Neaga does not move. Her head remains bowed. A strand of hair slips loose and clings to her cheek.
"Do you renounce the Adversary," he asks, "and all his works?"
Neaga’s voice is steady. "I renounce him."
"Do you unite yourself to Christ?"
"I unite myself."
When the final invocation settles, the priest lifts the basin slightly. The assistant steadies it from beneath. For a moment, the surface of the water is still, holding the sky in its shallow mirror.
Then Popa Vasile cups his hand and pours.
The first spill of water catches the last light of the sun. It arcs briefly, luminous, before striking the crown of Neaga’s head. The droplets scatter and cling to her hair, sliding down in thin rivulets that trace the curve of her skull and disappear at the nape of her neck.
"In the name of the Father."
The water darkens the wood of the basin where it sloshes against the rim. A thin stream runs over the edge and drips onto the ground. Neaga draws in a tight breath, but does not lift her head.
He pours again.
"And of the Son."
This time the water falls heavier. It spills across her brow and lashes, forcing her eyes closed. It runs along her temples, down the hollow of her throat, slipping beneath the collar of her dress. The fabric darkens, clinging to her skin. A small line of mud forms at her knees where the drops strike the dust and soften it.
The crowd watches in reverent silence.
The third time, he lifts more water in his palm.
"And of the Holy Spirit."
The sunset light catches it again, turning each falling thread briefly gold. It breaks against her hair and flows downward, soaking her completely now. Her dress grows heavy at the shoulders. Water traces the line of her spine beneath the cloth. The earth drinks what escapes her hem, swallowing it without protest.
I feel the coolness of it as if it were touching my own skin. The smell of wet fabric rises faintly, mingling with ash and crushed herbs.
Neaga remains kneeling.
The mud thickens beneath her. Her hands, still resting on her thighs, are damp where water has run along her wrists. Ilinca stares, eyes moving from her mother’s bowed head to the priest’s face and back again.
The last drops fall from Neaga’s chin and darken the earth at her knees. For a breath, no one moves. The light fades another shade darker. The earth drinks.
Then the yard exhales as one body. It is almost audible—the collective release of breath held too long. Hands rise to foreheads and chests. Crosses are traced hurriedly, reverently. Someone murmurs, "Praise be," and the words are taken up in low voices by others.
Neaga remains kneeling a moment longer, water clinging to her hair, her dress heavy and soaked. At last, Popa Vasile steps back, and she sways as she rises. Ilinca’s small hand flies to steady her.
The priest turns, his gaze lowering to the child.
"Bring her forward," he says gently.
A tightness I did not realize I carried loosens slightly when Ilinca is not made to kneel. She stands where she is, small and straight-backed, her head barely reaching the height of the basin.
Neaga guides Ilinca a single step ahead. The priest bends slightly and, with two fingers, touches the child beneath the chin, guiding her head upward. The gesture is light, but something in me recoils. A flicker beneath the ribs, a heat in the back of my throat. I do not know why.
Ilinca does not resist. She does not smile either. She only watches him, wide-eyed and silent, as he speaks the words over her.
He lifts the basin again, and the water falls in three measured pours. Droplets cling to her lashes. +
"In the name of the Father… and of the Son… and of the Holy Spirit."
