Page 3
“Djedjuska?” the young woman asked. On the ground lay the
figure of the old man. He was cold and wet and panting.
The young woman searched for anything to help the man stand,
but as much as she looked she could not find anything to help, not even the red
ox.
She took upon her own shoulders the shivering old man and
stood quite carefully. Slowly, the young woman trudged home, carrying the old
man who had been so kind to her.
When evening fell, the humble light of the cottage guided
the young woman to the threshold of her own door, where her mother and father
were watching and waiting for her.
Father helped his
daughter and the old man into blankets by the fire the father had made from
pelted beasts.
Mother brought a handsome feast and helped the young woman
and the djedjuska to chew the meat and swallow the soup she had prepared.
The young woman became warm again quite quickly beside the
familiar hearth, but the old man only became less damp. He managed to smile and
thank the mother of the young woman for the feast, the father of the young
woman for the hospitality of a warm cottage and hearth, and the young woman for
the lovely flowers he always treasured. With his eyes still upon the bright
cheeks of the young woman, the old man uttered her pet name, “Matryoshka,” and
passed into the great white domain belonging to Death.
The young woman mourned the old man for weeks, until one day
the dread of winter began to leave the land. That same day the young woman
heard a low rumble and looked up from picking wildflowers. The red ox stood
before the edge of the forest.
The ox stood perfectly still as the young woman ran toward
it. The animal might have fled, except for the trap catching its hind leg. As
the daughter of her father, the young woman knew how to release the trap, and
so she did.
The trap fell free, but the ox did no run. No trace of blood
existed anywhere on the red ox. Instead, the unforgettable face of Death stared
at the young woman as a white scar on the leg which had been trapped.
From that day forward, the young woman sharply scolded the
red ox whenever it wandered. She did not wander much anymore, but every so
often the young woman would load the back of the red ox with dried wildflowers
and make the two-day journey through the mountain pass.
At the post marking the border of a village, and at the
abandoned shack beyond, the young woman placed the wildflowers she had
collected.
She stayed to think, and then she hastened home.
The End
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