Page 36 of I Will Always Find You
“Are you well, stranger?” the Hutsul elder asked, growing concerned about the halted speech and the silence that followed.
The Romani witch joked that he had swallowed a fly, which had interrupted him. “Forgive me. The man I am looking for has a name, though I do not know it. I shall only recognize him by his red hair and, well, a feeling. That is all I have to go on. I knowthat sounds odd, perhaps even a tad mad, though I assure you I am not.”
At the end of this statement, the Romani witch playfully contorted his face, causing the Hutsul elder to burst into laughter.
Saying that this piss-poor amount of information was all he had to rely on was a chillingly genuine statement. The voices in his head, the spirits of his ancestors who often guided him, had all vanished as soon as he approached the Carpathian Rus. He suspected this was due to his proximity to the Cannibal Hag, whose malevolent aura and powerful sorcery disrupted the flow of spiritual energy.
He was truly on his own.
Upon giving his own name, not Pietro’s, the Romani witch asked the Hutsul elder about the performance they were watching.
“The Arkan is an ancient tradition of ours,” the man declared with pride, “a critical and honoured element in the rite of passage for a Hutsul boy, marking his transition from youth to manhood. After completing this ceremony, he is granted several privileges, including the right to dance, marry, carry a shepherd’s axe, and defend against enemies.”
The Romani witch, displaying the correct reverence and respect for the Hutsul culture and traditions, expressed gratitude to the older man for sharing his insights. He then politely excused himself, stating that he wished to take a closer look, and walked nearer to the dancing figures. However, that was not the whole truth: he suddenly felt a strong pull in that direction. It was not a physical push or a yank but a tug at his heartstrings.
As he observed the dizzying spectacle before him, he noticed a ceremonial hat abruptly fly off one of the men. Curious to see who had lost it, he leaned over the crowd before him to get abetter view. It took only a moment’s search to catch sight of the man whose hat had been swept away by the wind.
There, amidst the swirling revelry, dancing the Arkan with an infectious exuberance, was his beloved Aeneas, a broad, brilliant grin illuminating his handsome, beardless face framed by airy laughter. His red hair, now free from all material constraints, moved gracefully; the wispy curls in the front practically called to the Romani witch as they perfectly resembled the unruly fringe of a young Aeneas back in Pompeii so long ago.
“Good sir!” the Romani witch called out, turning to seek the Hutsul elder he had spoken with moments before. Spotting him nearby, he quickened his pace, moving toward him with a sense of eager purpose.
The Hutsul elder happily greeted the Romani witch again and asked if there was more he wished to learn from him about their culture.
“That man, the one with the red hair—!” The Romani witch’s breath caught in his throat as waves of excitement surged through him.I found him!
“Oh, the ‘man of the red earth?’”
“What do you mean? Man of red earth?” The Romani witch furrowed his brow, a look of confusion crossing his delicate features.
“Damek, his name. That is what it means in our tongue. A name given to him at birth due to his red hair, which is uncommon among our people. He is the son of the village potter. He is shy, that one, but do not be deceived by his quiet demeanour. Beneath that friendly, reserved exterior lies a sharp intellect, and he grasps nuances of face and body that often escape others as good if not better than your average Hutsul. He is strong and good with his hands, though I dare say he has little passion for working clay, much to his father’s dismay. And especially now with the man’s hand in such bad shape and—”
The Romani witch nodded methodically, absorbing everything the Hutsul elder said as he went on and on. However, as he continued to provide information, it soon started to sound more like gossip, which the Romani witch quickly lost interest in listening to.
As the old man prattled on, the Romani witch returned to gazing upon his beloved Aeneas, called Damek in this incarnation. He saw that the dancing had concluded, and the men were now parting ways to join their respective families, all displaying notable pride in their sons, who were now officially recognized as grown men.
However, Damek stood alone; no one came to stand with him, congratulate him or display affection.
“Sad, that.”
The Romani witch, lost in his thoughts and focused intently on Damek, had nearly forgotten the Hutsul elder babbling behind him. He sensed that the old man was about to share a story about Damek, which might explain why his family was not there to witness this significant coming-of-age moment. While the tale might simply be more gossip, the Romani witch listened attentively nonetheless.
“Sad, you say?”
“Oh yes,” the Hutsul elder whispered conspiratorially. “The Honcharenko family has been cursed. Several months back, the mother, a midwife and healer, went into the forest in search of herbs, mushrooms, and medicinal plants, but she never returned. The father soon took to drinking his sorrows. One evening, in a drunken stupor, he burned his hand terribly in the kiln. Now, he is in constant pain while he works—and grieves, but not just for his lost wife.
“You see, just two days ago, the youngest of the two Honcharenko boys, nine-year-old Dawyd, went missing in the forest, just like his mother. The only trace of him found was hisfavourite toy, a clay horse, which he always carried with him. It was discovered on the forest’s edge, not too far from the village, upon the ground covered by leaves. A few drops of blood upon the toy’s smooth, ochre surface.
“For two days in a row, the village men searched the forest for him until nightfall, as no one in their right mind would remain there after dark! Yet, even the brightness of day rarely brings safety anymore. Sadly, we found no sign of the boy. It was as if the Devil had taken him down to Hell.
“Or perhaps—perhaps the dark witch of the forest, whose name I shall not utter for fear the wind carries it to her ear, crossed his path. That beast devours children, as the legends say. I fear poor Dawyd is lost to us. And no one save Damek will search further.”
“How dreadful!” the Romani witch exclaimed. “His poor family! Tell me, is this why Damek danced the Arkan? So he could carry a weapon and go into the forest after his brother?”
“Quite perceptive. You are quick to grasp our ways. Though I dare say Damek would have broken our laws, ignored our customs, snatched up a war-axe or any sharp blade, and run right into the dark heart of the forest after his brother if only—oh, listen to me prattle on.
“I really must get to the feast. You are most welcome to join us, and I hope that all this talk of curses and tragedy has not deterred you from enjoying good food and drink. Just head down that path to the inn. You cannot miss it. It is the only one we have!” The Hutsul elder laughed as if he had told the most jovial jest in history.
After pointing the way, the old man followed the crowd to the inn.
