Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

  Lutisha’s finger forced itself through Anna’s lips, and she was made to eat. After a dozen spoonfuls of the stewed meat and several swallows of milk, Anna’s stomach tightened convulsively and she clenched her teeth, refusing another bite.

  “Good enough, then. Would Mademoiselle wish some water? Your body has lost much fluid with your fever.”

  Anna drank a full glass and fell back into her goose down pillows.

  The rain continued outside. Despite the soothing pattering at the windows, she could not sleep. She remembered the horrific details of the attack only too well. The dark, the frigid pond, the pain, the smell of the creature . . . fear came over her in rushing waves of nausea. She fought hard to keep down the little meal.

  Had she blamed Jan Stelnicki? What had made her do such a thing? It had been too dark, her fear too great. She had no recollection of a face, or even a voice.

  She thought now. Who had attacked her?

  She thought of Feliks Paduch, the man who had killed her father, the man who had vowed to end the Berezowski line. She had never taken that curse with any seriousness, but now she had to wonder. Would Paduch have been so motivated that he would follow her to Halicz, stalking her like some animal?

  She felt her body stiffen, tightening with both pain and fear. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Perhaps he had done it and left her for dead. Her throat tightened. She reached for a glass of water and took a sip.

  Her thoughts ran back to Jan. He was innocent. He had to be. He had sworn to love her. She believed him then. She believed him now. And she could not accept as true the allegation that he had attacked her cousin. But she had doubted his innocence in those few terrible moments that an hysterical Zofia leveled her accusations. Why had she lent Zofia’s story any credence? . . . And yet, who would suspect such deception of one’s cousin? Whatever her reason, she could only have been lying about his ripping her blouse.

  That aside, she realized that her own life had changed irrevocably. She had been raped. Her head reeled now and her stomach dropped as if it had gone into an unchecked fall.

  What did such an attack mean? Would Jan still love her? Would he still respect her? Would she be able to return love? Was marriage to him, or to anyone, still possible?

  And children, she thought, a shock ricocheting through her like a bullet. “Children,” she whispered aloud. What if I have conceived a child?

  She fought back the tears.

  Anna remembered how Aunt Stella had taken her aside after the deaths of her parents and told her that as a young noblewoman she was not to worry about important matters, that they would be decided by her elders, that she need only maintain the graces of a lady. It was advice she wanted to follow now in order to assuage her pain and confusion. But some chamber of her heart remained closed to her aunt’s advice.

  For twenty-four hours Anna would not acknowledge the visitors that came and went. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. Depression held her captive.

  The afternoon of the next day was strangely silent, except for the persistent pattering of the rain on the windows and sills.

  Finally, Anna pulled herself out of bed. She could neither sleep, nor deal with her dark thoughts. She pulled on a cotton wrap, noticing now that she was bruised over much of her body. Every part of her seemed raw and sore. Ignoring the pain in her foot and ankle, she made her way to the door and out into the hall.

  She paused, listening, knowing how inexplicably strange was her own behavior. Yet she continued, moving toward the rear stairwell, the servants’ passage. Here, the warm and thick kitchen aromas escaped to the second floor as through a chimney.

  She descended the unlighted passage, listening to the sounds of the servants. She knew that few secrets were kept from the servants of a house and that from them she might learn something.

  “You know that when a guest of the Gronski family is as ill as the Countess Anna, there will be added chores for everyone. You too!” The crisp voice was Marta’s.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Noiselessly, Anna pushed the door ajar and peered into the large kitchen. Across the room the blond and bosomy Marta was ladling soup for her young son Tomasz.

  The door to the outside opened now. Marta’s husband entered, removed his rain-soaked sheepskin cloak and hat, and took his place at the oak table. Their two daughters must have been about their afternoon chores.

  Walek tore at his dark bread, chewing with relish. He was a stocky man characterized by a great black moustache and a good disposition. Marta poured chicory into cups for her husband and herself. The servants were not allowed coffee, an expensive import.

