Death approaches, a voice croaked in the beating darkness. Amidst the golden rays and silver moons, amidst every living day and waking night, against all creation, the bedridden eyes of Dedko [1] Milano opened, looming from the highest. Death approaches.
Apart from this declaration of mortality, the house stood in silence. Mist clung to the weather-worn hillocks above the valleys, persisting through the rain that tapped against the windows of the home standing derelict in the dying of the evening light. Inside, a light flickered from a solitary lamp, which brought forth shadows that bent with the motion of the wind beyond the panes. The living room bore the signs of life once full—the upholstery of an armchair worn to the edges of its threads, a wooden table marred by resting elbows in contemplation, a shelf with books whose pages yellowed by time. A single framed photograph of a family sat on the mantel, its image dulled by the years. In some distant memory, this grand hall had once played host to nighttime galas in the firelight, where the family pranced like lions on the beach [2], dancing before the Lord with all their might [3]. Now, its inhabitants—the family of Dedko Milano—patiently awaited, in silence, the coming of his passing.
After escorting the physician to the door, Eliska moved through the stillness. She lived in this house long enough to know where the floorboards creaked, where the drafts whispered through the walls, and where the ghosts of memory lay heaviest. These were places she dared not linger, where grief had settled like dust. She passed through the living room before pausing for a moment at the base of the stairwell, her fingers grazing the worn banister. The steps groaned beneath her lightest tread, creaking with echoes of the past. On Christmas Day, footsteps cascaded down the stairs in jubilant reverence, heralding a feast that would soon fill the air with an aroma akin to Heaven itself. During early fall mornings, the matriarch of the home descended the stairway, followed by her spouse, to look upon the glow of the rising sun shining against the crimsons, the golds, and the mahoganies of the valley trees above. And on the quiet nights of June, hushed voices gathered upon the steps in solitude, their gazes drifting beyond the windows where fireflies adorned the plains, pulsing in luminous waves. She took another step, the floorboards shifting, and had ascended to the top, where the bedroom awaited in stillness.
The room looked plain, almost forgettable, lit only by the faint glow from the window and the soft, twitching flame of a lamp, hardly enough light to see even shapes. A bed centered the room, surrounded by bookshelves upon which sat all the various manuscripts and leather-bound copies of the world’s greatest works. One chair, low-backed and heavy with use, sat facing the window. Its indigo fabric, rubbed thin in places, held the ghost of gold thread spirals that now caught dust more than light. Across the room, near the narrow bed, there waited another chair—proud in its regality. Scarlet upholstery clung to it like dried blood on velvet, and the way it sat—deliberate, expectant—made the surrounding cherrywood furniture seem to glow warmer than they would have willed. And the desk, small and plain, was tucked against the far side. In the bed, Dedko lay in rumpled sheets, his haunting eyes holding the weight of the storm beyond the window panes. Eliska gazed at the familiar facade of her father, Jakob, who stood beside his own father, while her brother, William, sat caught in the quiet gravity of their collected gazes. As she stepped inside, she saw the past before her: the slow unraveling of a body in its measured surrender to time. She had witnessed how a house mourned its own, how the very heart of its walls seemed to beat, slower, and slower, into a fading rhythm, dissipating into time, surrounded by the ones whose hearts had shattered under the weight of its departure.
Jakob exhaled sharply, stepping back as she approached. He turned toward the window, where the storm outside now raged with a fury, and sat down in the chair. Eliska ignored his retreat, for she had come to Dedko. She reached for his hand, cool and frail beneath her touch, checked for his pulse, and whispered his name. For a moment, the silence deepened, thick as the storm clouds above. And then, from somewhere beyond the world of the living, his gaze looked upon her’s before losing focus and falling like a star in the sky.
* * *
It was a mountain lion. Betwixt the tangled vegetation of the looming trees, Vera could see the bright, yellow eyes of some strange creature burning through the night like a fire across the sea. She felt the gaze land upon her swollen belly as if by instinct, knowing he was searching.
