Push Not the River

by James Conroyd Martin

“Yes, of course.” The priest’s eyes held Anna’s “But sometimes the woman makes the bigger sacrifice.”

  Anna wanted to ask why it should be so, but didn’t dare. Neither did she dare to speak of how hopeless her marriage was . . . or that she loved another.

  “I am certain you have no real cause for complaint, Countess Berezowska. You should be loyal to your husband in both mind and body.”

  Anna cringed at the sound of her maiden name, but before she could tell him her married name, he was absolving her. Lying about her name would be one sin that would remain on her soul.

  “I will say Mass now, then I will go with the men to the place where your companions and the others were killed. Their burials must be made Christian.” The priest immediately announced that he was unable to hear any other confessions that day.

  As Father Florian proceeded to say Mass in what Anna thought a cursory manner, she wondered whether the peasants would resent her because the priest had no time to offer them Penance. The only person of nobility present had been the only one to receive the sacrament.

  When the ceremony came to an end, the enigmatic Father Florian and the men of the clan took their leave.

  “The Countess is not feeling well?” The words penetrated Anna’s consciousness as though drawn through a tunnel. The palm of a hand was touching her forehead. “Countess?”

  “What? Yes?” She lay not far from the hearth.

  “You are ill?”

  She opened her eyes to see Owl Eyes withdrawing his bony hand. “No . . . just a bit dizzy, I think.”

  “You are hungry?”

  Anna could not deny it. She was famished.

  The old man turned, calling to Lucyna, “Bring here a plate of your deer stew.”

  The woman turned from her task at the hearth and mumbled something Anna could not make out, but her tone and narrowed eyes indicated her dissent.

  Owl Eyes lost patience. “It is for the countess, woman. Hurry on with it.”

  When Lucyna looked to Anna, her defiant manner melted away. She immediately ladled steaming stew into a wooden bowl and brought it over to where Anna lay.

  But before Owl Eyes could guide the first spoonful to Anna’s lips, Nelka appeared. “She will wait!” she screeched. “She must wait!”

  Anna immediately understood Lucyna’s initial reserve: no one was to break the fast before the priest and the other men returned from blessing the burial site.

  “She is to wait!” the woman hissed. “No special privileges here!”

  “The countess must eat!” Owl Eyes said. Anna was becoming more familiar with the low dialect and understood his speech now. “The Countess Berezowska is with child. Like me, you are old, Nelka. But you are a woman and cannot have forgotten what it is to bear a child. She will eat—not because she is of the nobility—but because she nourishes the helpless one within her. Am I understood?”

  The old prune’s face puckered hatefully. “It is the devil’s child she carries!” And in an instant the woman was gone from the great hall.

  “Eat now, Countess,” Owl Eyes said softly.

  Anna lay on her side, looking down at the bowl brimming with good broth, vegetables, and deer meat. Its aroma filled her nostrils. Her mouth watered. But then she looked to the several faces watching her and the several more feigning indifference. Lucyna’s little daughter, Wera, stared hungrily.

  “No,” Anna said, pushing the bowl away. “I will wait for the men to return.”

  Owl Eyes protested, but she remained adamant.

  A short while later, he lifted her head and pressured her to drink a strange, dark-hued brew of some kind. She found a peculiar tang to the taste, but the potion wasn’t wholly disagreeable. Within moments, it seemed, she felt her eyelids become weighted.

  Anna’s imagination burst colorfully alive. In her mind’s eye she viewed a beautiful snowy landscape, one more real than any art created by man. She could feel the cold, cold sting of the air and smell the brisk freshness of the snow.

  Then came movement on this canvas. Figures of men moved about, working at some task, and as they did so, their forms and faces came into focus. She realized who they were and what they were about.

  There in the icy-hard earth were the graves dug just weeks before by the peasants. This surrealistic vision emitted no sounds, but she could see one man’s mouth moving in prayer, while his right hand made the sign of the cross over one grave, then the next, and the next. It was Father Florian, Anna realized. Then she spied two smaller mounds: Louis’ and Babette’s resting places for all eternity. Tiny, frigid graves without markers.

