Chapter 70 Chapter 69

These two days in Bachkovo were one of the longest days of my life.I want to rush to the scheduled festival at once, hoping that it will be held immediately, so that we can try to follow the word of the song - the dragon - to its lair.But I also dreaded the inevitable moment when this possible thread would disappear in smoke or prove irrelevant. The next morning, I woke up early, and through the rough curtains, I saw four or five monks entering the church.I put on my clothes and quietly walked down the corridor and into the yard.I see the first rays of sunlight creeping up the distant hillside, and if I have the mood, it will be a moment of supreme joy, a moment of immersion in history that I have longed for, but can't now.

I turned around slowly, relying on my intuition to judge the direction Brother Kirill was going.There's a tomb over there—it might be a day's walk, or three hours, or a week's walk to get there, "if all's well, don't go too far," Zechariah said.How far is not too far?where did they go " At about nine o'clock in the morning we set off in Ranov's car, with Brother Ivan sitting in the front seat to give directions. We followed the river for about ten kilometers before the river disappeared and the road became a long, dry valley winding between steep hills.

I touched Helen, and she frowned at me, "Helen, this valley." Her face brightened, and she tapped Ranov on the shoulder, "Ask Brother Ivan, where does the river lead to, and where do we cross the river?" Ranov asked Brother Ivan without turning his head, and then reported to us, "He said the river has dried up here—the last bridge has been passed. This was a river valley a long time ago, but there is no water anymore." Helen and I looked at each other speechlessly.Suddenly, Helen grabbed my hand. A few minutes later, we turned onto a dirt road into broad hilly terrain, where a sign marked a village called Dimovo.

The Church of the Martyr Sveti Peko stands alone on a lawn, "Fr. Ivan said the festivities would not start until half past eleven," Ranov told us as we wandered there. "What's going on over there?" I pointed to a group of people who were working in the field next to the church.Some were hauling logs—logs and large branches—and stacking them in piles, and others placed bricks and stones around the logs. "Brother Ivan said it was for the fire. I don't know that yet, but there will be a fire later." "Fire!" Helen exclaimed. "Yes," said Ranov dryly, "you know the custom?"

"I've heard of fire walking," Helen turned to me and said seriously. "It was originally a pagan custom, but after the conversion of the Balkan people, it became a Christian ceremony. Usually it's not walking, but dancing. I Glad we're going to see this event." Ranov shrugged and herded us toward the church.Before I left, however, I saw a man who was working at the wood lean over and light the woodpile.The pyre caught fire quickly, the flames shot up, spread, and blazed. We watched the feasting fire until Ranov turned away again. "They'll let the fire run its course in the next few hours," he said. "Now, not even the most superstitious Will go off fire."

We entered the church and were greeted by a young man, obviously the pastor.He shook our hands with a cheerful smile, and Brother Ivan bowed to each other in a friendly manner. "He said, he is very honored that you are here to participate in Saint's Day." Lanoff's tone was a bit dry. "Tell him it's a great honor for us to be at the festival. Who is Sveti Peko?" The priest explained that he was a local martyr.Today, many people go there to worship him.At that time, his icon will be carried in a procession around the church with two other powerful saints, and there will be fire.This was Sveti Peko, whose portrait was painted on the front wall of the church—he pointed to a faded fresco behind him, the bearded face somewhat resembling him.

I asked him through Ranov if he had ever heard of a monastery called Sveti Georgi. He shook his head. "The nearest monastery is Bachkovo," he said. "Over the years—mostly in the past—friars from other monasteries have sometimes made pilgrimages here." I secretly remembered to ask Stoichev when I got back to Sofia. "I'm going to ask him to find Baba Yanka for us," Ranov said after a while. "The pastor knew where her home was. He wanted to go with us, but the church had been closed for months - he was only here for the holidays - and he and his assistant had a lot to do.