Vera sat next to Viktor, who led a buggy down a path south of Cincinnati. But as is the case with those who trust—perhaps too highly—their own sense of direction, he was lost. The road was surrounded by a densely wooded forest whose canopy revealed little light above, so the flame that burned in the lamp they carried was no help, apart from the warmth it gave to Vera’s hands. The trees towered like sentinels, their branches holding up the sky, shrouding the earth below in dense shadows that gathered ever so quietly around the couple. Even with the buggy’s gently rolling wheels and the casual trots of the neighing horses, the woods were silent. It was only by the hoot of an owl—that echoed through the air, rippling along the floor by unseen creatures—that Vera understood the ancient thrum that settled within her, deeper than sinew and bone. She placed her hand for a moment upon her bosom and returned it to Viktor, tightening around his forearm like worn leather straps. Viktor held the reins a little tighter. Now aware of a glare from the shadows beyond, the horses quickened in pace.
Despite the warmth of the past few nights, the air around them coalesced in an icy rigidity that harbored no pain in wreaking upon their spirits a temptation towards despair. It was a cold no flame could warm, like a winter in the blood [4]. The wagon creaked and groaned beneath them, its wheels breaking upon what seemed like frozen earth.
The horses slowed to a stop, at which the party was met by a diverged path. The flame’s dull silhouette danced against the shadows as Vera peered into the darkness, where she could scarcely see the two roads. One path, a gentle surface upon which gathered no rubble, seemed to bear the most journeyed of hearts, while the other, a narrow path, possessed a quality on which the labors of men dared not tread. Viktor attempted to guide the horses down the gentle path, but they resisted against the reins. And that is when they appeared: the eyes burning of fire. As if brought to them in the shadows of the night, a mountain lion appeared on the gentle path, glaring, with those eyes, into their hearts. If the creature were not so clouded by darkness, Vera would have believed the face she beheld was magisterial in magnanimity.
And that is when they appeared: the eyes burning of fire. As if brought to them in the shadows of the night, a mountain lion appeared on the gentle path, glaring, with those eyes, into their hearts.
Viktor grabbed the lamp, jumped off the cart, and walked toward the creature. He raised the light and shouted a cry that pierced the forest, ringing in the silence like a mighty roar. The creature made no motion, and they stared at each other briefly before Viktor turned and joined Vera on the buggy. Vera saw a grimace of forbearance from the lamp that shone against his visage.
“What shall we do?” Vera said.
Viktor took the reins and pointed towards the other path. “That creature…he stands on the easy path. We must enter the narrow road. I fear the gentle one would lead us to our deaths. Vera,” he whispered, looking into her eyes for the first time since entering this dark place. “Pray our guides help us make it.”
Vera nodded, her hand resting on the arm of her husband, who peered into the darkness. Viktor, handling the buggy with the kindness of an infant, directed the horses down the narrow path where they rode over rocks and waded through many streams. After eons of trekking through the darkness, with the lamp’s fire beginning to near its end, Vera noticed the road became gentle and wide, and to their avail. Viktor spotted a faint glow a couple of hundred yards away. He whipped the reins, the horses cantered swiftly along the open trail, and they finally beheld the sky. Beyond the canopy, a quilt of glimmering stars unfolded from above. Vera lessened her grip on Viktor’s arm and laid her head on his shoulder. Viktor gently put his hand on Vera’s and looked high. It was not usually an object of much respect for a man whose head is bent upon the crags and dust of the earth, but in this moment, he felt this land was among the last places on earth where one could feel the presence of the stars. As the cart progressed, the couple saw a face in the deep [5] world above. A celestial symphony shimmered from the heavens, with planets and stars casting their radiance upon the wandering souls and creatures below. The luminous spectacle of lights danced against the darkness, whose onlookers could merely grasp the image of its glory [6].
A celestial symphony shimmered from the heavens, with planets and stars casting their radiance upon the wandering souls and creatures below.
One exceptionally bright star loomed in the heavens apart from the rest, shining in a silvery effervescence. Vera admired the transient motion it seemed to bear, as if it would vanish from the heavens and return after some great passage of time.
Viktor saw the road before them and stopped the wagon. The horses hooved the ground and whinnied. Vera looked up.
