Moonflower

by Angela J. Townsend

  “Good morning.”

  I whirled around. He stood at the edge of the forest. “Morning,” I mumbled. I started up the road.

  “Where are you going?”

  I stopped, turned, and pinned him with my eyes. “What does it matter?”

  “You should not be alone—is dangerous.”

  I rolled my eyes and kept going.

  He caught up to me and grabbed my arm. “Please, you must listen.”

  “Hey!” I glared up into his eyes and pulled my arm away. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t need your permission to go anywhere. Now if you will excuse me—I’m leaving.”

  He stepped in front of me, holding out his hands. “I’m sorry, I did not mean….”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “What are you so afraid of? Why don’t you just tell me?”

  His body went rigid, his jaw hardened as he looked away.

  “I don’t get you,” I said. “You act like you hate me one minute and then you act like you’re trying to protect me from something the next. Which is it?”

  “Is my job to protect you.”

  “Your job to protect me? Seriously? Since when? I don’t need a babysitter or a bodyguard or whatever...”

  “There are things that are dangerous here…things that….”

  “You keep saying that. It means nothing—be specific or I’m leaving.”

  He just stood there. His fists clenched, eyes smoldering.

  “Okay then,” I said. “See ya.”

  I kept on walking. Furious that he wouldn’t tell me what was going on. Maybe he was trying to scare me away so he could have the house and land for himself or his family. Maybe his lawyer uncle told him to scare me away so I’d leave and they could have the place all to themselves.

  He was out of luck if he thought he could scare me away—there wasn’t much that frightened me. Unlike other people, I didn’t have anything to lose. When you’re all alone in the world and no one depends on you, dying is easy. You can just let go because it doesn’t matter whether you're alive or not, because there is no one to mourn you.

  The forest deepened around me and the smell of pine and honeysuckle scented the air. I hadn’t seen how thick the trees were last night. It was like walking past a row of soldiers guarding the road. It made me feel safe. It was pretty here. Quiet and peaceful.

  I thought of my mother painting the rich Russian landscapes. I doubted that I could capture the natural beauty of this place in the way my mother had. My efforts would shrivel in comparison. How sad all that talent and beauty had died with her. That I’d never know what her personality was like, what her hugs or kisses felt like, how she smelled. She was just a face in a photo. An empty void. The word "mother" held no meaning, it was a formless word that cemented to nothing. How could I relate to that? Coming here hadn’t changed my life in the way I had hoped. It didn’t provide any comfort. Any answers. It was still the same mess of a life except now I was in the middle of a foreign county, in a strange place I had chosen to come to.

  The onion domes of the ancient church loomed ahead. Maybe I was looking for answers in the wrong place. Maybe by finding my mother’s grave, I’d also find other relatives buried here. Maybe the church had kept some sort of record. I walked between two iron gates and into the driveway. I stood before the massive gold doors sealed by heavy locks.

  I hiked around the church to the back of the building. A sprawling cemetery dotted with orthodox crosses like the one I wore around my neck stretched before me. The tops of weathered headstones peeked out from patches of weeds and grass. A twig snapped. I looked over my shoulder, searching the headstones, the churchyard, the tree line. Nothing.

  The wind picked up, swaying the tops of trees, rustling through the grass. I pressed onward, following a worn path that ran along the river to a row of large ornate crypts made of heavy brick and marble. I kept going until I came to a row of headstones. All the inscriptions were written in Russian. Most of them looked too old to be my mother’s. I paused, eyeing the next section of stones all shaped the same and made from shiny granite. Something shuffled behind me.

  I whirled around and spotted Mila coming up the path, smiling at me.

  “Sorry if I’m intruding,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  “Are you looking for your mother’s grave?

  I nodded. “I’m not having much luck. I can’t read any of the names. Maybe you could help me?”

  “Sure.”

  We walked deeper into the cemetery.

  “So how did you know I was here?”

  “I saw it, felt it.”

  I paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I really can’t explain it. It’s a gift I have. I know things that are going to happen”

  “You mean you’re psychic?”

  “Oh, look!” She pointed to a large gray granite stone three rows over surrounded by a picket fence. There’s your mother’s gravestone.”

  I stopped and turned to face her. “I never told you what her name was. How do you know?”

  She looked away, averting her eyes from my suspicious glare. “Like I said. I just know things…. And besides, I grew up here so maybe I’d seen it before.”

  We headed to the row of stones and inside the little fenced off area to my mother’s headstone. I knelt and wiped away the moss that had grown into the tiny ridges. The monument was so plain, so matter-of-fact. No fancy artwork or scrolls. My heart twisted. How could someone with so much artistic talent be remembered with just a barren stone?

  Mila placed a hand on my shoulder. “I have to head back and help Anatoly’s mom and grandma. Gotta work and earn my keep. Wanna come?”

  “No thanks, I think I’ll stay here awhile and then head to my parents’ house. I really want to get a look at everything. Sort some things out.”

  Mila grabbed my hand and frowned. “Have you ever met me before? I mean, do I seem familiar to you at all?”

  “No, why?”

