Don’t move. The cry climbs in exquisite pain before collapsing into a guttural groan.
Ivan’s teeth chatter. His bare feet no longer feel the cold ground, his toes curl into the dirt. His nightdress clings to his suddenly damp body. Teodor circles around him, facing the night. In the distance, there is an answering call. A twig snaps. Teodor looks to the paddock. The horse is quiet. The night is calm. An owl who-whos. Ivan holds his breath.
“Let’s go.” Teodor takes long strides as he herds Ivan ahead of him, poised to grab him and lift him above his head if the animal attacks. He wishes he had his .22. He knows it’s loaded just inside the door, on the right-hand jamb, one bullet in the chamber. A box of ammo is in his coat pocket, if it’s still there after all this time. They just have to get around the corner; it’s only a few feet to the door. If he needs the gun, he can push Ivan into the house, grab the rifle, shut the door, and still get a shot off. The only time coyotes attack humans is if they are crazy. Teodor saw a dog go crazy.
It belonged to Old Man Kuryk, who worked the land adjacent to their old homestead. A big, lumbering jet-black dog that would lick you to death begging you to play. One day, Kuryk came by, said the devil had come to his house. The dog was skin and bone and frothing at the mouth. It was throwing itself at the locked granary door with such force the door was shuddering. The animal raged in frenzied bursts, barking hysterically, its claws shearing the wood. Then it would stop. In one of the lulls, Teodor opened the door. The animal lay on its belly, its head pressed to the ground, one leg broken, panting and moaning. It watched Teodor, its tail weakly thumping. It made a low plaintive whine and lunged. It took three bullets to put it down.
Two more steps and they’d be around the corner. Ivan is running now, trying not to trip, as he is pushed along by his father. He hears a sound and looks back expecting to see a coyote charge from the outhouse, its teeth gnashing. He is still looking back when they round the corner and he runs directly into Anna.
His throat constricts to stifle a scream. His arms want to fight, his feet want to run, his heart wants to burst, but his mind recognizes the lady-in-white and paralyzes his body. In that fraction of a second, Teodor yanks him backward, ready to slay whatever demon is ahead.
Anna stands still on the porch. Her white cotton nightgown reaches to her ankles and glows blue in the moon’s light. She continues to stare straight ahead for another moment before turning her head toward the man and the boy gaping wide-eyed at her. She looks down at Ivan and then slowly up to Teodor. Her eyes blink as if waking up.
“Anna?” Teodor is shocked by his sister’s thinness, her empty eyes and shorn hair. She gives a small smile, and there is a brief glimmer of recognition.
“They’re close tonight. Did you hear them, Teodor?”
“I heard it.” He tries to look past the night. “Did you see it? Damn thing sounded like it was right here.”
“No, I didn’t see them.” And she looks away.
Teodor feels the night’s chill, or perhaps he shivers from the wistful tone in Anna’s voice, or her deathly stillness. “You’d better go inside,” he tells her, not knowing what else to say. “It’s not safe.”
Anna laughs a quiet, empty laugh. “I’m not afraid of the night.” She touches his cheek with ice-cold fingers. “I’m glad you’re finally home. Now I can sleep.” She kisses his cheek and goes inside.
Teodor wonders if he should follow her inside and find out what’s happened to her, but he doesn’t know the questions and decides to wait until daylight when he can see how things really look.
He remembers Ivan and realizes that he has him in a bear hug, pulled hard against his legs, sheltered in the safety of his body. He eases his hold. “Okay?”
Ivan nods unconvincingly.
“Let’s go back to sleep.”
Far, far off the wild dogs yip and bark. “You see, they’re going away. One of them got lost, but now it’s found its family. Everything’s all right.”
Ivan wants to laugh and tell his father that he wasn’t scared and if that coyote tried to eat him, he’d tear off its head and use its hide for a saddle blanket. But he can’t, because a droplet of pee is still dribbling down his leg.
TEODOR
WAKES at dawn and gets dressed before even Maria has risen. The room is full of the soft sound of sleep as he shuts the door. The morning air is cool and damp, but the sky is clear. A blush of red announces the imminent arrival of the sun. Already the meadowlarks and sparrows are heralding the coming light. A hundred, maybe even a thousand songs vying to be heard. A hymn of thanks for having survived another day. In this vast land that goes on as far as the eye can see, Teodor is acutely aware that he is the only one witnessing this moment and he is grateful. He heads to the barn, careful to avoid the mud puddles that may sully his polished boots.