It was the mountain lion. Only under the light of the stars did Vera see, for once, the great size of the beast. It stood as great as a man, in a tall and mighty rectitude against the sky above. A tail gently brushed against the dust of the earth and then, after a moment, stood still. Despite the sharpness of his claws, he knew the beast walked in regality; it made his face. A tuft of hair rose from the crown of his head between poised ears, while the whiskers on his maw bore the softness of a lamb, prancing about the fields of mirth. And within this stone facade were his eyes. Now that Vera looked closer, the eyes emitted an amber glow, like an amber that glows on a November leaf. It was an amber that shone like the sun of autumn, an amber that preserves even a flame from the wind, an amber that pierces the life of creatures caught in its fierce glow.
Against the wishes of his wife, who clung to him for support, Viktor stood, facing the beast again. The eyes of the two met and shared, if not for a moment, an eternity of silence until Viktor recalled his purpose. “Please leave us, great beast,” Viktor began, stiffening his clenched hand. “We know not why you follow us, but we mean you no harm. We are merely travelers on this earthly road. Leave us!”
The mountain lion glared into his eyes, adjusted the weight on his legs, and walked slowly towards the party. The horses backed up until their tails reached the jockey box. Vera held tightly to the seat below with one hand, and with the other, she felt her belly, from which a jolt clamored out. “Viktor,” she said, sternly, through the sudden pain, which brought tears to her eyes.
The mountain lion found himself standing in front of the man, still in a silent rectitude, before turning his gaze upon Vera. Viktor looked at the beast’s facade. Amidst the flames that blazed in his eyes, Viktor saw reverence. The beast sensed another life lay deeper within, perhaps from the beating heart that only belonged to human life. At that moment, the beast looked at a hillock to the east. He then glanced back upon the countenance of Vera, then Viktor, and proceeded to walk to the plain, venturing to the place where his eyes led.
Viktor turned and looked upon Vera, who still held firm against the seat below. An arcane visage was pasted upon his features now.
“He means for us to follow,” Viktor stated.
“Viktor…but how can you understand that to be his intention?”
Viktor looked long and hard into the gentle eyes of his wife. A flame had now entered his own. “I know. In my heart, I feel a calm wind that blows along the ocean and beats against the sands. I know: this lion will lead us to refuge.”
Vera strongly desired to push against the certainty of this faith, but resisted due to the pain that pressed her against the seat. Viktor sat down to join her and turned the horses in the direction of the beast.
They followed in the direction of the mountain lion, and after a moment of wandering, they reached the top of the plain. A little village speckled the earth below the hillock from which they stood. The mountain lion had disappeared below, his eyes watching, but they finally found hope in the possibility of resting for their voyage.
And as if abruptly, Vera felt the world implode, and a burst came from within. She tightened her grip on Viktor as if to confide a troubling revelation.
“Yes?” he posed, rubbing her hand as he looked at her.
“The baby,” an exclamation through gritted teeth was all she had to say. She glared at him.
The smile vanished. The baby.
“Oh, Heavenly Father!” he stammered.
“Tell me a story, Dedko,” William asked. He sat close to his grandfather on the blood-stained chair, hands fidgeting in his lap, hoping for some wisdom to emerge from the lips of the old man as it had in the days of his childhood, when he would give his undivided attention to the generous man with the wide smile and big heart. Those days when life was simpler for the young man, who now sat next to his fading Dedko and broken father.
Dedko opened his eyes and blinked slowly, wearing upon the dullness of his pupils. He thought for a moment before retorting, “I shall tell you when the doctor has finally left me to my peace.” Dedko mumbled, glancing at Jakob, who sat quietly looking through the window.
Pondering his grandson’s request, Dedko’s eyes turned to the shadows stretching long upon the walls, which twisted in the dim lamplight like figures from another world. The white paper covering the wall was creased in some places, exposing the bare wood. Somewhere, in the grain, near the corner, a heart had been carved.
