She thought she could hear echoes of human steps way ahead of her, lost in the misty air of the burdened night. At one point or another she even felt that stranger's presence, his almost defined contour etched in pre-dawn darkness. She kept walking purposefully, her well-worn heels announcing a timid trepidation onto the weather-beaten asphalt. That unyielding December frost looked like a thick sugar coating on the uneven road. She looked behind her, but the road was silent. Nobody in the village had awoken yet, except for Basil, her husband, who was getting ready for his morning shift at the factory. His voice was ringing in her ears like a sinking echo, feebler and feebler. She tried to remember why she was on this dark cold road in such a desolate state, in such a godless place so close to Christmas.
‘I told you, I just saw a man walk past the house a minute ago. He was walking to the station.’
Fenda looked at him quizzically.
‘How do you know? Did you stop him and asked him?’
Basil hesitated for a moment.
‘Yes, I did. He said he was going to catch the 5:34 train into town. Look, I know it’s dark and cold, but I have to go to work, and you have to check on the kids. Bring them all here if you have to.’
‘She’s hardly a kid. Serves her right for marrying that lousy copper. God knows what’s going to happen to him now.’ She sighed, looking wearily at her husband, as if it was his fault that their daughter had married down.
He knew that look well and what it meant, but they had no time for a quarrel or a blow by blow analysis of their daughter’s marriage to an abusive man. The long-abandoned wish for a rebellion that seemed to never come had finally been granted. The Decembrist social uprising had taken everyone by surprise, and he felt overwhelmed by the growing civil unrest. He also felt like a coward, sending his wife out to rescue their daughter from a riotous town, but he knew she could deal with such situations better than he could. His job at the factory would also provide them all with a good Christmas, although history would see it as one of the bloodiest Christmases on record.
‘He won’t be in the line of fire, woman. He’s a traffic cop. But you still need to go and bring the little one back. Can’t have a poor child in the middle of this madness. She’ll be safer here. And you need to hurry or else you’ll miss the train.’
She had hung a woollen winter coat on her sagging shoulders, withered of worry, picked up a rather heavy raffia bag and set off. She was afraid. Of what, she knew not. She’d been truthfully afraid all her life. If she’d had enough time to ponder, she’d said she was afraid of the changing times. Well, the times were changing now, and her fear felt more justified than ever before. Now, as she was walking the 5 kilometre country road to the train station, the long deserted road coming from nowhere and leading to a miserable train station, from which all trains stopped on their way to other nowheres, frightened her more than ever. Shadows appeared from behind each tree alongside the deserted road and even the clouds had a conspiratorial, darkened silence about them. A few stars were winking at her every now and then. She hoped they could be brighter, or closer, so she can see where she was going. The road had become an ice surface, its slippery catching her unawares. She slipped and fell a few times, grazing her knuckles against the glassy asphalt and biting her lip as she fell. The only hope she had was to catch up with that man in front of her, so she could feel safer in this absolute darkness. Another human around could make all the difference in the world, distract her from the unbearably unusual silence. The empty space between her and the train station felt like a rough sea of unidentified shadows, all birthed from her unsettled mind. She feared demons and devils and ghouls, yet she didn’t know they all came when one’s mind insisted on them, so she continued to fear the peril she’d spawned.
The fog was getting thicker. She checked her watch. It was 4:45. She had plenty of time to get to the train, but she wanted to speed up, maybe reach the man in front of her, strike up a conversation. That way time would go more pleasantly, and she’d have something else to think about other than the biting cold in her bones and the fear in her heart. She tightened her coat over her body, changed the heavy bag from one hand to the other and picked up her pace. Her shoes wer worn and she was slipping on the ice every few metres, but they were the comfiest she had, even though they were not the warmest. She had to have comfortable shoes, however, to be able to make the 5 km journey to the train station.
Her arm was getting tired again now and her bloody lip was swollen. Her bag was full of jam jars, homemade vegetable spreads and lots of pickled gherkins and red peppers, her daughter’s favourite. It was close to Christmas, although it didn’t feel like it. There was no snow, and the Christmas lights wouldn’t be put up until Christmas Eve, if at all. ‘Worry doesn’t make for a great Christmas gift at best of times’, she thought. These were not the best of times.