  Anna struggled now to stay awake. The priest—her link to the outside world, her link to home—would be returning. I must keep my wits about me, she thought, even while descending into a drugged sleep. I must keep my wits . . .

  It was Stefan who—hours later—informed Anna that the priest had returned to Częstochowa without her.

  Anna sat up and stared in disbelief. “But . . . why?”

  “It was decided that you were in no condition to go. You didn’t have the strength for the journey.”

  “I was merely hungry . . . and then I was given that potion. . . . Oh, Stefan, how long before he comes again?”

  “He comes every other Sunday.”

  “Two weeks.” Anna felt overcome with despair. I cannot allow two weeks to go by and do nothing, she thought. Even now, Antoni might be looking for me. What am I to do?

  “You needn’t think of going, Countess Berezowska,” Stefan was saying. “You needn’t think of going at all.”

  “But I must—and soon.” Suddenly Anna realized that Stefan’s face was subtly contorted and tense, as if he were screwing up his courage.

  “I . . . Countess, it wouldn’t matter a damn to me whether you have no husband or whether your marriage is not a good one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you haven’t once spoken of love for a husband or of returning home to him—to Warsaw, yes, but not to a husband.”

  Anna bristled, not yet seeing where the turn in the conversation was taking them. “This is not your concern, Stefan.”

  “I wish to make it my concern.”

  Anna’s eyes spoke her question.

  “I want you to stay, Countess Berezowska. Not in these ruins of course, but in a home. Let me be the father to your child . . . and husband to you.”

  “You’re not serious!”

  “I am.”

  And he was, Anna could see. “It’s impossible, Stefan.” She could not suppress a smile.

  “Because I am not of the aristocracy?”

  “No, it’s not that—”

  “It is! I may not have been born noble, but I have been raised in the same fashion by Baron Galki and have had as much education as many nobles—”

  “These are not issues. I cannot consider such a thing.”

  “Countess Berezowska, I have fallen in love with you.”

  “But I cannot return your love. You must believe that I do have a husband.”

  “Can you tell me that yours is a happy marriage? Can you?”

  It took some moments for Anna to answer. She thought of the incongruities between her hopes for her life just a few months before and her life as it was now. The convoluted series of events that was her existence for the past months played before her like some perverse Greek play. She could interpret it either as comedy or tragedy, and so wishing to avoid tears, she chose to laugh. “Oh, Stefan, I cannot begin to consider—”

  “What is so humorous?”

  “Nothing . . . it is impossible to explain.” She was laughing openly.

  Stefan’s face was reddening by the moment. “I suppose it is very comical to have some bumpkin like me make a fool of himself?”

  “Oh, no, Stefan. That’s not it at all.” Anna suddenly realized that this was not Antek, who could read into the subtle textures of one’s face and words. Antek would have sensed the irony of her words, seen through the laughter
, felt the pain. But Stefan, whose emotions fed him and spilled out like blood at a moment’s notice, had not. Anna’s dark mirth immediately died away as she prepared to assuage his hurt.

  But Stefan was gone.

  37

  TWO WEEKS LATER ANNA SAT again in the chapel awaiting the priest’s arrival. They had been painfully slow weeks. Stefan stayed away from the clan. After Anna confided in Antek the nature of that last unfortunate meeting, he tried to speak to his brother, tried to bring peace, but to no avail. Whereas Antek could and did speak of feelings, his twin—whose feelings, Anna was certain, ran as deep—was unable to do so. How was the damage to Stefan’s pride to be undone?

  Now, sitting with the clan in the cold chapel from mid-morning until early afternoon, Anna’s worst fear was realized: the priest did not come.

  “We will wait no longer,” Witek finally announced. “Something has kept our priest from coming today.”

  “It’s that one,” Nelka hissed, loud enough for most to hear.