“Mmm…I made these walls,” he started. William turned his face upon the man. “I made this house. Wood plank on wood plank. Driving nails, the framing, insulating, roofing—all things that stand. The difficult part was not the foundation nor the joists nor the torrential hurricane that blew past the Piedmont and landed here for many moons. It was the wallpaper. Oh,” he sighed, a chuckle in his quiet voice, “it was the wallpaper.” Dedko gave a great big smile and laughed like an old man, or like one would expect an old man to laugh. “Mmm…and Jakob replaced it a year after.” William saw a quiet smile on the face of his father, who knew those memories like the golden ring of a summer haze. “In any case, the wallpaper was a true pain; it took many days of praying for the paper to adhere. Awaiting that hour, I dug a little heart into the wood in that corner.” Dedko pointed to the wallpaper by the lamp, where, beneath the surface, sat a heart dedicated to his saving Grace. “In the wood, I carved a token of my devotion—a heart, its border inscribed with the name Grace, the woman who blessed my soul. But that is the beautiful treasure, is it not? To be touched by someone with such a capacity to love is a special thing. Your father knows that,” Dedko gestured to Jakob, who still glared through the rain-stained window, behind which brewed a storm from above. “She was unlike anything, having unfettered love in moments when I forsook her and all she meant to me. But she, like everything on this earth, was here for just a passing moment. And that is why, at this moment,” Dedko, staring straight into the yearning eyes of William, pointing to his heart, “we must enjoy the Earth’s beauties while they are still here. These are the beauties we hope for our sons and daughters, their sons and daughters, and all the sons and daughters of the generations to come, to have the privilege of one day enjoying,” he sighed. William looked into his father’s face and saw melancholy.
She was unlike anything, having unfettered love in moments when I forsook her and all she meant to me. But she, like everything on this earth, was here for just a passing moment.
“The heart is still there, I am sure, beating,” Dedko completed the story. William looked at his grandfather and grasped his hand.
“You only wish it was still beating,” Jakob said. “It died long ago.”
William let go of his grandfather’s hand. Dedko turned to his son, who now faced him.
Jakob’s voice was low. “You speak of love as if you ever knew how to keep it.” Dedko furrowed his brow but said nothing. “You talk of her as if you deserved her. You killed her! And you broke me!” Jakob’s voice shook with anger. “And you carved her name into wood, behind the wallpaper I raised again, as if that preserves her. As if that keeps her alive.”
William shrank into his seat, glancing past his father into the torrential downpour of the storm outside, which had now risen in power.
“You were weak,” Jakob went on, breathing heavily, accompanied by a lightning strike before the window. “And weak you are still, burying yourself in memories, praying the past itself will absolve you. Hoping my dead mother will save you.”
Dedko, breathing heavily in his rib cage, began, “You forget yourself, my son. One does not keep one he loves. Love is not something to be possessed, as you, yourself, have found,” he grimaced at the scorn above him. “And what of you? You believe your silence on the matter of your transgression absolves you? You fled this place. You fled when she needed you most. When the only thing she desired was to hold your hand and caress the cheek she brought forth into this world. To look into your eyes and remember the days when she would sing to you, her only sunshine [7]. The child who gave her the spirit to be a vessel for life, despite her struggle to bear you and your siblings. You fled for a woman who never welcomed me into your home.” An anger had entered his feeble countenance.
Jakob flinched, as if struck by the gales that blew against the home. His voice lowered to pity. “I fled because there was nothing left of her. Because you—” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. “Because I could not see her suffer for you. Because she loved you. And you failed to love her.”
The storm rumbled. Dedko gathered his remaining faculties and donned a stance of vigilance in the languid bed. “And yet here you are, at my deathbed, throwing stones at that grave that has, according to you, long been sealed.”
Jakob’s jaw tightened, the anger returning. “You forsook her! You forsook her in ecstasy! How can you ask me to forgive the man who left his suffering wife for the pleasure of another woman?” He raised his voice in desperation above the pattering of the rain. “After the years of affection she held in her body and soul, sinew and bone. For the faith she had in your moments of darkness when no one else could. For the woman who knelt before the ground you walked on because she could not help but love you! You broke your vows! You broke the vows you swore to uphold to your very death!”