Baba Yanka's house was very small, almost a hut.The first thing I saw were the bright little spots on her red flower kerchief, then her striped top and apron.She stares at us, and she nods as some villagers call her name. The furnishings in the room are poor, but clean.I found her decorating the house with a vase full of wildflowers, sitting on a battered table, and it was pitiful. It was a clean, run-down room with a ladder nailed to the wall leading to the upper floors.Compared with this room, Helen's mother's house is simply a mansion.I wondered how much longer she could climb this ladder.But as she paced the room with such vigor, I slowly realized that she was not really old.

I whispered this to Helen, who nodded. "Fifty, maybe," she whispered. “I’m going to ask her if she sings,” Ranoff told us. “You want to know that, don’t you?” He had a few words with Brother Ivan, who turned to Baba Yanka. The woman flinched, nodding desperately.No, she doesn't sing, and she sure doesn't want to.But Brother Ivan persisted. "We'll let her sing a few random songs first," Ranov explained, "and then you can ask her to sing the ones you're interested in." Baba Yanka seemed to give in and opened her mouth.The sound that came out was astonishing.First of all, it was surprisingly loud, the cups on the table were clinking, and I secretly took Helen's hand.One note shook us, and the next, each slow and long, each a scream of loss and despair.

"Please ask her to tell us the lyrics," Helen said. Baba Yanka was clearly struggling—but still smiling—and she recited the lyrics: Dying heroes lie on green hilltops. The dying hero had nine wounds on his body. O Falcon, fly to him, and tell him that his men are safe. All his people are safe and sound in the mountains. The hero has nine wounds, But it was the tenth wound that killed him. After Baba Yanka finished reciting, she explained several places to Ranov.Still smiling, she wags a finger at him.I have a feeling that if he did something wrong in her house, she'd slap him on the ass and go to bed without letting him eat.