  She sat. “Walek, this morning Mama saw two magpies on the fence near the chicken coop.” Her hand reached out to lightly touch her husband’s in a gesture of concern. “The birds were facing away from the house. You know what that means.”

  Walek’s dark eyes reflected concern.

  “What does it mean?” piped eight-year-old Tomasz.

  “Nothing,” his mother said. “Have you finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you may see to the chickens.”

  The boy climbed down from his chair and raced across the kitchen.

  At the door, he turned. “May I feed the magpies, too?”

  “Get out!” his father shouted.

  The door slammed.

  Despite their Catholicism, the peasants clung to old ways and superstitions much more so than did the nobles. They believed that a magpie that faces the house while sitting on a fence foretells of happy, welcome guests. If, however, it sits facing away from the house, it is to be taken as a warning of undesirable visitors.

  “What is Count Gronski up to?” Marta asked.

  “Nothing. He’s just waiting out the rain. I expect he’ll go back to the pond and look for evidence.”

  “Evidence? What kind of evidence? Against whom?”

  Walek shrugged.

  “Walek, you know something. Tell me!”

  “And you’ll hound me if I don’t,” Walek sighed. “It seems that the madman at the pond was young Stelnicki.”

  “No!” Marta let out a gasp.

  Anna’s hand went to her mouth to muffle her own gasp. Even the servants knew of this false accusation!

  “How is it you know that?” Marta asked.

  “Because, my curious wife, I drove the wagon when the Gronski family fetched Countess Anna at the pond. She named her attacker.”

  “You heard her say it was Stelnicki?”

  “Well, no, but Lady Zofia heard her.”

  Zofia! Anna became light-headed. It was impossible—there had to be some mistake, some terrible misunderstanding.

  “Walek,” Marta was saying, “you don’t think that the count would be fool enough to attempt revenge on Stelnicki? At his age? By himself?”

  “No!” he scoffed. “He’ll turn the matter over to the starosta and to the courts, as long as she can identify him as her attacker.”

  “And have the whole thing made public? I doubt that.”

  “When it concerns the nobility, things can be hushed.” Walek paused, seeming to second guess himself. “Although the count is a hard and stubborn man.”

  “He’s an old man with a temper bigger than his strength! How can you be so calm about this?”

  “Don’t rile yourself, woman. It’s a man’s business.”

  “It’s a bad business. And it’s no man lying half dead upstairs.”

  The dining room door swung inward and Lutisha entered, balancing a tray of dirty dishes. “They’ve finished their noodle cakes and syrup,” she announced. “Cook, serve, care for the sick. And now the countess whispers that company is about to arrive. I tell you, there’s not a moment’s rest.”

  Marta and Walek exchanged meaningful looks at the news.

  Anna’s faintness increased. She leaned against the stone wall while the servants’ talk droned on. What they had said about Uncle Leo chilled her to the marrow. Her mind raced.
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  Would he confront Jan? To what outcome? Perhaps after having witnessed Feliks Paduch escape the law, her uncle would not trust justice to the courts.

  And why was Jan to be blamed? Because the half-conscious victim herself had raised the accusation. But Walek had not heard Anna: he had heard only Zofia make the charge!

  Suddenly, Anna realized that Lutisha had crossed the room and was positioned but a very short distance away.

  She held her breath.

  Daring to peek back into the kitchen, she saw the old woman pick up a tray. “I’ll take this up to the countess’ room.”

  Before the servant could take the several steps to the stairwell entrance, Anna pulled her wrap to her, turned, and limped up the stairwell with surprising speed.

  10

  ANNA HAD ONLY JUST FINISHED her lunch of broth and buttered bread when Zofia came fluttering into the room. “Oh, cousin, it’s so good to find you awake! We thought you meant to sleep your life away. Our prayers must have turned the tide.” Bending over, she kissed Anna lightly on the cheek. “How do you feel, darling?”

  “A little better.”