The face Jakob glared into was beyond emotion. Dedko softly spoke, “My son, in your judgment seat, you must understand me…” A piteous grimace donned the old man’s facade. He continued, “I am a man who has transgressed his God, prayed, and repented in silent anguish in the home by a beating heart. I have lived by the love and grace she would have wanted for me, but please have faith: I know what I did. I have lived in my guilt, I have lived in my shame, I have lived in Hell for these many long years praying in repentance. Every night, I have torn apart my beating heart in the dark, speaking into its silence that lies deeper than the grave. I have knelt where she once slept, cursed the wretched hands that once held hers, and wept where she once stood,” he spoke, his face appearing as a shell before the eyes of his son, who cowered in the chair by the window. “And what of you? I do not see your repentance.”
Every night, I have torn apart my beating heart in the dark, speaking into its silence that lies deeper than the grave.
It was moments like these that found Jakob entirely beyond mercy. He sighed, “Father, why must you treat me like this?”
“Because I shall not care for those who have shunned me. I have what peace I need. Find some for yourself.” Dedko turned his head toward the wall and lay his head back.Jakob said nothing more. He pushed no further, the ancient of days [8]. He shook William’s shoulder and motioned him to move to the indigo chair by the window. As the sound of the rain above became louder, Jakob sat down next to his father. He placed his hand on his father’s and stroked it, again and again, until he drifted someplace only God knows.
A man and his son tarried on the earth. It was becoming night, and they lay down on the ground to sleep. The man heard many marvelous voices call to him in his dreams, and to his surprise, a ladder had been set upon the earth. A light reached down to the base, while its top reached to heaven. The man woke his son, and they marveled. Far from the distance, a great lion pranced across the earth, spotted them, and leaped to glean upon their countenances. The lion had a great mane and a presence that captivated the man and his son’s most humble respect. The little boy looked into His gentle eyes and saw a fiery flame [9]. The man fell onto his knees and beheld this great power. The son beheld His face. The lion knelt and put His paw in front of the man. The man saw the lion, stood great and tall, and turned to his son. They said goodbye, and the man began to climb the ladder [10].
Jakob awoke. He jerked his arm backward, nearly releasing it from his shoulder. He looked to the body on the bed, which flailed about in a great tumult [11]. The eyes were open, peering at the world outside. The arms jerked away and back again. The legs tremored. The elbows twitched. The torso writhed in itself a great pain, in contract and release, contract, release, again and again, waiting for the earth to open and release what good had ever been formed in its bloody faculties. The head lolled back and forth across the pillow as if expecting some great image to curtail the impact of the body’s great ineptitudes. The linens and sheets were now undulating like waves across the wooden floor. The body, shaking. Jerking and shaking across the surface. Without control. Jakob stared. Frozen.
William stirred, saw the image before him, and ran to the door to call on Eliska, who, after sprinting up the staircase, gently pushed Jakob aside so she could tend to the chaos before her. William brought his father out of the room while Jakob, a pale mind with a pale face, looked at the grim darkness of the window in the great room. All he could hear was the tumultuous breaches of the body thrashing against the mattress, over and over, again and again, as waves on some distant beach that never feel a gentle breeze. William lowered his father to the bottom of the stairs before the entire family, who now looked upon the two with great mourning. They sat there, the storm raging outside.
Above, nearly an hour passed, and Eliska sat beside Dedko’s troubled body, lying on the restored bed that comforted him with pillows and linens again. Eyes partially cracked, Dedko peered towards the dark world from behind the window and, amidst the storming heavens, saw a great, silver star race across the sky. As the noise continued outside, he knew. His time on earth had come to pass.
* * *
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
After following the trail of the beast, Viktor had driven the buggy up a long, winding driveway, where a large, gray house with stone walls stood. Vera winced with each jolt, her grip tightening around the seat. After leading the party south of the village, the mountain lion stood on a hillock behind the home. Viktor turned away from the path made by the beast, hoping the resident of this home would be able to aid in Vera’s delivery. He quickly ran up to the door, knocked several times on the frame, and after waiting, the door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was an old woman—tall, with eyes as sharp as a sword’s edge and a presence that seemed to quench flames. She wore a long, dark dress that clung to the hollows of her frame, and her lips were pulled into a tight line. Betraying neither kindness nor severity, her gaze fell upon Viktor and Vera before narrowing, measuring them like cattle at market. In her arms cradled a gun, which she held across her bosom, waiting. Viktor quickly looked over at Vera, who leaned against the buggy with one arm and pressed against her belly with the other.
