Only days ago, they counted losses with tight jaws and wet eyes, cursing the unseen predator that took from their fields. They stood at their fences at dawn, running hands over the torn throats of sheep, whispering prayers into wool matted with blood.
Now they press forward to give one willingly.
The image lingers against another memory: a voice in the forest, low and patient, speaking of hunger as nature’s law. Of beasts who kill because they must. Of men who do the same and call it righteousness.
They choose one at last.
It is small, its fleece still soft with youth, its ears twitching as it is led forward on a rope that jerks too tightly at its throat. The animal resists at first, hooves scraping against packed earth, a thin bleat breaking from it that trembles in the cold air. The sound pierces through the murmurs and leaves a silence in its wake.
Popa Dorin steps down from the church steps and approaches it. He runs his hand slowly along the lamb’s back, fingers pressing through the fleece, feeling the spine beneath.
"Without blemish," he says.
The words are simple. Final.
Two men move forward. One forces the lamb down onto its side, knee pressed into its flank, hands gripping its legs. The other kneels beside its head, drawing a blade from his belt. The lamb struggles then in earnest, its bleating breaking into frantic gasps. Its eyes roll white, searching faces that refuse to meet them.
The sun is sinking low now, casting long shadows across the churchyard. The sky burns faintly where it meets the dusk, red bleeding into gold.
A knife flashes.
The cut is quick, practiced. A single, sure movement across the throat. Blood spills in a bright rush against pale wool, then darkens as itmeets the cold earth before the church, steam rising faintly where it strikes the ground. The lamb’s cries thin into gurgling breaths. Its body jerks beneath the man’s weight, hooves scraping against the ground, then slowing, then stilling.
No one cheers.
The crowd stands still, hands folded, heads bowed. A child begins to cry somewhere near the back, the sound small and high. Another joins, quickly smothered by a mother’s hand pressed over a mouth. The ravens circle once overhead, drawn by scent, then settle along the rooftops again, waiting.
The priest murmurs a prayer over the body, words steady and unshaken. His gaze does not falter.
The blood continues to darken the soil, pooling at the foot of the church door where another stain already lies beneath the wood. The two mingle quietly.
***
The lamb is carried into the kitchen before the blood has fully dried upon the earth. The women gather around it in tight formation, sleeves rolled, knives laid out upon the table. The body looks smaller without its wool, pale and fragile, ribs faintly visible beneath thin flesh. Too slight. The legs, once trembling with life, hang limp over the edge of the board.
Doamna Ileana works with steady movements, knife gliding along bone, separating flesh with practiced strokes. Fat curls away in thin ribbons. Someone jokes softly that at least it will be tender. The sound falls flat and is not answered.
I take a portion when it is handed to me. My fingers run along the exposed muscle, slick and warm still from the day’s sun. It is hardly enough to fill a large pot. This body will not stretch far.
My thumb presses lightly into the hollow beneath its shoulder. I lean closer without meaning to, lips barely moving. "I am sorry," I whisper, so softly that the sound dissolves into the steam. "It was not required."
The knife continues its work. Pieces are separated. Laid out. Distributed. The smell thickens in the room, iron and fat mingling with wood smoke.
By evening the barn is full again. Bowls are passed from hand to hand. The meat is divided carefully, each portion modest, each child given a piece before the adults serve themselves. Smoke gathers low near the rafters. The scent of cooked flesh clings to wool and hair.
At first there is quiet. Spoons scrape wood. Teeth tear. The only sounds are chewing and the restless shifting of bodies against benches.
But beneath the surface, something moves.
A murmur travels along one side of the barn, thin as thread. I catch fragments without trying to listen. A name spoken too softly to be certain. Then another, offered in response. Someone recalls how certain people do not attend mass as often as they should. Another wonders aloud who keeps herbs tucked above her doorway despite the priest’s warning. A third mentions how smoke was seen at an odd hour last week, rising from a chimney when all others lay dark.
The voices never rise. They slip from mouth to mouth like breath shared in winter.
Across from me, two women lean close together, heads nearly touching. One shakes her head slowly, lips pressed thin. The other nods once, eyes flicking toward the far end of the barn where a small figure sits apart from the others.
Radu’s mother speaks in low tones with Doamna Marica, hands folded tight in her lap. I see the way her gaze lingers on Neaga for a fraction too long before turning away. Someone mentions that grief makes people strange. Someone else suggests that certain houses seem colder than others.
The lamb’s bones pile in a small wooden bowl at the centre of the table, picked clean.