  Mila shook her head, avoiding my gaze. “I don’t know. I just keep picking up on something.” She waved the thoughts away. “It fades in and out from time to time.” She looked into my eyes as if searching. “You’re really hard to read. There’s something about you that’s been nagging me. It’s like we’re connected somehow—through someone or something, but I can’t figure out who or what.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ve ever met before and I was just a baby when I left here.”

  Mila forced a smile. “I guess you’re right. I’m sure I have you confused with someone else. Maybe my powers aren’t that great after all.”

  “I’d love to have powers where I could see into the future. My whole life has been decided by fate. I’ve never planned anything that has happened to me. But maybe it’s better that way. Not knowing what’s around the corner.”

  Mila shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s better to be prepared. Especially when you have danger ahead of you.”

  I looked into her eyes and saw a flash of fear—like she had said too much, given something away.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “I hate to run, but I better get going. See you soon.” She turned and headed down the trail.

  “Bye,” I said.

  Mila paused, then turned and waved before making her way through the stones and out of the graveyard. I returned my attention to my mother’s headstone surrounded by the little wooden fence. Inside the same fence were two other stones. I wiped away the dirt and moss from each one and stared into the faces of who must have been my grandparents in old ceramic plates fixed to the stones. The woman with neatly styled gray hair looked a lot like my mother. And the man had my same eyes and full lips.

  I found a patch of wildflowers growing nearby. I loved the vivid reds, tangerines, and yellows. I picked a small bundle, ignoring the prickle in their stems, and carefully laid them over each grave. As I turned to leave I slid my fingertips over my mother’s name carved into the stone. I only wishe
d I’d known her and who my people really were.

  Dark clouds gathered overhead, blocking out the sun. I stood, brushed dirt and grass from my knees, then quickly left the cemetery. I hiked down the road to the gates of my parents’ house. It was all I had left. All that I would ever know about them. I unhitched the gate and pushed it open wide enough to pass through it. Once inside, I surveyed the grounds: an old garden spot near the barn, a shed and wheelbarrow. I circled the house and went into the backyard and to the river. If the place was mowed and kept up, it would be beautiful.

  A small, metal table rested on its side, nearly covered by tangled weeds and grass. I turned it over. Splotches of paint stained the top. My mother must have used it to hold her canvases while she studied the river and mountains. I found a metal chair on its side in the tall grass. I set it up at the table and made my way to the river. The water flowed swiftly, the top smooth and pristine. Underneath, deep, dark waters boiled, pulling reeds and bits of timber from the shoreline.

  I thought about how quickly the water could take someone away. I thought of my father plunging to his death in those murky depths. Something stirred in the brush on the other side of the bank. Startled, I lost my footing on a patch of wet moss, my arms flailing. I nearly plunged headlong into the water when I felt a hand pulling me upright with little effort.

  “Are you all right?” Anatoly stood so close his breath feathered my neck.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I fought to catch my breath. “For a moment I thought I was going to bite it.”

  “Water is swift. You could drown. Best to stay away from river.”

  I turned around to face him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Seeing if you need help. You shouldn’t be here alone. Is not good.”

  “What do you mean by that? Tell me, please.”

  “It is nothing. We go now.”

  “No! I’m not leaving this rock until you tell me why it’s not good for me to stay.”

  He shook his head. “Everything I do. Everything I say is wrong.”

  “Just tell me the truth. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He paused and narrowed his eyes at the water.

  “What is it? Please, just tell me.”

  “I wish I could explain—but there are things you would not understand.”

  I shook my head. I wanted to pull all my hair out in frustration. “I’m going to the house,” I said. “I have a ton of work to do. I want to go through the entire house.”

  “I will go with you and help,” he said.

  “No, really it’s okay….”

  “Please, I want to help.”

  “I dunno,” I said. “I like being alone.”

  He took my hand. “It would mean…great deal to me, if you would let me help.”

  “Okay,” I crossed my arms over my chest. “But on one condition.”

  “What is that?”

  “You have to tell me everything you know. I have a right to know what’s going on or what went on here.”

  He sighed, his shoulders sagged. “All right. I will tell you what I know. You will learn soon enough anyways.”

  We headed to the house and climbed the sturdy steps to the front door. Even though the house was old, it had been well taken care of. It needed very little work, maybe just a coat or two of paint.

  I unlocked the front door and went inside.

  Anatoly stood in the entryway. The hard gaze he always carried softened. “This was once nice home.” He looked at me and frowned. “I’m sad for what happened here. Sad for you and your family.”

  “Thank you.” I was taken aback by his sudden display of emotion. There was another side to him I had missed before. He seemed so sincere. “I wish I had reasons. I mean I wish I knew why my dad would do something so horrible to my mom. It’s all just so freaky.”

  “I understand it is hard for you. Would be hard for anyone. I am glad you are going to stay here. I thought you would come here, sell the house, and leave like all the other villagers.”

  “So do you mean to tell me you’re happy I’m staying? I would have thought you would have been glad to get rid of me. I mean, the way you've been acting.”