  “You certainly appear very much improved.”

  “Really? I’ve no way of telling.”

  “What?” Zofia then caught Anna’s meaning. “Oh, the mirror?” Her voice was unsteady only a moment before the lie came. “Well, you see, I’m having a new gown measured, and I needed the tall mirror. I’ll see that it is returned soon.”

  Anna let the subject drop.

  “Mother will be coming up to see you shortly.”

  Anna nodded.

  Zofia drew up a chair and sat at the bedside. It was an awkward moment and neither spoke. Anna had not yet sorted out her feelings for her cousin.

  The reason for Zofia’s hesitation soon became apparent.

  “When the rain stops, Father will be going out to the pond to search for evidence.” Zofia reached for her cousin’s hand. The usual luminous sparkle of her black eyes had been snuffed out. “I don’t know what he expects to discover. But whatever he finds or doesn’t find, he will then go to the magistrate.”

  “The magistrate?”

  “Yes, dear. When you have recovered a bit more, you must answer some questions and sign a paper.”

  “What paper?”

  “A writ of accusation.”

  Anna only stared.

  “Against Stelnicki, of course.” Zofia’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, Anna who would have thought it?”

  “But, I don’t remember—”

  “It was Stelnicki who . . . who did this terrible thing to you.”

  “No, it was not Jan.”

  “Anna, when we came to collect you at the pond, you clearly cursed Stelnicki.”

  “I have no memory of that, Zofia. I don’t believe I could have said such a thing.”

  “Then who was it?” Zofia demanded.

  Anna lay back against the pillows, her eyes moving to the ceiling. “It was too dark. I have no recollection of any face. Or voice, for that matter. He mumbled only a few words, words that were distorted by his drunkenness and my own fear. . . . It might have been Feliks Paduch.”

  “The man who killed your father? Ridiculous. It was Stelnicki.” Zofia was unconsciously squeezing Anna’s hand. “You know that it was. Surely you don’t mean to protect him . . . after this?”

  Anna did not respond. There must be something about the man she could recall, she thought, something that would exonerate Jan. Why couldn’t she remember?

  Zofia’s tone softened suddenly. “Perhaps because you cared for him you’re attempting to put all memory of the episode out of your mind.”

  “Zofia, I love him.”

  Zofia stiffened in her chair. “They say that a kind word must be masked by a hard word, Anna. You cannot love him now! This is something unforgivable. He must be punished like any common criminal!”

  Anna wanted to continue her defense of Jan, but she could not find the strength to answer or even move. She was undergoing a few minutes of protracted pain that raged and burned over the purple and black areas of her legs, stomach, and groin. Were she able, she would have called out in agony.

  “Anna! What is it?” Zofia gasped. “You’ve turned as white as Marzanna herself. It was my fault! All mine. And I said such wicked things to you at the pond. You know I didn’t mean them . . . really I didn’t!” Zofia’s voice shook as the tears spilled.

  At last, Anna felt the paroxysm receding.

  Zofia leaned over and kissed Anna, who could feel her cousin’s wet cheek and the sweeping brush of her long eyelashes. “Please, Ania darling, you must get well. You must.”

  Anna then heard Zofia slip from the room.

  Zofia hurried into her own room in an agitated disposition. Her tears were real. Things had gone too far. She would keep Anna from having Jan, but she didn’t want her to die. Her cousin had a life to live, too. She would meet others. And as for Jan, well, he would pay for his fickleness in his affections. If he is not to be what keeps me from the wretched marriage my parents have planned, she thought, there will be another way. I am a woman of imagination.

  She walked to the window. Outside, the rain continued in never-ending gray sheets. She doubted that her father would go to the pond today.

  Zofia turned to the mantle and found herself staring at the sealed letter meant for Anna that she had taken from Katarzyna the morning after the incident at the pond. She was just leaving Anna’s room as Katarzyna was coming to the top of the servants’ stairwell with it. Zofia threatened death to the silly girl if she didn’t keep quiet about its existence. The girl swore she alone was present when the Stelnicki messenger arrived at the kitchen door and that she wouldn’t breathe a word.

