Sons of Runes and Steppe

Myroslav Bulavenko sat in the passenger seat of their loud, old van. He smelled gasoline. His younger brother, Danylo, was driving. The windscreen was wet with small raindrops. It was almost noon in late November 1996, Ukraine.

“What?” Danylo asked.

“Did I say something?” Myroslav said. He was only now realising he was half sleeping.

“Yeah, you were, but I couldn’t hear shit. Speak louder.”

“I think I fell asleep. I wasn’t saying anything.” Myroslav wiped a stray tear from his face and took out his pack of cigarettes.

“Okay, never mind then.” Myroslav fell asleep again.

Five-year-old Myroslav woke up in his bed at night. He looked down from his bunk bed to check if his younger brother was asleep, but the bed was empty. Myroslav climbed down and looked around. It was his room, but somehow it felt different, wrong. He stepped into his parents’ room only to find an empty bed there too.

“Dad?” he heard himself say. His steps felt slow. He wanted to run across the apartment to find someone — it wasn’t right. A five-year-old shouldn’t be completely alone. Where was everyone?

He walked into the corridor on his way to the kitchen and then saw it. A dark, tall figure was sitting at the kitchen table. Myroslav froze. He couldn’t breathe. No one was moving, but Myroslav knew the figure saw him.

“Is it you, Dad?” he finally asked, but heard no reply. The figure didn’t move; the boy knew it was staring into him through the complete darkness. The boy stepped forward. His body wasn’t listening to him. One more step.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. One more step. He was trembling in horror but continued slowly walking toward the figure. Already in the kitchen, just a few steps away, when he saw the eyes. In the darkness of the night, the figure’s eyes turned burning-red, staring directly at him. The boy turned away and started running. He tried to open the apartment door to escape; he knew he had turned the lock, but couldn’t move the door.

“SOMEBODY HELP!” he screamed. Myroslav turned his head and saw the figure slowly stand up.

“GRANDMA, DAD, ANYBODY—” The boy started smashing the door with his small hands. His eyes blurred with tears, and he could feel the figure moving closer.

“PLEASE!”

“Are we there yet?” Myroslav said, waking up.

“Don’t you recognise these places?” Danylo pointed toward the fields they were passing.

“Oh, yeah. Almost there.” For the rest of the trip, they listened to the rattle of the old van. Soon they saw the sign for the village: “Ozera, Poltava region.”

The van pulled into the driveway of a light blue, one-story house. Their grandma, Hanna, walked onto the porch. She wore a knitted sweater and black tracksuit pants. Her hair was short and silver.

“This junk makes so much noise. Didn’t your father teach you how to fix it? He could always fix it, I mean...” she paused.

“We’ll have to figure it out on our own then,” Myroslav said.

“He was always so busy. We haven’t had much time. We’ll fix it, Gran,” Danylo said.

“Good, good,” she replied. They hugged. Danylo was just a bit taller than Hanna but much bigger in the shoulders. She rubbed his dark blonde hair.

“When are they bringing him?” Myroslav asked.

“Soon. Let’s have some tea.” She hugged her older grandson. Myroslav was tall and lean. They walked inside. It was an old home, built by their family almost fifty years ago. The walls inside were white. The ceiling had orange water stains in the corners, but the house was kept clean and tidy. A kettle stood on the wooden stove to keep hot. She made them tea.

“I know we talked about it over the phone, but I don’t believe them,” she said once they sat at the kitchen table. “And I am not crazy. I can see how you’re looking at me.”

“He had a heart attack. There’s nothing else to it,” Myroslav sighed. “Can we just have a normal funeral?”

“Your father had the health of a bull. You both know that. Yes, he worked all the time, but he was too young for that, and—”

“I know, but,” Myroslav interrupted, “can we just say goodbye properly, without all of this?”

“Without all of what, Myr?” Danylo asked. “Continue what you were going to say.”

“I just want a normal funeral for our father. That’s it. I’m tired.”

“Without all that crazy bullshit, you mean?” Danylo said angrily.

“Don’t swear in here,” Hanna said. “I don’t want you to fight. Whatever happens, I don’t want you two fighting. Ever.” She sounded stern, and they both listened. “I knew my son very well, and he wasn’t himself these last few months. I know what I know. Believe me or not, it was not just a heart attack. And I want you to believe me because—”

“Because what? Oh my God, Gran, can we stop?” Myroslav snapped. “All my life I’ve heard these stories. All my life I do what you ask.” He stood up and paced around the kitchen, pointing at the herbs and the rushnyk, an ornamental towel, hanging on the walls. “All this ‘protection’ voodoo. It has to stop. We are adults now. The times are shit. We barely have any money, and you’re talking nonsense about mystical shit we’re supposed to be afraid of?”

“Are you done yet?” Danylo asked quietly after a minute. Their grandma sat silently, letting Myroslav finish his thoughts.

“Do you believe her?” Myroslav asked his brother. “Aren’t you old enough to believe in fairy tales?”

“Father believed,” he answered.

“And where is he now? Huh? Maybe he needed a real doctor instead of all those herbs and shit! I can’t... I just can’t. I need a walk.” He wanted to storm out. Danylo stood in front of his brother. He was much stronger and Myroslav knew that, although it never stopped them from fighting.

“Let him go,” Hanna said. “He needs to clear his head. Let him.”

Danylo moved to the kitchen table and sat with Hanna when Myroslav walked out.

“Do you really think it was something else?” Danylo asked.

“I have a feeling,” she said. “We’ll see once they bring him here. A heart attack... people don’t look like that after a heart attack.”

“Wait, have you seen him?”

“Yes and no. You’ll understand,” she said. “I had a bad dream the night he died — don’t tell your brother.”

In an hour, a long white van arrived in the driveway. People started gathering. Two men helped the brothers carry their father’s coffin out of the van. It felt light, almost empty. They put the coffin near the house so everyone could see it and say their goodbyes. Soon the priest arrived, and the funeral procession began as they opened the coffin. No one could believe their eyes. The person inside looked like he had been dead for weeks. Dark circles around his eyes, thin, grey skin, as if the life had been drained right out of the body. It wasn’t the father they remembered — it wasn’t even a human body; it looked like a poorly made clay figure.