Inside he is greeted by the sweet smell of rotting hay and manure. The air is still and warm, filled with the cow’s heat. A fresh cow pie steams on the dirt floor. The cow moos. Teodor rubs her forelock and she rubs her head appreciatively against the boards. The barn has always been one of Teodor’s favourite retreats.
On the other farm, Teodor sometimes woke before dawn just to grab a few minutes alone to sit in the doorway of the barn to watch the sky slowly brighten. He’d strain to hear the first small birds begin to chirp, long before he could see any light. He’d listen to the mice shuffling through the long grass, racing home with their night hauls. Sometimes he could hear cats slithering close to the edge of buildings. He’d see a flash of their reflective eyes and the cats would freeze, mid-stride, surprised that their invisibility had been compromised. Once, he saw an owl grab a rabbit that had ventured out too early in the morning. Another few minutes and the owl might have been asleep and the rabbit would have been filling its belly. Hunger made it careless.
Back then, Teodor thought that the barn, the house, the furrows in the earth, the wood he cut, the well he dug, the fences he drove, the wheat he sowed … he thought they were enough to keep him safe. He didn’t know he was the rabbit.
Teodor heads to the tackroom and opens the side door that faces onto the paddock. He whistles sharply through his teeth and the horse’s ears prick up. It looks curiously to the barn. Teodor lifts the halter to the sky and whistles again. The horse ambles over. It hesitates a few feet from Teodor and sniffs the air, turns its head slightly sideways so it can see the man with a full eye. Teodor offers his hand and the horse breathes in his scent. Teodor turns in to the barn and the horse follows at his elbow. It goes to the feed trough and snorts softly. It’s thinner than Teodor remembers.
Teodor dips his hand in the feedbag and comes up with a meagre offering of poor-quality oats, husk, and dust. The horse nuzzles his hand, its soft nose brushing his palm as it hungrily chomps at the food. Teodor runs his other hand down its neck. The horse is old, but it’s strong. Its legs are straight, its chest wide. Teodor takes hold of its fetlock and squeezes softly. The horse lifts its leg. The hoof is neatly clipped and clean. The shoe is in good shape. Teodor pats the horse on the haunches. “Eat up, old boy, we have work to do.” The horse flicks its tail, revelling in the extra breakfast ration.
The iron plow weighs almost a hundred pounds. Ordinarily, Teodor would grasp the plow under the handles and cradle the support beams that connected the blade, then hoist it up onto the cart. But today, when he tries to lift it in place, he can barely raise it from the ground. He heaves, leans backward, his legs and back straining, and staggers closer to the cart. He manages to hook the front end of the plow. Still supporting its weight on his chest, he inches back to the handles. His arms tremble as he struggles to push it upward and forward. It scrapes ahead a few inches, precariously hooked on the edge of the wagon. It shifts backward.
Teodor struggles to keep his knees from buckling as his arms drop from the weight. He twists his body under the crossbeams and uses his back as a fulcrum. His new boots slide in the straw and dirt as he labours to push it up and in. Sweat beads on his forehead. Wet splotches appear on his clean shirt. His muscles scream. The wooden struts dig into his hands. Another foot to go. He gasps for air, unable to move forward, unable to retreat.
Myron buttons up his coat on the way to the barn. His untied shoelaces trail after him in the mud. A few minutes ago, he got up to stoke the fire and saw that his father was already gone and that he had missed the dawn. A farmer always gets up at dawn. He refused Maria’s admonishments to eat as he rushed out the door. He is combing his hair with his fingers as he enters the barn. He stops short at the sight of his father.
Teodor strains with his entire body; his face racked with pain, he heaves the plow the final few inches onto the cart. His hand pinned under the handle, it scrapes along the wooden slats. He yanks it back and the knuckles are already bleeding. His legs shake as he leans heavily on the side of the box.
Myron steps away from the door and tucks in against the wall. He waits a few moments, uncertain what to do, then quietly retraces his steps back ten feet. He counts another ten and then coughs, loudly, before slowly walking to the barn door. Teodor stands tall and straight, his injured hand hidden in his pocket. Myron lowers his head and stares at his father’s boots, the toes now scuffed, bits of straw sticking out from the heel caked in horse shit. “I slept in.”
“You won’t again.” Teodor ignores his throbbing hand. “Harness up the horse, I’ll get the pickaxe and shovel.” Teodor walks to the tackroom with slow, measured steps. When he is out of sight of his son, he leans against the wall and fights down the waves of nausea.