  The letter remained unopened. Zofia had been afraid to read it, afraid of what Jan felt for Anna, afraid to see it in writing.

  She bent now to stoke the fire that had been lighted to counter the dampness in the room.

  Zofia stared at the letter a very long time, thinking that she should give it to Anna, that it would hasten her recovery. It was the right thing to do. Doing so would ease her own conscience, too. She could make that sacrifice.

  She picked it up and started for the door. As she reached for the door handle, however, her mind’s eye caught the moment she had come upon Jan and Anna lying in the leaves at the pond. Her blood surged anew at the image. What terrible fate had brought Anna to Halicz?

  She turned back and moved to the fireplace. When a little orange flame ignited there, she took the letter and dropped it into the grate, watching with growing satisfaction as the flame greedily embraced the curling letter and molten red ran from the wax of the Stelnicki seal.

  Zofia sighed now, thinking how the happenstance occurrence of intercepting the letter seemed to have brought her a seat higher on the wheel of fortune. She wasn’t going to let Anna undo her plans.

  After a few minutes she was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of carriage wheels turning on the gravel road in the front of the house.

  How curious. She returned to the window. Approaching the house was the most elegant carriage she had ever seen. The wetness made its black leather shimmer and gleam. It was being drawn by four fine white horses and manned by a driver and two footmen. . . . Who could this be?

  A light knock came at her door.

  “Come in,” Zofia called, turning to see her mother enter.

  The Countess Gronska seemed almost timid in her own daughter’s bedchamber. Something about her mother’s face immediately tied Zofia’s tongue. “Zofia,” the countess said, “we are receiving visitors today.”

  “Yes?” Her heart began to drop like a stone in a slow-moving dream. Suddenly, Zofia knew what her mother was going to say, and she felt as if an abyss opened up beneath her and at any moment the Furies would rise up to draw her in.

  The countess drew a long breath, then said: “The Grawlinski family has arrived.”

  All through the afternoon hours, Anna heard the
bustle of activity below. When Lutisha brought her supper, she told her that the Grawlinski family had come for a short stay.

  Later, when Zofia came into the room, Anna was surprised that for once she could read Zofia’s face so clearly. Distraught, her cousin crumpled into the chair next to Anna’s bed.

  “What is it?” Anna asked.

  “Oh, Anna, I feel like a tiny fly entangled in a great spider’s web.” Clutching her cousin’s hand, she held it to her breast. “I can’t see a way out and all the spider has to do is pounce on me.”

  “What is it, Zofia? You’re speaking in riddles.” Anna suspected playacting.

  Her cousin drew a deep breath. “The Baron Grawlinski and his fat wife have come here with their son, Lord Antoni—all the way from St. Petersburg—so that my parents may announce and set into motion our marriage. The fact that I’m meeting him for the first time means nothing. Our families have planned this since we were young children.”

  “I didn’t know that guests were expected.”

  “Nor I! Mother and Father cleverly concealed their visit. Knowing my opposition, they used the element of surprise to entrap me. Oh, had I known, I would have gone to work and, I dare say, would have bent them to my wishes. But now . . . what am I to do, Anna?” She sobbed, though her eyes remained tearless. “Whatever am I to do?”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Yes, we just finished supper.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, he’s not bad looking. Even a bit handsome in a way. But he’s so priggishly proper. My life will be spent in boredom, unflinching, perpetual boredom!”

  “Perhaps it’s just the formality of the first meeting.”

  “Oh, no. He’s of the old ways. It took little time to take measure of him. To his little mind a wife ranks no higher than a servant. Why, it’s as if the three of them have come to bargain for some vase that will enhance their family mantle. I’m to be his property! And I have no doubt I’ll be expected to produce children like Lutisha produces dumplings. Oh, I shall hate him. I do hate him!”