Page 6 of Souls We Rip

When we did not answer, she shook her head and scratched her nose. “I do not have the time for this today, we will talk about your early walks after the Fair!” She pointed one finger at us, then turned to leave, but not before giving us more chores than it was planned.

“Ah! We won’t have time to braid my hair!” Angelica cried.

“We will if we hurry!”

I rushed to the yard, taking all the empty iron buckets from last night’s milk collection and walked towards the barn, where my father was cleaning the cows’ stables.

“Good morning, father!” I quipped, getting ready to milk the first cow.

He grunted, the smell of duhan filling my nostrils.

I started working, the cow a little too impatient.

“Calm down, please,” I whispered to it, its tail wagging.

The buckets were filled in no time, and I carried them one by one to the kitchen, where I had to store the milk in large aluminium cans. With the milk, we would make butter and fresh or smoked cheese to sell in the village or different markets.

Afterwards, Angelica and I fed the chickens and roosters, spreading wheat and corn all around their small coop. Both of us then went to help our mother with the food for the Fair. The smell of mămăligă and fried sausages filled the air as we stepped into the steaming-hot kitchen.

The wooden oven worked continuously for the last two days since mum started baking different types of sweets: sugar candies, milk candies and her famous waffle dessert filled with buttercream.

“Go and stir the mămăligă, so it doesn’t burn,” my mum instructed Angelica while she was cutting the tomatoes.

“What is it that I must do?” I asked, eyeing the sugar candies.

“Start preparing the cheese for the bulz.” Her head tilted to the cold room where we kept all the dairy products.

The house was made of dirt, wood and clay, enabling us not to die from the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter. It allowed us to keep sensitive heat products in the shadiest room, without altering their taste and form.

I brought the fresh batch of cheese and sour cream from the cămară, our coldest chamber.

The large wooden table was filled with străchini, intricate designs painted on the brown clay, ready for the bulz to fill them.

Angelica brought the steaming hot mămăligă, placed it in each of the străchini, being careful not to burn herself. I added meat, cheese and sour cream.

“Do you remember the story our grandmother used to tell us when we were țânci?” Angelica asked, pouring the second layer of mămăligă over the mixture.

I shook my head. “No. There were too many, anyway.” I finished with another layer of cheese and let that melt over the hot dish. My mum handed me a plate filled with fried eggs, her eyes wary between us two.

Angelica assessed our work and, with a nod, she placed the pots into the iron cart. Her hands moved more slowly than usual, careful not to break the bowls.

“The story about the Goat Man,” she recalled, placing a finger on her lips.

“DO NOT MENTION HIM!” my mum yelled from the threshold of the door.

We both stared at her red face, widened eyes and tense shoulders. Then we looked at each other, not knowing why she was reacting this way.

I, for one, did not remember a single word from the story.

My mum stepped closer to us and put a hand on our shoulders. “This day is as special for it as it is for us. Believe me, I do not want to even hear a word about that creature!”

Her eyes looked vacant for a second, as she remembered something from the far past.

“Mum, what is it?” I asked, her pale face scaring me.

She shook her head and squeezed our shoulders. “Just don’t think about it, and we will be fine!” She was trying to smile, but it didn’t reach her sky-blue eyes.

“Enough with the superstitions, woman! And get to work!”