  “Please understand. This village is everything to me and to my family. It is sacred place to us. I am last in line. My father is old. Is up to me to see that it will survive.” Anatoly paused. His voice wavering. “Sometimes I act like jerk—it is hard to carry so much responsibility—I am sorry if I…”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s cool. I know you have a lot of things to take care of. But why is this place so important to you? There must be a dozen other villages.” I couldn’t even begin to understand his attachment to this place. I’d never been attached to anything in my life, because I never had a permanent home, a place to plant my roots and build memories. For me, everyplace was temporary.

  “It is hard to explain. We Russians bond to the soil in which we are raised. My mother is buried in churchyard along with other family members. It is my duty to see village survives.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know your mother was dead. I’m so sorry. I guess we have more in common than I knew.”

  “She passed several years ago.”

  I focused on the house. The place looked different in the daylight. The curtains hung in softness, a warm palate of wallpaper in earthen tones hugged the walls. On the staircase sat a big wicker basket filled with faded magazines and art books. The floors were polished wood, and although there wasn’t much furniture, I could see the house had been taken care of, updated and more modern than those in the village.

  The kitchen was just the way we had seen it the night before. I opened the cupboards and found a few scattered pots and pans and glass dishes. My mother must have been a lot like me. She’d rather paint than cook or do anything else.

  I spotted a door to the right I hadn’t seen the night before and pulled it open. The smell of paint and turpentine filled my nostrils. My mother’s art studio spread out in front of me. Big bay windows gave it just the right amount of northern light. Perfect for painting.

  In the daylight, I could enjoy the full beauty of my mother’s artwork. Some unframed pieces sat on easels while others were stacked in the corner or hanging up on the walls. On a desk scattered with photographs of landscapes I spotted the spine of a pink book. I pulled it free and blew off a layer of dust. On the front was a baby carriage and words in Russian.

  I ran my hand over the gold raised letters and showed it to Anatoly. “What does this say?”

  Anatoly looked over my shoulder. “It is baby book.” He pointed to the gold letters. “This is your name.”

  I stared at my name written across the cover, my throat swelled, it was suddenly hard to swallow. It was only my name, but it grounded me to the past with such intensity that it tore at my heart.

  I flipped open the cover, choking back my tears. Inside were pictures of me getting baptized. On the ceiling of the church, a massive, ornate mural circled our heads. The next set of pictures were strangers, but I recognized my mother and who I thought was probably my father. I frowned. On the last page was a picture of a man standing by my parents, smiling. I knew that smile.

  I nearly dropped the book to the floor.

  I stared at the man in the photograph. Could it really be him? The scar, the tattoos….

  “Are you all right?” Anatoly asked.

  I bit my lower lip. “Yes, I mean, no.” I didn’t even know what I was saying.

  “May I see?” Anatoly asked softly.

  I nodded and handed him the book. His eyes skimmed over the page. I tapped my finger on Chuck’s picture. “Do you know this man?”

  Anatoly nodded. “Yes, Mila’s father.” He pointed to two men in the background “This is my father.” He pointed to another man with a long beard. “And this is Nickoli’s father.”

  My mouth dropped open. Chuck was Mila’s dad? I suddenly felt dizzy, my pulse throbbing in my ears, everything swirling around me.

  Anato
ly motioned me to a chair near the window. “Come, sit.”

  I wilted into my seat. Obviously, Chuck coming into my life hadn’t been by accident. No wonder he paid so much attention to me. All this time I thought I meant something to him. Tears pooled in my eyes. Was this the connection Mila had felt about me? Would she hate me if she found out?

  Anatoly knelt in front of me. There was something in his expression that worried me. His eyes were round and filled with desperation. He inhaled a deep breath and released it, slowly, thoughtfully. “What I am about to tell you is impossible to believe—but please listen.”

  I sat on the edge of my chair. A muscle pulsed along Anatoly’s jaw, he looked so worried—what could this all be about?

  “Have you ever heard of the Bogatyrs?” he asked.

  “Bog a what?”

  “Bogatyrs,” Anatoly said, low and clear.

  I shook my head and frowned.

  He took my hand, his fingers warm and strong as he pulled me to my feet. “Come, I must show you.” I followed him into the hallway. He pointed to a massive gothic painting with an ornate gold frame. “These are greatest men that ever lived—ancient Knights called Bogatyrs who defended Russia from all harm.”

  My hand still felt warm and tingly from where he had touched me. I stared at the painting, trying to concentrate. Three handsome knights were mounted on horseback. Each wore a heavy suit of armor and carried a weapon.

  “These are ancestors of Nickoli, Mila, and me. Great warriors who protected villages of Russia from evil so terrible—that if set free, would destroy world. Each generation of first born children takes over from their fathers before them, and now is time for our generation to take over as Bogatyrs. We each inherited gifts—special abilities used in art of war.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Wow. For real? That sounds…incredible.” I didn’t know who he thought he was kidding. I wasn’t going to buy any of his tall tales. But then I paused. Maybe it was possible. Mila seemed to have special abilities—though it could have been a fluke.

  “So…if you all have special powers, what’s yours?”