The urge to turn back seized her. Her body responded by quickening the pace, although the fog and fatigue made it very hard for Fenda to see where she was going. She’d been walking on the side of the road for about 20 minutes when she realised she was about to reach the stone bridge. She had always been afraid of the stone bridge. Stories of ghosts, apparitions and strange happenings abounded in the village. It was thought to be a cursed spot. It went across a mountain brook, which was now frozen and eerily quiet. This didn’t make her feel any relief. What was known about this spot was that there had been many accidents, with people and cattle falling into the brook and being found dead there, despite the very shallow water. When her faith in God was at its weakest, some logical explanation would stir in her mind, perhaps something to do with the bridge not being easily noticeable, having just a couple of layers of stone bricks serving as parapet and nothing else. It was a sheer drop and it might kill you, if you were ‘lucky’ upon landing. The distance to the riverbed was about 6 or 7 metres and the riverbed was very rocky. The bridge also stood atop a hill, so it was sometimes hard for pedestrians to see cars coming from the other side of the hill. Especially on a particularly foggy morning like this one. As soon as she saw the stony mini parapet which signalled the bridge, Fenda froze, half a breath stuck in her throat.
She grew up in that village and knew all the tales being told about that place. Worse still, she believed them. Superstition was something instilled in her from an early age. God was ever present, and therefore so must evil spirits be, supposedly to keep the balance in the universe. Her innate fear of the place was now joining her other fears, all grown into fully fledged monsters since she’d started on her journey. She sighed, releasing the mouthful of air that’d been stuck in her throat and took a step forward. She remembered a prayer she’d been taught by her mother, so she started saying it out loud as she advanced towards the bridge. The fog was as thick as ever and she could barely see where she was going. She stopped again to listen. The night was frighteningly silent. She’d been walking for a while, but no cars had passed her, no living creature was heard, not even a dog. Once she finished the prayer, she started walking purposefully again, eyes to the ground, muttering the prayer continuously into her shawl, vapours of warm breath condensing onto the woolly material around her mouth. She didn’t look down as she crossed the bridge, but she felt a shiver enveloping her and she swayed for a moment ready to lose her balance. She soon straightened herself, moved towards the middle of the road and away from both parapets.
Once she thought she’d passed the bridge she turned and saw it. She was expecting to see something coming out of the fog and her eyes didn’t deceive her. It looked as part of the fog, but it had distinctively darker shapes, moulding itself out of it, emerging from the side of the bridge. She could have said it was a trick of the light, but there was no light, except for a half-hidden moon and a handful of sparkly stars that just continued to wink at her powerless. It was the shape of a woman, dark as night itself, with long dark that seemed to melt and mould over her whole body. She thought she saw the woman’s eyes, emerging move vivid than she would have thought, glowing in the night.
Two seconds later, her outstretched hand felt the cold surface of the car bonnet that hit her. The deceptively mute darkness soon turned into a whirlwind of nightmarish images, marked by the deafening sound of screeching tyres; Fenda hit her head on the icy surface of the road. She felt the frozen asphalt graze her skin, the second time that night. She didn’t feel her leg break, but the smell of petrol and rubber tyres made her faint. Jars of compote, jams and pickles started rolling out of the bag on the side of the road. Some fell into the ditch and smashed. She tried to get up, but then saw the blood pouring out of the side of her calf.
‘Christ sake, lady! What were you doing in the middle of the road?’ A man, pale as the absent moon got out of the car, cursing.
‘I’m trying to get to my daughter. She’s in town, alone. The riots have started… I’m afraid… Can you give me a lift?’
Fenda heard a woman’s voice from the car.
‘We need the hospital now. Can she move?’
Back home, Basil was getting ready for his 6:30 shift at the wood factory. He knew he had all the time in the world and could probably do with another hour of shut eye, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. After pacing the floor for a while, at around 4:45 he decided to have a shave. He went into the dingy kitchen he had been sharing with his wife of almost 30 years, lit up the fire onto the stove and stood there looking at the flames, waiting for the water to heat up. The flames went out. He took out the box of matches from his pocket and started the fire again. The flames went out ten seconds later. Basil lit up the stove once more. The flames went out a third time. Incredulous, he lit it again, then looked around him to see where the draft was coming from. He felt a chill down his spine but thought nothing of it. A few minutes later, the water on the stove was warm enough for use, so Basil started shaving.
As he was readying to leave the house about an hour later, Basil heard a cry outside. It was still pitch black, but he could see a car outside his entrance gate.
