"It’s all right," I try in vain, my voice small against the scrape of fibres.
He doesn’t stop, pulling the line from my palms, his fingers brush the back of my hand as he does it, a brief touch that makes my pulse stumble. I finally relent and step back, giving him space as he lifts the rest with ease, the bucket clearing the rim and swinging free with a slosh of water.
He sets it down with a small, satisfied motion, while I stand there, rubbing my palms to dull the ache.
My heart is still racing when the sound comes.
A tearing, unshaped cry ripping the evening open, lifting the hair along my arms. Another shout follows, then another—voices converging, feet pounding. Radu is already moving, his mother following his steps, skirts gathered. I hurry after them, the well forgotten, the sky dimming fast as people spill from doorways and corners, drawn by the sound.
It comes from the barns.
A woman stumbles into view, hair loose, apron twisted in her fists. "They killed them," she cries. "They killed them all."
The air tightens as I slip between shoulders and elbows, drawn forward without knowing how my feet carry me.
The barn doors gape open. Inside, three sheep lie sprawled on the packed earth. Beneath them, the straw lies pale, untouched save for the faint pool of blood that doesn't spread far enough.
Their bellies are whole, their flanks unmarked, but their throats—they gape. Flies already gather, drawn by the metallic stench that fills the barn and presses against the back of our tongues.
There is no sign of struggle. No churned earth. No broken gate.
My vision swims, the sheep’s eyes staring wide and glassy, mouths slack, pink tongues visible between their teeth. The barn walls seem too close, the shadows too deep for the light that still lingers outside.
The woman’s cries break again, echoing off the beams. Someone swears. Hands cross themselves. A child retches and is dragged away.
I stand where I am, unable to look anywhere else.
The shapes blur, resolve, blur again—the torn wool, the dark mouths of the wounds, the blood seeping like ink beneath them—
A loud croak splits the air above us, close enough to make me duck. Wings beat hard. Shadows rake the barn wall.
Ravens.
They crowd the roofline, wings snapping open and shut against the thinning light. Some hop closer, heads tilting. Others lift and land again, restless, pacing the air while the unsettling calls scrape at the evening.
A ripple runs through the crowd.
"This is their doing," Petru shouts. He pushes forward, pointing past the barn, toward the road. "The savages. I told you. Devil’s work."
Murmurs snap into words.
"Dracilor," someone spits.
"Vrajitori."
"Satani?ti."[18]
The sounds pile up, igniting fast. Faces harden. Hands clench. Fear shifts into something eager.
"They’re playing tricks," the shepherd goes on. "Scaring us so they can steal."
A man near the well shouts back, "We should have driven them out sooner."
Another answers, louder. "We’ll finish it now. We’ll guard our own."
The words catch and spread as boots move and bodies turn. Torches flare to life one after another, fire blooming in the dusk. A spear islifted. An axe is hefted, its blade catching the light. A knife flashed, then hidden again.
"To the road," a voice barks.
