The bonfire blazed brightly. The riders lit torches and quickly began chasing the hastily departing sleigh. Snowflakes slowly fell on the tracks of runners and hooves, obliterating the evidence of their presence.
He galloped up to her, caught her by the waist, and lifted her tenderly, kissing her.
"Wait for me, Marta. Wait. I'll be back. Don't cut your hair."
He kissed her again and, adjusting his rifle, galloped after the others. The sleigh was already approaching the forest. Behind them rode the horsemen, and alongside them ran powerful dogs trained to kill. The whole thing was hidden in the mist that enveloped the forest. He stopped for a moment. He waved and rode into the fog.
The weekly duty of visiting Great-Aunt Marta fell to me. It didn't suit me. I had an appointment with Patricia. But it was necessary. I went with her. She loved bike rides, and the weather that day was perfect.
It's strange, but I was probably the only one in the family who enjoyed visiting old Aunt Marta. As children, my cousins and I often went to visit our aunt at the Brok River. We went mushroom-picking in the surrounding forests and splashed in the river. The cottage always smelled of fresh herbs, and in the evenings, my aunt would tell her fantastic stories about ghosts, monsters, and devils. Today, I can explain many of them, but back then, they filled us with terror. For example, the ones about the drowned people from under the mill bridge. Several people drowned there, and my aunt said that now, to be freed, their spirits, as drowned people, seek out other souls as collateral. The truth is probably a bit more prosaic. If you've ever seen the Brok River winding through Mazovia, you'll understand this without difficulty. Many sections have very swift currents. The riverbed is carved in hard clay. The water is about three-quarters of a meter deep and can at times knock you off your feet. Among the shallows with a clay bottom, you'll constantly find holes three, sometimes four meters deep. Logically, the water should slow down, but it rushes at the same speed, creating only eddies. If you fall into them, you'll feel the icy waters as if they were huge claws pulling you to the bottom.
It's the same with the waterman. I don't know about the mill pond, but as for that bend where my aunt placed the second waterman, it was probably the only part of the river I knew where the current was truly slow. When there was no wind, the surface resembled a lake. Dozens of branches protruded from the water, and the whole thing stretched for about a kilometer in a not-so-wide gorge with almost vertical, impenetrable clay walls. If it was difficult to get out of there in a raft, surely a child or drunken man who fell into the water didn't stand a chance.
Patrycja set the pace. She seemed to be running away from me. She only stopped at road signs. It was a good thing I hadn't shown her the route on the map. We reached the village before 12:00. My aunt's cottage was at the far end, and Masovian villages can be very long. This was the case here. We drove for almost another half hour, if slogging through ankle-deep sand can be called driving, before I saw any familiar buildings. I'm not the best at describing familiar places. Sometimes the emotional charge they carry can transform them. Enlarge them, whiten them, gild them.
The garden around the house was overgrown. Trees, not pruned on time, were more likely to sprout wild shoots than bear tasty fruit. Only when you looked at the flowers did you see her skilled hand. The house had once belonged to my aunt's brother. He died 12 years ago, a few years after his wife's death. The children had moved to the States, so he left the house to his sister. The children didn't mind. I mean, they probably would have looted everything, but the rest of the family wanted a little lynching. Ultimately, they ended up selling the cottage. My brother's children pocketed the money, and my aunt got a quarter of the cottage with a separate entrance and a large quart of garden, where she would live for the rest of her life.
The scent of familiar herbs greeted me: fresh mint and God knows what. I'd never tasted such mixtures in my life. It was my great-aunt's sweet secret.
"Hello, aunt. This is my friend Patrycja.
" "Come in. I have something wonderful for you for dinner today. I got a grey sausage from the hosts, prepared especially for your arrival."
We sat down on the old-fashioned chairs, and Patrycja began chatting with my aunt. They somehow didn't seem to notice me. We slowly sipped my aunt's herbs and inhaled the scent of cooking rabbit.
"Why didn't you get married after the war?" Patrycja seemed to have inadvertently broached the subject.
"I haven't met anyone special. I only had one love, and the war took her away. And then I helped my brother. He had a sick wife and five children. I had some suitors, but none of them were dear to me.
" "And if you had your life to live over again, wouldn't you change it?
" "Some things in life can't be changed."
After dinner, my aunt suggested we go to the old mill. Of course, we were to pray at the crossroads and by the bridge. And also spit over our left shoulders by the pond. Apparently, the old mill was still grinding grain, but when I was younger, the secretaries didn't like it, so the wind frightened passersby by passing through the cracks in the crumbling boards.
"You see, my aunt had a fiancé. She promised to wait for him. For her, it was like a vow. Even though she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood and plenty of bachelors were courting her, she didn't want anyone."
After returning, we shared a slice of bread with lard as a farewell, a lightly salted cucumber, and then headed home. My aunt seemed different.
The dog looked like a wolf. It reminded me of those beasts they trained to be humans during the war. He watched the bicycles depart and waited. He saw her eyes. Their gazes met. She went to him. She started petting and cuddling him.
"I knew you'd come back. You promised me that. I knew it."
They searched for Aunt Marta for a week. She disappeared underground. No one knew what happened to her. Only Szymon, a local drunkard, said he'd seen her. She'd walked with a large dog to a birch grove outside the village and disappeared in a strange fog. No one believed him. He probably didn't have enough to drink. Of course, they checked the grove, but there was no trace of my great-aunt. After a week, despite pressure from her family, the police gave up. The family had to come to terms with it. Everyone got over it except Uncle Albert. That old grump continued repeating his words for a few more years.
"We should have locked that crazy old woman up in the lunatic asylum. There would have been fewer problems."
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