Page 37 of I Will Always Find You
“If only what?” the Romani witch whispered to himself, certain that the Hutsul elder had restrained himself from revealing something.
“I—I know why he would not tell you.”
Though soft, the Romani witch heard the feminine voice, one tinged with sadness, clear as day, though no matter which way he turned his head, he found himself alone in the square; everyone else had gone on to the inn to continue the revelry there.
The only exception was Aeneas—Damek, who remained in the same spot where the Romani witch had last seen him. He stood frozen in place, staring into the forest at the edge of the village.
Is he praying? No—chanting! His magic! He is preparing himself with protection magic to enter the woods and find his brother and confront the creature that took him.
Before he could introduce himself to Damek, the Romani witch felt compelled to find the girl who held a possible bit of information that could be useful to him.
“Where are you, little one? You have nothing to fear from me. What is it that you know? Do you wish to tell me?”
“I—I am here, behind the potter’s cart.”
The Romani witch turned toward the direction of the trembling voice and saw the potter’s cart. It was empty of all wares, a sign that the Honcharenko family had not set up for the festival. Perhaps not for some time, given their recent tragedies.
As he approached, he gradually spotted a small girl sitting on a wooden stool behind the cart. She wore a crisp, knee-length white linen shirt and, over it, a red coat with slits for her arms. Crowning her golden-blond hair, which flowed like strands of fine straw, was a karabulia, an elegant traditional headdress shaped like a barrel. Her feet were adorned with lapti, handcrafted shoes made from split birch bark.
She was dressed as someone whose family had some coin and took pride in their appearance, at least in public.
Although the girl appeared clean and proper, her face was distraught and gaunt, stained with tears; red eyes exposed her suffering.
The Romani witch easily put the pieces in place: the potter’s cart, the tears, and the girl’s age.
“You are Dawyd’s friend?”
“Sister—his sister, Stetsia,” the little girl replied, her voice quivering as tears welled up in her eyes once more. “We were born together, on the same day, but he came out of our mama first.”
The Romani witch slowly knelt before the girl, his face radiating warmth and empathy. He took her trembling hands in his larger, reassuring grasp, locking eyes with her deeply. He hoped his gaze conveyed to the child his deep understanding of her pain.
“I see how you suffer. I am truly sorry for what has happened to your brother. Believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to help Damek find him. You must not lose hope. Hope is powerful. It is the brightest light we can hold against the darkness and despair. Will you hold on to that hope with me? For Dawyd?”
The Romani witch felt that his words and presence were soothing to the girl, which made him happy. However, he was not entirely sure whether this effect was due to him or a part of Pietro, who loved his younger siblings so much that he had readily risked his own life to save them.
“Now, dry your tears, little one, and tell me why you said you knew why that man kept a secret from me.”
The little girl wiped her face and regained control of her breath. Then, she finally began to speak, though still in a hushed tone.
“He was not being rude, sir—he just—he cannot tell you this secret, for, despite your kindness and goodness, you are not Hutsul.”
Hmmm, graciousness and a welcoming demeanour will only go so far for an outsider, it seems.“Go on.”
“I should not be telling you this. I will get in trouble if the elders discover—! But—but I will! I will do it because I know you are special. You are like my mother, like me, like all of us, except my Papa. You have the mark of the witch. I see it in your aura. Mama calls the lights swirling around everyone, that no one can see except special people like us, an aura.
“Will you use your magic to help Damek find my mother, too? She has been gone for such a long time. I—I miss her.”
The poor girl is on the verge of tears again. And now Damek has completed his chanting and is leaving the town square.
“Remember to hope, Stetsia, for it will give you strength. Now, what is the secret I am not meant to know? Witch to witch, you can trust me.”
Stetsia nodded, took a deep breath and kept her tears at bay. “Should any Hutsul spit in the eye of the law,” she began, speaking boldly, for she knew this information as well as any adult, “to turn their back on our customs and traditions is to invoke the wrath of the Great Mother Spirit who gave the Hutsul people their magic—our witchcraft that we named Zagovory. My mama told me this. She told all her children.”
The Romani witch’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “Yes, Stetsia, I am familiar with Zagovory, the ancient magic that courses through the veins of many of your people. But tell me, what kind of wrath do you speak of?”
“Should Damek have taken up the axe in anger, to use for vengeance, killing not for food, before dancing the Arkan and becoming a man in the eyes of our people and the Great Mother Spirit, his connection to Zagovory would be broken. That is whatmy mama said. Broken. No, she said a different word. Sev—sev—”
“Severed,” the Romani witch stated warmly. “And if he fears the possibility of a devil or witch being involved in his brother’s disappearance, he understands he shall need this power as a weapon far more than any axe. And now that the Arkan is completed—”
