Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

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

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