Chapter 1
Eva, Januara, and the Lilac
Perched on a barren hill, an old moss-covered chapel looked down on the village that lay sunken like a tandoor below.
On a January morning, the priest would bring out the icon of the village’s patron saint of horsemen from the chapel and lead the people toward the narrow river that sprang through the village —just as confident as Moses once led the Israelites through the desert. In the freezing winter morning, the priest and his flock made their way down the slope, breaking a path in the Crunchy snow. There was some delight and excitementin their eyes. The priest, old as the village itself, had hair and beard as the God himself owns. The young walked close beside him, offering arms to avoid him from falling face-first into the snow.
In the river where a herd of cows came to damp their thirst, they would break the ice with an axe, clearing a hollow in the frozen surface. With folded up cassock, the priest would lower the icon into the water with solemn care, as if he was apologizing to the saint for the freezing water. Once the saint’s feet would get wet in the river, the water was considered as sanctified. The most importantly —during the ritual, all had to remain utterly still. The priest followed the rules quite strictly. He believed that if even a single tongue dared to speak, the water would remain unblessed.
First, the men would line up in a long row. Each would kiss the icon, then the priest would sprinkle the newly blessed water upon them. After being sprinkled, the men would splash the water onto their faces — trying to wash away the grime of sin. Then the women’s turn would come. They brought with them some pitchers to carry the holy water home.
They would use it to pickle greens, to mix in brine for cheese, even to wash their daughters’ hair. They believed this water would bring to their children not only a radiant shine to the hair, but also happiness. They would whisper to their daughters to make a silent wish during washing. At that time, the blind and mute bell-ringer would sound the church bell to mark that the water would sanctify them and wash away people’s sins, which they had committed before the holiday, they would be forgiven. At the very end, even the herd of cows was let to the river to drink.
A girl went around the parishioners from distance, she was the kindest and the most sinful soul in that village. Then the people would come again, bearing baked Gata, Nazuki and bottles of Fruit vodkas made for the very day. They would clear the frozen dung from the snow, stamp it flat to lay a table there.
The Tamada (toastmaster) was the head of the village — a broad-shouldered, coarse-voiced, commanding and cruel. People feared him. People envied him. But there was no one among them who, in his place, would not have been just as cruel.
Fight as well would break out…. for what the saint forgave them, they could never forgive to one other. It was winter now, they were being dulled by endless repetition of the same work: leading cattle to water, tossing hay, sweeping dung. The sameness dulled them. But fighting — fighting made them feel alive. Weary and beaten, they would rinse their bloodied faces in the blessed river.
After having done his duty, the priest would carry the icon back to the chapel. He was a good servant of God. His old age had dried up each passion in him apart obedience of priestly rules. The people believed that by disobeying the priest burning coals would be thrown upon their heads — yet their harsh nature always got the better of them. And the priest... he never understood that to a human being, it is inhumanity that so often feels most human.
And yet, everything bad seemed to happen on that very day in the village — it tore them apart and pushed them away from one another. That was why everyone was unhappy, though none of them truly realized it.
The Teacher
My school stood on a hill. The wicked wind blew some snow in through the gapped wooden porch. Inside the classrooms it was as cold as if it was an abandoned house.
I liked myself— I came from the far, so I could benefit from respect. But now I understand: nothing is more dangerous than a priest or a teacher who has fallen under the spell of their own authority. I realized , thepeople take against them who tried to make them feel inferior. I learned that quite well. And it didn’tmatter what I saw, I never moistened my tongue against them.
Eve and Evlia were my students — the weakest ones. Evlia —very thin, dark-haired boy — had a strange habit of constantly smelling his hands. He loved Eve. And Eva… I felt she loved me. It was late when I understood that I was the only one who treated her with some warmth. I won’t hide anything — I was excited by the faintly sweet scent of her sweat that she gave off. If not the people...
I always asked her to recite the homework even though I knew she wouldn’t know it for that time as well. I asked anyway and her brown eyes would darken even more. The round-faced, she had a mole on her cheek and on her lip.
Back then, I — Januarya, schoolteacher — didn’t understand why Eve sat so still and silent beneath the white lilac bush that had bloomed, right at the ugliest part of the wholevillage.
Even then, I didn’t understand anything, when I saw Eve jumping from the stone wall of the old chapel to the ground below. She would climb up and jump down. Climb and jump again. I asked her why she behaved like that. She began crying and told me she was pregnant and that she didn’t even know by whom: from the village headman, from the shepherd, or from one of the older boys. She wanted me to advise her something, but I couldn’t say a word…To be honest, I didn’t want anyone to see us together alone, and I quickly walked away.
And Eve still kept jumping from the moss-covered stone wall of the old chapel to the ground below on the next day as well.
By Datia Badalashvili
