CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Marytè

She should be up there on the High Hill lamenting with her mother-in-law. She should sink into the earth upon which Baltrus is buried, wailing and weeping. Moaning. But Marytè cannot bring herself to descend into such darkness. It is too deep, too heavy, too painful. She’s afraid if she plunges that low, her knees will truly buckle from beneath her and she may never rise again.

Instead, she sits on a log in the company of her extended family. Her clan dances upon the violet wildflowers which carpet the forest floor. The buzzing fills her ears and drowns her worrying thoughts. Orange and black blurs dance from flower to flower, collecting nectar and pollen. They seem very happy to have come across this delicious spread. Others drone above in pursuit of something further afield.

She breathes in the floral scent and for the first time since Baltrus left, the tension eases. It is here she sinks into the tender earth. It is here tears spring to life and trickle down her cheeks. Tears of sadness and joy.

Calm comes over her.

This has always come naturally. Being close to the bees, being a part of them. It’s as if her maternal instinct has been woven, like honeycomb, into the lives of bees. Mothering the bees is straightforward. Mothering her children is fraught with complications. There are feelings and personalities to consider. She never seems to get it right. She loves her daughters, with all her heart, but at times she does not know if it is reciprocated. Or whether she deserves their love. With bees there is no guesswork. They are wonderfully predictable and loyal.

Baltrus, on the other hand, settled into fatherhood easily. She always envied him that. It’s as if the moment Azuolas, his first and only son, was placed in his arms he instinctively knew what to do and how to do it.

It was not that way for Marytè. Her children’s constant reliance on her was unsettling. They look to her for guidance – even now – in ways beyond her capabilities. She can teach them to sow, to bake bread, to climb a tree, but when their eyes are trained on her with uncertainty about the bigger things in life, such as meaning and religion and grief, Marytè is lost. When they come to her with these emotions, these questions, she feels herself close off. She has never been taught herself. She had no guidance after her father’s death and so learned to rely only upon herself, and later, Baltrus.

I miss him dearly.

No. She shakes her head. If she dwells on these painful feelings, she might get stuck, unable to move on. She will not become her own mother. She owes her girls this. If they cannot have Baltrus, then they will have the best version of her. Wallowing in her loss will not be good for them.

Without her wanting them to, Marytè’s thoughts hop from memory to memory, backwards in time, settling upon a blossom of bleakness. Marytè, fifteen winters old, wailing at her father’s grave. Heaving chest, uncontrolled sobbing and her whole body shuddering. Her father was gone, and it was just Marytè and her mother who remained. Her mother kneeled beside her, silent and stony. Numb and detached. She stood and stepped towards Marytè and for a moment she’d thought, hoped, that her mother would embrace her. Allow her to share some of her sorrow, to relieve her, even momentarily, from this pain. Instead, her mother scuffed the dirt back over the indents left by her knees and then staggered away. Away from the grave and away from her daughter. She left and it was as if she never returned. Physically she was there. In her chair, staring at the flame, or lying in her bed, staring at the thatch ceiling. Always staring and yet never seeing.

Marytè had truly lost both of her parents. If it were not for her beekeeping skills, she wouldn’t have made a suitable marriage. Baltrus had saved her from desolation, but it was the bees who saved her from misery.

So she does not go to the grave to lament. No, she comes to the bees so she can feel something. Anything else. Because if there is a hum of happiness, then she knows she is still alive. She is still living. She is not her mother.

She must stay strong for her daughters. For her bees. She must continue.

⚜

She notices, immediately, the changing vibrations in the breeze. Louder, fitful buzzes around the wildflowers. A gust blows through the pine trees; the air thickens and has a sweet, pungent smell. A storm is coming, and the bees are frantic. Darting about as if calling out a warning: time for the forager bees to retreat. Marytè glances up at one of her hollows, perched up high in a pine tree. There is increased activity outside the hive as her kin vanish into the safety of the hollow.

The pine canopies dissolve into the grey blanket draped across the sky. A deep rumble shakes the ground, and a crack of thunder reverberates along the earth. She scrambles to her feet. ‘Farewell, little ones,’ she says, as she makes her own way to shelter, passing back over the bridge and around the marshes into the clearing.

Austėja warned her before she left. A storm is coming. Marytè had thought it too early to be storming but it seems Austėja was right. Again.

A giant spark of light knifes the clouds and a tremor passes through her body. She joins her daughters and mother-in-law inside just as heavy droplets land upon her headscarf. The storm has well and truly set in now. The rain will be here for days.