‘Mr Escu? Are you home?’
‘Hello? Yes, what’s the matter, officer?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us. I’ll explain on the way, but… well, we were asked to come notify the family of the… well, the family.’
Basil stared at the man. The light from inside the house reflected on his face showed that his face was very pale, almost cadaveric.
‘My… wife? Is she ok? Please tell me!’ his voice sounded tearful, yet in control.
‘We don’t know yet, they’re operating on her right now. She’s had an accident, right by the bridge, as you go uphill towards the train station.’
As he picked up his jacket and started following the police officer, Basil was muttering an incessant prayer under his breath. When he got on the car, he made the cross sign with his hand, then continued. He was beyond caring what the people in the car thought of him.
‘She… she was going into town to visit our daughter… She will be alright. I need to tell my daughter about it. She’ll be waiting there on the platform... And Fenda won’t be there… and there’s no phone at her house…’ he muttered to himself dazedly.
Fenda came to in a bright white room. It was almost unbearably white. Her forehead felt ready to burst. She tried to lift her arm to feel her head, but she couldn’t feel her arm. She saw a big white light across the ceiling. Behind the light she saw the face of a young woman wearing a white headscarf. The young woman looked serene, but focused. She wasn’t smiling, but she had an air of confident grace, like she knew she was going to win this battle. ‘What battle?’ Fenda wondered, but then her eyes stretched across the end of the big bright light on the ceiling. On the edge of the light stood a dark shadow of a man dressed in black. His eyes were closing as the young woman’s hand went over his face and pressed down on his head, dwarfing him.
‘I think she’s coming to.’ Fenda heard a voice nearby. She then heard herself screaming in pain, as all her senses came back to her. She realised she was on the operating table, but she couldn’t see anything from her chest down. The voices of the doctors all muffled into one until she couldn’t make out anything they were saying. She closed her eyes again and, as a sharp pain cut across her entire body, she passed out, salty tears across her cheeks.
When she woke up it was Christmas. The smell of pine tree was masking the hospital smell somewhat. Somewhere outside or in the next room, carollers were heard. By her bed, Basil stood crying, his face as pale as the sheets covering her. On the other side, both daughter and granddaughter were sat, praying. The granddaughter was holding Fenda’s hand in her little one. When she saw her open her eyes she gave a start. All three started breathing in unison, beaming at each other and at the invalid, relief descending upon their tired faces. The journey was far from over, but the moment was theirs.
Fenda looked at him quizzically.
‘How do you know? Did you stop him and asked him?’
Basil hesitated for a moment.
‘Yes, I did. He said he was going to catch the 5:34 train into town. Look, I know it’s dark and cold, but I have to go to work, and you have to check on the kids. Bring them all here if you have to.’
‘She’s hardly a kid. Serves her right for marrying that lousy copper. God knows what’s going to happen to him now.’ She sighed, looking wearily at her husband, as if it was his fault that their daughter had married down.
He knew that look well and what it meant, but they had no time for a quarrel or a blow by blow analysis of their daughter’s marriage to an abusive man. The long-abandoned wish for a rebellion that seemed to never come had finally been granted. The Decembrist social uprising had taken everyone by surprise, and he felt overwhelmed by the growing civil unrest. He also felt like a coward, sending his wife out to rescue their daughter from a riotous town, but he knew she could deal with such situations better than he could. His job at the factory would also provide them all with a good Christmas, although history would see it as one of the bloodiest Christmases on record.
‘He won’t be in the line of fire, woman. He’s a traffic cop. But you still need to go and bring the little one back. Can’t have a poor child in the middle of this madness. She’ll be safer here. And you need to hurry or else you’ll miss the train.’