  Anna didn’t turn around to look at the old woman. She sat stiffly, feeling her face flood with heat. She knew that others, though, had given the woman their attention.

  “It is the evil one,” the hiss continued. “She is who keeps the priest away! He will not return until she is gone. Let us send her from us!”

  “Enough, Nelka!” Witek’s command was more intense than loud.

  “Witek, you must see. She is the instrument of the devil.”

  “Go with the other women now, Nelka, and help with the meal. And cease your grumblings.”

  The woman bristled sourly at her son’s command but obeyed.

  Anna lay sleepless at her place near the hearth long after midnight. She was alone. It was true, she brooded: the priest had not returned because of her. She could not say why it was so. It was a mystery. How was she now to find her way to Warsaw? She thought of Jan Stelnicki and her heart quickened. If only he knew of her circumstances . But such thoughts were useless.

  Antek had assured her only that evening that he would construct a plan. While she prayed that he would be able to help her, another question loomed, one that was never far from her conscious mind: would Antoni find her?

  Suddenly a noise jarred her from her thoughts.

  She sat up immediately, every nerve on edge. She strained to peer into the shadowy chamber, her heart thumping irregularly. It’s nothing, she thought, perhaps just Lucille, come to check on me, as is her custom. Or it might be nothing more than a mouse scurrying beneath the table in search of crumbs.

  Then, Anna saw a candle that seemed to fairly float through the far door. Then another, and another. And still another. She stared dumbly at the tapers.

  Hooded figures were holding the candles. Slowly, abreast of one another, they advanced, like Druid priests.

  Stricken with fear, Anna could not speak until they stood before her. “Who are you?” she asked at last. “What have you come for?”

  “We have come for you, Countess.”

  Anna recognized the voice at once. “What do you mean?” “The time has come for you to leave us.” Nelka pulled back her hood now, freeing her puff of wiry hair. Her eyes, catching the light of the fire, were menacing discs.

  Anna watched numbly as the old woman went to the hearth and lodged the poker between two red-glowing logs. Anna looked to the other figures. These were Nelka’s cronies. Their faces were like grim masks.

  She tried to disguise the panic rising within her. “Why do you hate me?”

  “You are evil!” Nelka spat.

  Nelka stopped only a foot away and Anna could feel the spray of the woman’s saliva on her face. “It’s because I am of the aristocracy, isn’t it?”

  The woman cackled. “Your veins will bleed as easily and as red as any’s.”

  “Why, Nelka? Why do you hate me so?”

  “Your kind has trampled on the poor for as long as I can remember.” Her eyes grew distant for a moment. Her voice dropped to a monotone. “We would do well to rise up like those in France and slay you all.”

  “Have you been so ill-treated by Baron Galki?”

  The woman caught herself, as if shaken from a trance. “Stand up and put your shawl around you. It is cold outside.”

  “They will not permit this, Nelka. Neither Witek nor your grandsons.”

  “They are blind. Enough talk! Get up!”

  Nelka nodded to the others and two women pulled Anna to her feet. Anna started to cry out, but a hand came quickly from behind, silencing the alarm.

  It was while she was struggling in this manner that she realized a fifth figure had entered the chamber, moving now out of the shadows and toward the hearthlight.

  It was Stefan.

  Thank God for Stefan, Anna thought. He would be able to control his deranged grandmother. Unable to speak with the hand over her mouth, her eyes pleaded with the youth.

  His face inscrutable, he slowly approached the women. Why is he hesitating? Anna wondered. Why doesn’t he say something?

  Nelka turned around now and noticed him. But she registered no surprise. “Is the horse ready?” she asked.

  Stefan nodded.

  And Anna understood. Her hope had been the briefest of comets. Stefan would be of no help to her. He was there to aid his grandmother in banishing her.

  While Nelka moved closer to the hearth, Anna snatched the opportunity to again silently implore Stefan’s help. His stone-like stare seemed to weaken for a moment at her expression, but by the time his grandmother returned with the poker to the semicircle of figures in front of Anna, his expression had again hardened.