Another thought creeps in. Relief is chased away by guilt as the meaning of the storm dawns on her. The Hollow Watcher’s funeral will be delayed. He is meant to be laid to rest tomorrow.

‘Motina.’ Danutè’s voice brings her attention from the wild to the indoors. ‘Look what I found by the marshes.’ Her hands are enclosed around something green, its scraggy legs hanging between her fingers.

‘What have you got there, Danutè. A frog?’

Croak.

She grins. ‘Yes, isn’t it sweet?’

‘I suppose.’ Marytè chuckles and tucks a loose hair behind Danutè’s ear. Her hair, wispy and thin, is so different from her sister’s thicker and longer mane. Austėja warms her hands over the hearth, her hair loose, damp and wavy. She must’ve just returned from the forest too. Her skin is already bronzed after these early spring days outdoors. It is unnerving how much time Austėja spends in the forest: she’s almost wild in nature. It reminds her of Senelè in her younger days, when Marytè first wed Baltrus. With the awful nature of the Hollow Watcher’s death, she shouldn’t let her roam so freely, but she cannot bear to take the forest from her. Austėja, like her mother, has lost so much already. It is a small relief that Smilte’s boys are patrolling the area, even if she was resistant at first.

‘You should have left the poor thing where it belongs,’ Austėja says.

‘But he may be gobbled up by a snake.’

Austėja shrugs. ‘That is the way of things in the forest.’

‘I don’t like it. If I can save a little frog from being a snake’s dinner, then I will.’

‘Then the snake will find something else to prey on. A mouse, a rabbit, or a pigeon. Will you try to save them all?’

Senelè interrupts. ‘Come on now, girls.’

It is a debate her daughters have had since they were young. From the moment she could toddle, Danutè loved to find things to nurture, or bring home pets to fuss over. Insects, young birds fallen from a nest or filthy mice from the threshing barn. Austėja believes everything should remain as is. In some ways, Marytè agrees with her. No one should own the forest, and they should do their best not to leave too much of a mark on the earth. But Danutè is gentle with her creatures and really there is no harm done. ‘You can keep it here until the storm passes, and then you must release it.’

Danutè’s shoulders slump, but she places the frog inside her boot away from her sister’s glare.

Thunder rumbles and cracks overhead. There’s warmth in Marytè’s belly. She has her children and her health, and she has a roof over her head. The girls are bickering about everyday things. Life feels almost normal. I can do this. Senelè can lament for us all and I can be strong and hold the family together. I can do what Baltrus would have done had he been here in my place.

Senelè settles upon her bed, in prime position by the hearth. ‘Have I told you girls about the god of thunder?’ A thunderclap arrives just in time for her performance.

Danutè lugs her boot to her bedside and sits on her cot, knees tucked up under her chin. Austėja lies down on her bed. She does not face Senelè, but Marytè knows she is listening. She has been fascinated by her grandmother’s stories, the folklore of their ancestors, since birth.

‘There is only one true God, isn’t there?’ Danutè asks, frowning. Marytè sighs. All this talk of the old ways is confusing for the girls, especially Danutè. And Marytè is still unsure whether she can trust the new priest not to bring down the church’s condemnation if the children were to repeat their grandmother’s stories beyond the cottage walls.

Senelè clucks her tongue. ‘There was a time when all our people looked to many gods. Our people have always been strongly connected to the land, to the earth and sky, forest and the animals. The sun, the moon, the wind and thunder. There are special forces all around us, if only we pay close attention.’

Austėja sits up and Marytè adds a log to the fire.

‘But—’

Senelè cuts Danutè off. ‘It is true. We held strong for a very long time. Lithuania, the last European country to hold on to their old ways. Until the churches moved in, and we were urged to become Christianised. To believe in only one God, not many.’

‘Why?’ Danutè asks.

Senelè shrugs. ‘Politics. Power? I cannot say. They called us heathens! I do not know why we cannot hold on to whatever beliefs we have. Why must we all be the same? Politics,’ she says again. ‘None of that should concern us down here in Musteika.’

‘We must be cautious of the new priest,’ Marytè says.

‘We must be cautious, indeed,’ Senelè says and looks pointedly at Marytè. ‘Putting our trust in those of the church is not in our best interests.’

‘So, what of the god of thunder?’ Austėja asks. Marytè is surprised by her interest: she must’ve heard this story a hundred times before. They all have.

Senelè’s cheeks swell with pleasure and she leans forwards, rubbing the palms of her hands together. ‘Perkūnas, god of thunder, is very powerful. At his disposal he has many weapons. Every weapon you can think of! A sword, an axe, stones and, of course, lightning bolts! He’s a mighty man with a long beard and he rides across the sky in his two-wheeled chariot, bringing rain and striking fire. The sound of the wheels often causes thunder. His chariot is drawn by goats—’

‘Goats?!’ Danutè says.