She had hung a woollen winter coat on her sagging shoulders, withered of worry, picked up a rather heavy raffia bag and set off. She was afraid. Of what, she knew not. She’d been truthfully afraid all her life. If she’d had enough time to ponder, she’d said she was afraid of the changing times. Well, the times were changing now, and her fear felt more justified than ever before. Now, as she was walking the 5 kilometre country road to the train station, the long deserted road coming from nowhere and leading to a miserable train station, from which all trains stopped on their way to other nowheres, frightened her more than ever. Shadows appeared from behind each tree alongside the deserted road and even the clouds had a conspiratorial, darkened silence about them. A few stars were winking at her every now and then. She hoped they could be brighter, or closer, so she can see where she was going. The road had become an ice surface, its slippery catching her unawares. She slipped and fell a few times, grazing her knuckles against the glassy asphalt and biting her lip as she fell. The only hope she had was to catch up with that man in front of her, so she could feel safer in this absolute darkness. Another human around could make all the difference in the world, distract her from the unbearably unusual silence. The empty space between her and the train station felt like a rough sea of unidentified shadows, all birthed from her unsettled mind. She feared demons and devils and ghouls, yet she didn’t know they all came when one’s mind insisted on them, so she continued to fear the peril she’d spawned.
The fog was getting thicker. She checked her watch. It was 4:45. She had plenty of time to get to the train, but she wanted to speed up, maybe reach the man in front of her, strike up a conversation. That way time would go more pleasantly, and she’d have something else to think about other than the biting cold in her bones and the fear in her heart. She tightened her coat over her body, changed the heavy bag from one hand to the other and picked up her pace. Her shoes wer worn and she was slipping on the ice every few metres, but they were the comfiest she had, even though they were not the warmest. She had to have comfortable shoes, however, to be able to make the 5 km journey to the train station.
Her arm was getting tired again now and her bloody lip was swollen. Her bag was full of jam jars, homemade vegetable spreads and lots of pickled gherkins and red peppers, her daughter’s favourite. It was close to Christmas, although it didn’t feel like it. There was no snow, and the Christmas lights wouldn’t be put up until Christmas Eve, if at all. ‘Worry doesn’t make for a great Christmas gift at best of times’, she thought. These were not the best of times.
The urge to turn back seized her. Her body responded by quickening the pace, although the fog and fatigue made it very hard for Fenda to see where she was going. She’d been walking on the side of the road for about 20 minutes when she realised she was about to reach the stone bridge. She had always been afraid of the stone bridge. Stories of ghosts, apparitions and strange happenings abounded in the village. It was thought to be a cursed spot. It went across a mountain brook, which was now frozen and eerily quiet. This didn’t make her feel any relief. What was known about this spot was that there had been many accidents, with people and cattle falling into the brook and being found dead there, despite the very shallow water. When her faith in God was at its weakest, some logical explanation would stir in her mind, perhaps something to do with the bridge not being easily noticeable, having just a couple of layers of stone bricks serving as parapet and nothing else. It was a sheer drop and it might kill you, if you were ‘lucky’ upon landing. The distance to the riverbed was about 6 or 7 metres and the riverbed was very rocky. The bridge also stood atop a hill, so it was sometimes hard for pedestrians to see cars coming from the other side of the hill. Especially on a particularly foggy morning like this one. As soon as she saw the stony mini parapet which signalled the bridge, Fenda froze, half a breath stuck in her throat.
She grew up in that village and knew all the tales being told about that place. Worse still, she believed them. Superstition was something instilled in her from an early age. God was ever present, and therefore so must evil spirits be, supposedly to keep the balance in the universe. Her innate fear of the place was now joining her other fears, all grown into fully fledged monsters since she’d started on her journey. She sighed, releasing the mouthful of air that’d been stuck in her throat and took a step forward. She remembered a prayer she’d been taught by her mother, so she started saying it out loud as she advanced towards the bridge. The fog was as thick as ever and she could barely see where she was going. She stopped again to listen. The night was frighteningly silent. She’d been walking for a while, but no cars had passed her, no living creature was heard, not even a dog. Once she finished the prayer, she started walking purposefully again, eyes to the ground, muttering the prayer continuously into her shawl, vapours of warm breath condensing onto the woolly material around her mouth. She didn’t look down as she crossed the bridge, but she felt a shiver enveloping her and she swayed for a moment ready to lose her balance. She soon straightened herself, moved towards the middle of the road and away from both parapets.
Once she thought she’d passed the bridge she turned and saw it. She was expecting to see something coming out of the fog and her eyes didn’t deceive her. It looked as part of the fog, but it had distinctively darker shapes, moulding itself out of it, emerging from the side of the bridge. She could have said it was a trick of the light, but there was no light, except for a half-hidden moon and a handful of sparkly stars that just continued to wink at her powerless. It was the shape of a woman, dark as night itself, with long dark that seemed to melt and mould over her whole body. She thought she saw the woman’s eyes, emerging move vivid than she would have thought, glowing in the night.