  The poker’s end was glowing red. Nelka held it a half finger’s length from Anna’s forehead. Anna could feel its heat singeing her eyebrow. “If you struggle or call out,” Nelka warned, “no one will ever look with pleasure upon you. Silence her, Stefan.”

  The woman who was keeping Anna silent withdrew her hand, and Stefan forced a rag into her mouth. Anna could only wonder at the depth of Stefan’s hurt.

  Prodded by Nelka’s bony fingers, Anna was directed out of the chamber and along the deadened rooms and down the stone steps into the stable area. Then Stefan bound her hands.

  “Put her on the horse,” Nelka ordered. “Take her deep into the forest and leave her.”

  “And the horse?” Stefan asked.

  “Bring it back. She has the devices of the devil at her command and the forest is the devil’s home, everyone knows that. She can call on him for help.”

  Anna wanted to cry out. She could not ride a horse in her condition. It would kill the baby, she was certain. And left to her own defenses in the middle of the forest during winter, she knew she had no chance of survival.

  Anna could not believe this was happening. Her eyes passed over the faces of the other women. They knew that the crazed Nelka was sending her to her death, yet they stood as statues. She thought she detected sympathy or regret on one of the faces, though, that of Janka, one of the women who had been kind to her in the first days of her stay. Still, Anna knew that any hesitation on Janka’s part would not stand up against the crusty Nelka. She had bewitched and bullied all of them.

  And Anna knew that she could expect no help from Stefan, no last-minute contrition. Her unconscious cruelty and thoughtless laughter had sealed her fate. Nonetheless, as he lifted her onto the horse, her eyes searched his for some sign of empathy.

  His eyes were colorless and cold. She hated him now and knew—God forgive her—that she would go to her death hating him.

  When Stefan had mounted his own horse, the women circled around Anna’s, their candles held high. Nelka held the poker ready as if to strike the horse.

  What kind of ancient superstitious practice was this?

  “Throw open the door, Janka,” Nelka ordered.

  The woman obeyed and a gust of cold air rushed in. As Janka started back toward the waiting group, something caught her eye and she immediately halted, hesitating long seconds. All eyes followed her
s to where someone stood in the timbered doorway. One of the women let out a quiet gasp.

  Antek.

  38

  AS ZOFIA’S HIRED CARRIAGE PULLED into the drive of the Wilanów Palace, King Jan Sobieski’s one-time summer residence, she drew back the shade. For a moment her self-confidence began to wane. Here was a sprawling residence magnificent enough to rival the Royal Castle itself. Set against Italian gardens and camouflaged by intricacies of design that could only be French, the yellow building somehow—paradoxically—maintained the simplicity of a Polish manor home. Her driver drew the carriage into a long line of carriages which slowly moved toward the main entrance, where the masqueraders were alighting. Would she be admitted? For the first time, a doubt took root.

  She had spent two weeks researching and seeing to the making of a red dress and elaborate bejeweled tunic. For the hooded robe she knew to wear purple. Theodora had risen from the street—she had been an actress, the equivalency even then to being a prostitute—to the wearing of the royal color, and Zofia thoroughly relished playing the role. The robe, of the plushest velvet, draped majestically.

  She knew that some masqueraders wore full masks, some half masks, and some no masks at all. She thought on this for a long time before making a decision. She did not want Jan to recognize her until the moment she chose. In the end she decided upon having a mask made that covered her entire face except for her mouth and chin. She knew that her mouth was most expressive; she would have that at least to work her charms. The mask was made of purple felt and the upper border, ear to ear, was fitted with semi-precious gems and white feathers.

  Only the day before she had taken the dress and gone to Princess Charlotte Sic’s to borrow appropriate jewelry for the occasion, and her friend had been willing to loan her the three-tiered diamond necklace. Zofia was tempted but felt a twenty-six stone ruby necklace and matching clip earrings were somehow more Byzantine.

  “You don’t seem to worry,” Charlotte had chided, “that your plunging neckline is so—so unByzantine.”