Myron slips the wooden collar around the horse’s neck. He checks the fit, making sure there will be no chafing. He retrieves the harness from the wall, taking the sixty-pound weight easily onto his shoulder. The horse doesn’t shy as the harness slides over his rump onto his back and shoulders. Myron checks and rechecks every strap and buckle. Then he gently inserts the iron bit into the horse’s mouth and lifts the bridle over its ears. “Good boy,” he whispers as he fastens the last straps.
“You can back him up.” Teodor enters as if he hasn’t been watching his son’s adeptness. “I’ll lift the shafts.” He heads for the cart, hoping his body won’t betray him. Myron intercepts him and easily hoists up the long wooden poles, tilting back the cart and plow. Myron whistles softly. “Back up.” The horse backs himself between the shafts. The boy and horse patiently wait, downplaying their new trick. Teodor nods slightly and hitches up the chains. It is enough of a nod for Myron to lower his head to hide his smile.
The animal seems to have grown a hand taller and has regained the brashness of a young stallion. It snorts and paws the earth, excited that something is about to happen. Teodor tosses the tools in the cart and hops on the front board. He takes the lines from Myron; they are soft and supple in his hands. Tch-tch-tch, he clicks his tongue, and the horse steps forward. The wooden wheels groan. The horse lowers its rump, digs in its hindquarters, and pulls. The cart lurches forward. Myron jumps on the back as it rolls out of the barn. “Haw.” Teodor turns toward the fields. The horse prances as if on parade.
“Wait for me!” Ivan races out of the shack, hugging a gallon jug of water wrapped in sopped burlap. Myron grabs the jug. Ivan chases after the cart, his hand outstretched. “Me!” he pleads.
Myron turns away.
MARIA THRUSTS the shovel into the earth. It slices in smoothly. She turns the soil over, revealing a rich decay of loam, choking with worms. This year she will grow enough food for everyone to have seconds and even thirds. She will plant successively and harvest from early summer through late fall. The wheat will build their house, buy supplies, livestock, machinery, material for clothes, and pay their debt, but this garden will feed her family.
She broke the ground for the vegetable garden the previous spring, sixty feet long by forty feet wide. A portion had been Anna’s original garden, but it had been abandoned to choke on weeds. Maria organized her children, and turned the dirt, one spade full at a time. They pulled what rocks and roots they could and planted late, knowing that the soil wasn’t ready, knowing the season would be too short, but also knowing that without a harvest they would starve. Maria had vowed that when Teodor returned from prison, his family would be alive and w
ell.
Last fall, no vegetable, however bruised, insect-ridden, or rotten, got discarded. The remains of the meagre crop were composted back into the soil. Twenty wheelbarrows of horse and cow manure were forked into the soil. Six bundles of hay were strewn overtop. This year Maria will have a proper garden.
Seeds she carefully stored the previous fall are brought out from under her bed. An array of glass jars holding dried peas and beans; newspaper packets containing myriad tiny seeds alphabetized from beets to turnips; onions and garlic bulbs packed in wooden crates; potatoes in burlap bags, their blanched tendrils protruding—each is laid ceremoniously on the table. All her riches can be carried in the folds of her apron.
She plants them all. Row upon row, on her hands and knees, she gives each seed to the earth. She brushes the smaller seeds from her palm to her fingertips, carefully spacing them, trying not to lose any to the wind.
Now that school is out until after fall harvest, the children are all free to work. Dania follows behind her mother, brushing the dirt back up and over into supple mounds, gently closing the wound where the seeds are inserted. Onions, radishes, and parsley are planted beside cabbage and lettuce. Peas are followed by carrots and beets; tomatoes next to beans; cucumbers and squash next to potatoes.
Ivan and Petro erect a three-foot-high fence around the garden, a weaving of willow branches and spruce poles to protect from deer. Ivan has been entrusted with the axe and proudly walks around the two-inch saplings, picking the right spot to chop. Petro’s talent is weaving the willows into fine arching trellises or bowing them in a delicate cross-hatch that lets in just the right amount of light.
Little Katya’s job is making cardboard signs to identify the crop. She writes in delicate swirls first the Ukrainian name, followed by the English: chasnyk garlic, kapusta cabbage, kartoplia potato, ohirok cucumber. Maria doesn’t like the English words, and when the children try to make her pronounce them, they laugh uproariously at her stumbling tongue. It is bad enough the children are forced to speak English in school, but at home she insists they speak their mother tongue. Even so, the languages have begun to cross-pollinate, creating hybrids she no longer recognizes, in which the English strain overpowers the beauty and nuance of the original. The youngest often mix the two languages together, and when Maria demands that Ivan speak properly, he becomes confused and has to search his mind for the right Ukrainian words, and he hasn’t even started school yet.
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