"Ask her how old this song is," Helen urged him again, "where did she learn it from?" She said the song was as old as the mountains.She learned it from her great-grandmother, who lived to be ninety-three years old. " Next, Baba Yanka has a question for us. We told her we were from the US and she nodded, clearly not believing it. "America?" she seemed to be thinking. "It must be over there." "She's a very ignorant old woman," Ranoff glossed. Helen took out a piece of paper, and now she took the old man's hand, "Ask her if she knows this song—you have to translate it for her." "The dragon came to our village in the mountains. He burned the corn and took the girls," Ranov reported to Baba Yanka. She listened intently for a while, when suddenly fear and displeasure made her face shrink.She retreated into the wooden chair and quickly made the sign of the sign of the cross, "No!" She said fiercely, pulling her hand away from Helen, "No, no." Ranov shrugged, "You understand, she doesn't know." "Of course she does," I said quietly. "Ask her why she's afraid to tell us." This time the old woman looked stern. "She doesn't want to talk about it," Lanoff said. "Tell her, we'll pay her." Ranov raised his eyebrows again, but conveyed it to Baba Yanka. "She said we had to close the door." He stood up and silently closed the door and wooden shutters, keeping out onlookers in the street. "Now she's going to sing." There's a world of difference between Baba Yanka's first song and this one.She huddled in a chair, just looking at the ground, her happy smile gone.The tune she sang was unmistakably melancholic, though the last line seemed to me to have a defiant tone. Ranov translates carefully.I wondered again, why is he so enthusiastic about helping others? The dragon came to our village in the mountains. He burned the millet and took the girl. He terrified the Turkish pagans and protected our village. He sucked up the river and we walked through the valley, coming and going. Now we must defend ourselves. The dragon used to protect us, But now we must rebel against him and defend ourselves. "Ah," said Ranov, "is that what you want to hear?" "Yes." Helen patted Baba Yanka's hand. The old woman burst out a word of reproach. "Ask her where the song came from and why she's afraid," Helen demanded. It took Ranov a few minutes to figure out what Baba Yanka was blaming, “She secretly learned this song from her great-grandmother who told her never to sing it after dark. It's an unlucky song." Helen smiled, "Tell her, I will give her the same reward, this gift can drive away all bad luck and bring good luck." She opened Baba Yanka's battered hand and put a silver medal into her hand, "Please ask her if she knows what this song means, where it comes from, and why it's sung on St George's Day ?” Baba Yanka shrugged. "It's nothing interesting. It's just an old ominous song, because it calls Sveti Georgi to kill the dragon so it doesn't torture the people." "What monastery?" I exclaimed. "Ask her if she knows a monastery called Sveti Georgi." But Baba Yanka just smacked her lips. "There is no monastery here. The monastery is in Bachkovo." "When is St. George's Day?" I asked. "May 6th," he stared at me, making me cringe. "It's been a few weeks." Baba Yanka insisted on entertaining us for lunch.We ate and thanked her as much as we could, admiring her cooking, until Ranov told us we had to go back to church if we wanted to see the beginning of Mass. Baba Yanka bid us farewell, clasped our hands and arms, and patted Helen on the cheek. People congregate there—women in striped and floral dresses like Baba Yanka, some all in black, men in coarse brown wool vests and trousers, white shirts buttoned or tied at the neck tight. The people backed away when the priest came out.He came among them and blessed them with the sign of the cross, and some of them bowed their heads or stooped before him.The man behind him was older, dressed in plain black, like a monk, and seemed to be his assistant.The man held an icon, which was covered with purple silk.I glanced at him quickly—pale face, dark eyes, rigid expression.It must be Sveti Peko, I thought.A long line of villagers followed the icon silently around the church, many on crutches or supported by younger people. After a long, long time, the hymn was finally sung.Baba Yanka herself filled our plates with food and brought us a blanket from the crowd.We met her sister, they look alike, only her sister is taller and thinner.I found three men with their instruments out, ready to play.One of the instruments, as I looked closer, was the most outlandish—a pouch of cleaned white hide with wooden pipes protruding from it—must be some kind of bagpipe.Ranov told us that this is an ancient Bulgarian instrument.It's called 'Gada' and it's made of goat skin. The old man starts to play, some women jump up, and Baba Yanka and her sister stay where they are quietly, as if the time has not come. They wait until the piper Began to gesticulate and greet them with a smile, until the audience called them too, and they feigned reluctance, and finally rose, put their arms around each other's waists, and began to sing. Three voices—two women and the sound of a sheepskin drum— Gathered together, as if the earth was moaning. Helen burst into tears suddenly, and I hugged her in front of everyone. Finally, the musicians played a new song, and Baba Yanka and another woman stepped forward, bowed to the priest and the icon, took off their shoes and socks, carefully placed them on the steps of the church, and kissed Sveti Pekona With a stern face, he accepted the priest's blessing.The priest's young assistant handed them the icon and tore off the silk covering.The music rose sharply, and the Al Qaeda player was sweating, his face was red and purple, and his cheeks were bulging. Next, Baba Yanka and the Blind-Eyed Woman danced forward without a trace of confusion.I was motionless, watching intently as they danced their way into the fire with their bare feet.When entering, the two held up the icon, raised their heads high, and gazed at another world solemnly.Their feet rose and fell in the charcoal fire, splashing bursts of sparks. When they walked into the circle of fire, I couldn't see the icon.Now I see the icon in the blind woman's hand, the Virgin Mary with her child on her lap.It was only when Baba Yanka circled again that I saw the icon she was holding. Baba Yanka's expression was startling, her eyes wide and focused, her lips drooping, her old skin glowing from the heat.The icon she was holding must have been very old, like the Madonna, but through the traces of smoke and the swaying heat, I could clearly see the pattern on it: two figures facing each other, each dancing, equally vivid, Equally daunting.One is an armored knight in a red cloak, and the other is a dragon wagging a long ring-shaped tail.