(Novel, Chapter, One)

                                                    31 Ianuarie 1899

       It had been three days since Emilian had spotted from outside the hut in the cold, bare winter's light of dawn, the distant shape of a body floating down the twisted threads of the Carpathians. It had been three days since he had chased it agaze from above, down the side of the hill and through the thin woods, until it rested aside the trunk of a fallen tree behind heavy-flowing waters.

       He began in a slight walk, the sight before him not quite registering. But as a strange, hidden curiosity began to fester, within moments he was frantically racing the body, shaking at the prospect of it falling out of view. Sprinkles of rain began to gently whisper, as a muffled roll of thunder foreshadowed calamity. As this brought him to a sudden remembrance of the circumstances, he took off up the hill to the hut, in which he found his mother very forcefully making her way through a pile of cast iron, blackened hands scrubbing with a dark tension that Emilian did not understand. His collapsing at the threshold and fast, heavy breaths caught her attention immediately. She halted completely and slowly raised her sunken eyes to meet his. It seemed some part of her already knew, for she fled the kitchen within seconds and followed her son wordlessly and unhesitantly to the edge of the hill.

       It had been three days since his mother had staggered down upon the dead, yellow grass, through the quiet shuffle of the rain. Dark eyes wide with the most horrid of possibilities, dry, cracked hands trembling in response, desperately she wrung the grease-soaked washcloth. Her breath left her lungs as she stared in quiet shock at the sight before her, until falling into a very small, pitiful heap of sorrow and torment.

       It seemed a veil had been thrown over the range, as all before them became quickly dimmer, grayer. The low exhale of the mountain. For a few moments, a furious clap of thunder from that sudden veil easily drowned out the sobs. The noise shook the teeth of the others, and they had all come tumbling down from their fragile home in search of their mother. Emilian would leave their side to search in a nervous haste for their father, at a loss for the possibility of entertaining any other line of thought. He would find him dragging the horses into the barn, the goats into the caravans amidst the swiftly-approaching storm, peacefully unaware of the recent discovery.

       It had been three days since these events unfolded, but years would pass before the boy would finally piece them together in total comprehension.

     Now, three days after, he was still in no less of a smoky haze than the moment his eyes rested upon the swollen, disfigured corpse of his uncle. His mind flashed with memories of the strange array of dark gashes in the wool coat and the blue lips and the purple, venous eyelids. Three days and the memories were already fading, three days and they had already left him a deep scar.

       He threw the dream into the coals and let his head fall back against the trembling wooden walls. He was sick, though from what, the poor young boy did not know. His conscience sat uncomfortably between the older years of maturity and the younger years of ignorant bliss. Thin sheets of subtle confusion against a very meager supply of facts balanced out to nothing less than the torturous weight of subconscious knowledge. He knew no escape from this new sensation but sleep, and when he could not sleep, he had no choice but to listen.

Listen.

       Three days and the storm had not let up, so Emilian had not had to listen to the most dreadful sound of all. Silence. Silence in a peacefulness is serene and necessary and seeming as refreshing as cold water after a day in the heat. But silence on top of fear, isolation-- silence on top of silence-- that is a recipe for a hellish night.

     And Emilian would pass this night as he had the last two. Quiet, unmoving, folded inside a rough wool blanket between a cold, damp wall and the warm, dry furnace. Watchful of his sisters and brothers, pensive of his surroundings, yet empty. Finding comfort in the noise, filling his head with nothing but the noise. Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain. What else really was there? In the timeless oblivion of this darkened home, nothing.

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