“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice as cold as the wind that howled through the trees behind them.
Viktor took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “Good evening. My name is Viktor. My wife, Vera, and I are travelers on the road. For many weeks, we have sought shelter, and now my wife is ready to give birth,” he said quickly, glancing at his wife, who bent down before the woman. “Please, can you grace us with your aid?”
The woman’s eyes flickered to Vera, who was struggling to maintain composure. She began to breathe harder than life and let out a small cry of pain.
“You believe I’ll take in a couple of wandering strangers?” she sneered. “I will not entertain the company of visitors at this hour, especially not in such a state.”
Viktor pressed on, desperation growing. “Please…my wife—she cannot travel much further. We know of nowhere to go.”
The woman’s lip curled into a sneer, and without another word, she turned on her heel, slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. Viktor stood, for a moment, in silence. He turned to Vera, who let out a gasp of pain, her body trembling with the contraction that ripped through her. She grasped the curve of her belly, her breaths coming in ragged, uneven gulps.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice breaking slightly as he jumped back onto the buggy. “We’ll find another way.”
As Viktor began to drive away, the mountain lion’s eyes appeared once more from the shadows. Viktor hesitated, his gaze meeting the creature’s steady, knowing stare.
“Follow him,” Vera murmured through deep sighs and gulps of air. Viktor nodded in agreement.
Without another word, he fervently urged the will of the horses along the path. The beast went before them, a silent herald upon the winding road, over hills and through valleys, until the village lay behind them like a forsaken dream. The forest opened up again, its trees casting the length of shadows upon the couple, who, through the darkness, spotted several figures illuminated by a lantern’s dim firelight. At the sound of hooves upon the road, they turned. One among them, a bearded man clad in a violet coat worn thin by time, stepped forward, lifting a weathered hand. “Hold there,” cried the man, whose voice was resolute, as if he had spoken to many who wandered in the darkness of the night.
Losing sight of the mountain lion, Viktor slowed the horses, glancing warily at the group and then at his wife, who continued to breathe heavily in periodic gasps. Beside the man who spoke stood a tall man with long hair, his hands clutching a small, cloth bundle wrapped tightly. The third was a younger man, no older than twenty, his face gaunt but eyes sharp, scanning Viktor and Vera with quiet curiosity.
“Travelers, we are rushed. Who are you?” Viktor asked hurriedly.
The younger man chimed in, “Verily, sir, I must wonder the same thing, especially one who is charged with transporting a woman near the time of birthing,” he said, regarding Vera swollen belly. At this moment, she held onto the arm of her husband in a defiant agony.
The bearded man nodded toward the sky. “Oh, sir, please excuse us. We are sightseers, like yourselves,” he said. “Following the comet.”
Viktor frowned. He had seen the bright star in the sky earlier that night, a silver beacon against the darkness. It had seemed to move, to beckon. He glanced at Vera, who made an exasperated scream into the darkness.
“The comet?” Viktor repeated, now urgent.
The tall man nodded, adjusting the bundle in his arms as he saw the face of Vera. “Much is coming.”
To hurry the men along with their interest in the changing course of the planets, Viktor interrupted, “My wife needs shelter. Is any site nearby?”
The younger man spoke again, his voice quicker. “A barn—just beyond that ridge. It is abandoned, so may it be what you seek. Let us lead you.”
The bearded man looked up at the sky once more, then back at Viktor. “Traveler, know that these woods are plagued by wolves. White, fiery red, black, and even gray ones: they kill with claw, with hunger, and to bloody death, those beasts of the earth [12]. I have felt their presence from the moment the moon entered the sky,” he murmured. “Let us move quickly.”
“And we will stand before them to let you proceed. It is not often the motion of the stars brings such a life before us,” the tall man exclaimed, pointing to the swollen belly. Vera, sweating and pouring over herself in tears, looked into the eyes of the men with a kindness only possible by the life she would bring into this world.
