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Maria Matios
sleep in the afternoon, and as
though for the entire evening
no one went to anyone else’s
house by way of the meadow
either in secret or in full
view, and as if no one that
evening had gathered the
sheep droppings along the
riverbanks, or mowed the
grass, or dragged firewood
home from the meadow.
Well, it’s as though the entire
village all at once went blind,
or fell asleep in bed all at once
even before sunset – and fell
asleep as if they had died,
and nothing in the world had
concerned them other than
deep sleep.
In the meantime in the
meadow above the river not
a single tiny bush or stone
remained, under which grief-
stricken Mykhailo didn’t
look after everyone, who
had tried to help him find
Matronka had looked before.
He looked the way a crow
searches every nook and
cranny in a bone, pushed
aside stones from their
place and tossed brushwood
prepared by someone before
being carried out, for a long
time probed the unoccupied
riverbank’s surface, in case it
would sink down or get soft,
but he didn’t find a single
trace that would give even
meager hope. Except for the
trampled grass along the
water itself and the tracks in
the sand, whichwere heavy as
though they had been forged,
and evidently not a woman’s.
But no, not so. For Mykhailo
not simply tracks were seen
– but an entire trampled
area of tracks right next to
the water, as though here on
the sand an entire army had
marched or a large herd of
livestock had huddled – as if
crazed – not knowing where