Two seconds later, her outstretched hand felt the cold surface of the car bonnet that hit her. The deceptively mute darkness soon turned into a whirlwind of nightmarish images, marked by the deafening sound of screeching tyres; Fenda hit her head on the icy surface of the road. She felt the frozen asphalt graze her skin, the second time that night. She didn’t feel her leg break, but the smell of petrol and rubber tyres made her faint. Jars of compote, jams and pickles started rolling out of the bag on the side of the road. Some fell into the ditch and smashed. She tried to get up, but then saw the blood pouring out of the side of her calf.
‘Christ sake, lady! What were you doing in the middle of the road?’ A man, pale as the absent moon got out of the car, cursing.
‘I’m trying to get to my daughter. She’s in town, alone. The riots have started… I’m afraid… Can you give me a lift?’
Fenda heard a woman’s voice from the car.
‘We need the hospital now. Can she move?’
Back home, Basil was getting ready for his 6:30 shift at the wood factory. He knew he had all the time in the world and could probably do with another hour of shut eye, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. After pacing the floor for a while, at around 4:45 he decided to have a shave. He went into the dingy kitchen he had been sharing with his wife of almost 30 years, lit up the fire onto the stove and stood there looking at the flames, waiting for the water to heat up. The flames went out. He took out the box of matches from his pocket and started the fire again. The flames went out ten seconds later. Basil lit up the stove once more. The flames went out a third time. Incredulous, he lit it again, then looked around him to see where the draft was coming from. He felt a chill down his spine but thought nothing of it. A few minutes later, the water on the stove was warm enough for use, so Basil started shaving.
As he was readying to leave the house about an hour later, Basil heard a cry outside. It was still pitch black, but he could see a car outside his entrance gate.
‘Mr Escu? Are you home?’
‘Hello? Yes, what’s the matter, officer?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us. I’ll explain on the way, but… well, we were asked to come notify the family of the… well, the family.’
Basil stared at the man. The light from inside the house reflected on his face showed that his face was very pale, almost cadaveric.
‘My… wife? Is she ok? Please tell me!’ his voice sounded tearful, yet in control.
‘We don’t know yet, they’re operating on her right now. She’s had an accident, right by the bridge, as you go uphill towards the train station.’
As he picked up his jacket and started following the police officer, Basil was muttering an incessant prayer under his breath. When he got on the car, he made the cross sign with his hand, then continued. He was beyond caring what the people in the car thought of him.
‘She… she was going into town to visit our daughter… She will be alright. I need to tell my daughter about it. She’ll be waiting there on the platform... And Fenda won’t be there… and there’s no phone at her house…’ he muttered to himself dazedly.
Fenda came to in a bright white room. It was almost unbearably white. Her forehead felt ready to burst. She tried to lift her arm to feel her head, but she couldn’t feel her arm. She saw a big white light across the ceiling. Behind the light she saw the face of a young woman wearing a white headscarf. The young woman looked serene, but focused. She wasn’t smiling, but she had an air of confident grace, like she knew she was going to win this battle. ‘What battle?’ Fenda wondered, but then her eyes stretched across the end of the big bright light on the ceiling. On the edge of the light stood a dark shadow of a man dressed in black. His eyes were closing as the young woman’s hand went over his face and pressed down on his head, dwarfing him.
‘I think she’s coming to.’ Fenda heard a voice nearby. She then heard herself screaming in pain, as all her senses came back to her. She realised she was on the operating table, but she couldn’t see anything from her chest down. The voices of the doctors all muffled into one until she couldn’t make out anything they were saying. She closed her eyes again and, as a sharp pain cut across her entire body, she passed out, salty tears across her cheeks.
When she woke up it was Christmas. The smell of pine tree was masking the hospital smell somewhat. Somewhere outside or in the next room, carollers were heard. By her bed, Basil stood crying, his face as pale as the sheets covering her. On the other side, both daughter and granddaughter were sat, praying. The granddaughter was holding Fenda’s hand in her little one. When she saw her open her eyes she gave a start. All three started breathing in unison, beaming at each other and at the invalid, relief descending upon their tired faces. The journey was far from over, but the moment was theirs.
Dani Vilu is an Eastern European living in London, a film history student, a lover of all things artistic and an advocate for biodiversity.
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