Viktor needed no further command. After the men joined the couple on their buggy, Viktor snapped the reins, and the horses obeyed, pressing onward according to the direction of the strangers. The night closed in, heavy with weariness, and the wind carried with it a sound that chilled the soul—the howling of wolves, drawing near. Viktor’s grip on the reins tightened, while Vera clung to his forearm, her breath quickening. Then, as they rounded a bend in the road, it appeared—a barn, standing firm beneath the cold radiance of the moon. A simple dwelling, the barn would be a refuge against the devouring darkness. Viktor called the horses forward, their hooves striking the earth with fury, and the dust rose behind them as the barn loomed closer. But so too did the howls—rising, nearing, pressing in upon them like an unrelenting flood.
And from the darkness they came. Four wolves—gaunt, ravenous specters of the shadows moving as one, swift as the wind, death in their jaws, hunger in their hearts—appeared. Viktor pulled the reins, but the beasts were upon them. Then, near the end of all things [13], from the void, a shadow of might arose. The mountain lion, in a glow of golden radiance and terrible power, let out a roar that split the heavens and fell upon the transgressors like a flaming sword [14]. One he crushed beneath his grip, another he cast to the dust with a sweep of his mighty claws, leaving blood to anoint the earth. One approached, wielding his sharp fangs, but the mountain lion dealt with it with the power of his large, gaping maw, which tore into flesh. From these parries and attacks, the wolves howled in vain. One by one, they fell, torn asunder, their flesh riven to the bone. The last fled into the abyss, spared only to remember the torment of one who protects.
The party marveled. The lion stood among the slain, breathing like wind upon the mountains. He gazed upon Viktor, and in his eyes was the fire of an unyielding sovereign. “Thank you,” Viktor whispered. Then, without a sound, he turned and vanished into the night.
They all fled into the barn. Viktor carried his wife and laid her upon the hay, her face writhing in a twisted agony. Viktor knelt beside her, his spirit burdened by the coming joys.
“We are near the hour, my love,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her brow. “Stay strong. You are strong. Just hold my hand.” She clung to him, breathing as though the life she carried would pierce through her. The barn stood silent but for the screaming pains of Vera. Beneath the star’s gentle motion across the heavens, between the pains of suffering and the promise of dawn, a child was soon to enter the world.
The rain fell hard that evening. A deafening and unusual silence pervaded the valleys of those hillocks as the evening drew to its close, especially to the life of a man whose family lay huddled together in the great room below his study. In the corner, the young children were gathered around the radio, which quietly droned on about America bombing a country in Africa and the earlier bombings in Libya [15]. It even remarked on the nation’s disappointment in the reappearance of Halley’s comet after nearly 76 years. They said, because of changes in the atmosphere, it wasn’t nearly as visible as it was before. The kids silently murmured about it, in deep conversation.
All the sons and daughters of Dedko Milano awaited news from Eliska when he was awake. They, too, felt death approaching. The only persistent noises heard were the occasional buzzes of the radio, the small conversation that accompanied the coming of news, and the sound of the rain hitting the roof.
An echoing drum of thunder reverberated through the world above, and Eliska appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“He is awake. I must ask you all to join him.”
* * *
The baby cried out while Viktor cleaned his bare body from the top of his head to his little feet. Vera looked upon her child through the tears in her poor eyes. Viktor wrapped the baby in the tall man’s linens and placed him in a feeding barrel, which he had lined with straw. He carried the vessel next to his mother, who could see, from the top of her aching vision, the new life.
Viktor, on his knees, raised his eyes towards the heavens, exalting, “Glory to God in the highest! Peace on earth [16]!” He held his hands up and fell on two cross beams behind him.
Vera lay in the bed of straw, breathing, her lungs rising and falling, rising and falling. She occasionally released a quiet sob, only to be calmed when caressing the tiny hand that resided next to her, the one whose every movement she had felt churn in the quiet of the night. My child, she thought. My boy, my Milano Bohumír. The newborn stirred, his tiny lips parting with a soft sigh, his fingers twitching against the linen that swaddled him. He was impossibly small, and yet, Vera saw in him a might that gleamed like the morning sunlight spilling over dew-soaked fields or ebbed like a river before dawn.