‘Not just any goats,’ Senelè continues. ‘They are the holiest, most magnificent goats you can ever imagine. He is king of the skies.’

‘And he blesses our crops?’

‘Oh yes: when he rolls his thunder for the first time in spring – just as he is doing now – having given the earth a good shake with his mighty thunder, the grass starts to grow and vegetation begins.’

There’s another roar of thunder and the cottage shakes, just as Senelè predicts. The girls flinch and giggle. Marytè is thankful her crops were sowed early so the storm won’t wash them away. They will have a good start to spring.

‘But he is not just the patron of fertility. He is also responsible for keeping order and justice. He lives in the clouds, between the heaven and the earth. He commands the thunder and lightning to shake out any evil spirits. It is said that Perkūnas was married to Saule, the sun goddess. They were a beautiful couple. All the deities were envious of them. But Saule was unfaithful. She had an affair with Menulis, the moon god.’

Marytè isn’t listening too closely, as she’s rubbing a honey ointment onto her aching knee, but at the mention of Saule’s infidelity she straightens. ‘Senelè, that’s enough. Please do not fill their heads with this nonsense. They’ve just lost their father: let’s not talk of these awful things.’

‘And their father was as good a man as Perkūnas. He too believed in order and justice. Our girls must learn about the old ways, Marytè, or they will be forgotten. We do not have them written down in a book like the church. If we do not talk about it, if we do not practise them or teach them to our young, it will all be lost. If that is so, we may as well pack up our things and move into the city, attend church daily like the good folk there. Forget about our bees, our way of life. Is that what you want?’

Marytè grits her teeth. ‘Carry on, then.’

‘What happens to Perkūnas and Saule?’ Austėja asks, even though she knows the ending to this story.

Marytè kneads the muscle and ligament around her knee joint. It is worse in the cold and the wet, as if her bones grate against each other, only warming and relaxing under the sun’s gaze. Is that how Menulis felt under Saule’s bright gaze? When her attention fell on him, he couldn’t resist, even though it was wrong?

‘Are you okay?’ Austėja asks in a whisper.

‘Yes.’

Austėja sighs as though she doesn’t believe her and turns back to her grandmother. Marytè rubs harder, flinching with the pain, but she continues. The pain keeps her present. She can’t risk her mind drifting off with dark thoughts. She does not wish to hear this story. Not this one. Not now. It is too violent. Depressing. And what justice is served in the end?

No, it is not good timing for a story such as this, but Marytè cannot argue with the old woman. She’d just speak louder and wave her arms around, energised by any resistance to her performance. Marytè presses her tongue up into her palate. She focuses on the shooting pain in her leg and not on the shooting flames lighting up the room followed by the throbbing, rumbling of the earth, or on the unwanted images, memories, shooting into her mind.

‘Well,’ Senelè continues, ‘he punishes Menulis. Some say he cut him up into little pieces but I believe he’d have been swifter than that. He split Menulis in half with a sword.’

Austėja shivers and Marytè too feels the drop in temperature. She pulls her shawl up onto her shoulders. Her knee is reddened from the massage.

‘What happened to Saule?’ Austėja asks.

Senelè shakes her head. ‘The witch was banished from the heavens and exiled to earth. Homeless and fraught, she still wanders the earth. She can be seen on riverbanks or by lakes.’

‘How sad.’

‘That is the punishment for adultery. We must trust our gods to deliver justice.’

Satisfied with the austere end to her story, Senelè lies back on her bed and closes her eyes. Soon, she submits to an easy rhythm and her body rises and falls in a deep slumber. Danutè has fallen asleep too but Austėja stares at the birch ceiling. She fidgets with her nails.

As the thunder rolls on so too do Senelè’s words, tumbling about Marytè’s mind. Infidelity. Evil spirits. Perkūnas. Justice. If it were true and Perkūnas is the one who calls order and justice, how will he do it? Will he hunt down those who deceive him? She shivers. This idea instils more fear in her than it should. It’s just a silly story. It’s not true.

Marytè lies down in her bed too, but sleep does not come for a long time. She has grown used to the weighted presence of him beside her. She lies awake thinking of her husband. The Hollow Watcher. The priest and the Duke. Two men have left and two have joined their clan. On the surface it seems as if it is an even swap, but for her, it has brought imbalance. Her world is off kilter.

Like too many bees in a hive. Sooner or later, they must split, and a swarm moves on somewhere else.