The barn stood in reverent stillness. The wind whispered through the cracks in the wooden walls, its voice weaving through them like an unseen spirit. The flickering lanterns cast their golden light upon the beams, the straw-strewn floor, and the faces of the three old men who cherished the chance to bear witness to this moment under the motion of the moving star. Then, drawn by an invisible hand, the bearded, elder stranger descended to his knees, bowing his head low enough that his forehead nearly brushed against the dust below. The youngest stranger placed a steady hand on Viktor’s shoulder, looking into his eyes with a reminder of impending fatherhood—a look for men who are gifted the gravity of a new life, of helping rear up the youth, of guiding tiny feet as they ran along the broken path. Viktor swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut to keep the moment sealed within him forever. The tall, long-haired stranger clasped his hands together and tilted his face upward. His breath trembled as it left him in prayer, as though he could feel something greater than himself moving within this quiet barn.
Viktor gently stepped forward and reached for Vera, his arms wrapping around her, and pulled her close. She sank into his calm repose, into his warmth, into the steady rise and fall of his breath. They held each other before their child, before the silent strangers, before the wind that whispered through the beams, before the heavens that watched from above, and before the lingering eyes which shone through the barn, watching. And in that embrace, eternity stood still.
* * *
The family ascended the creaking staircase, entered in through the narrow door, and stood around the periphery of the bedroom, watching the half-conscious Dedko Milano reach for words. Eliska had enveloped the room in a pale darkness, the only source of light being the lamp, which reminded William of those late summer evenings baling hay. The orange flicker danced around the room and upon the face of Dedko.
Jakob walked to rest upon the scarlet armchair when Dedko’s eyes opened. They sparkled before the family as he looked into the complexion of his eldest son.
Jakob arose and knelt by his father’s bed. Dedko opened his lips and spoke, “It is better for me to die than to live [17].” A pause, for breath. “Death approaches. Only will its mercy grant true peace.”
He became silent and violently coughed. After a while, the cage of his chest merely rose and fell, rose and fell. The family around him bore themselves against the floor.
Jakob tightened the grip on his father’s hand and began, “Father, I am sorry.”
Dedko—his eyes engorged by a flame—lowered his hand and grabbed his son’s. “I know. But it is I who should be sorry…a father’s anger should never bear pain against his son, who gives so much to him. And your son,” he spoke, glancing into the face of his grandson before returning to Jakob, “he is good. Above all, be strong. Remember your father’s words…men toil in the flesh too much to know only grief,” he paused for another moment, and recollected, “Do not waste the rest of your days in its shadow. I have worn my shame, and I have walked in penance—I do not ask for your forgiveness, only that you do not let my sins become your inheritance in all the days of your life [18].”
Dedko’s fingers twitched in Jakob’s grasp, and his gaze softened. “You have always worn your mother’s face, Jakob. Continue to love like she did…I have faith in that, and for that, I am not afraid…”And it came to pass. Like a candle in the wind [19], a star racing across the sky, he drifted away. His eyes were closed. The light flickered on the wall. The heart, which once beat behind the white wallpaper, dissipated into eternity. It was silent.
By Chesney Jacobs, Contributor
Chesney Jacobs is a junior from London, Kentucky, studying secondary education and english literature. He enjoys reading, writing quiz bowl questions, lounging on Peabody Lawn during those brilliant spring afternoons, and watching Northern Exposure in his free time.
Notes
- a Slovakian name that can refer to grandfathers
- Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea
- II Samuel 6:14
- novel by James Welch
- Proverbs 8:27
- John 1:5
- “You Are My Sunshine”
- a title given to God in the Book of Daniel
- Daniel 7:9
- from selections of Genesis 28
- Zechariah 14:13
- Revelation 6
- I Peter 4:7
- Genesis 3:24
- Operation El Dorado Canyon, bombing of Libya on April 15, 1986; a 1986 bombing of a discotheque in West Berlin
- from Luke 2:14
- Jonah 4:8
- Genesis 3:14
- Elton John song of the same name