Almost the entire village came to see the miller off on his last journey — he was a respected, hard-working man, always ready to help a neighbor in trouble. He cheated no one, ground grain honestly, without keeping back what was due. He raised his daughter strictly but with love — Agnieszka had grown into a quiet, kind girl who quarreled with no one and did harm to no one. Such people should not die young, sprouted through with grain in the middle of a field.
Kazik was buried beside his wife. The old women wept, wiping their tears with the corners of their kerchiefs. Katara sobbed too — she remembered how Kazik had milled their flour for free when they had no coin to pay. The men stood silent, hats in hand, and only now and then whispered a prayer when the wind carried the smell of incense from the censer. The miller's daughter was white as a sheet, the black dress making her look like a shadow. Two old women, Nastasya and Zofya, held her by the arms — she swayed as if ready to faint at any moment.
Old Tadeusz, who in his youth had served at the temple of Melitele and knew all the rites, recited prayers in a trembling voice. When he finished, he nodded to two young lads — they took up shovels and began methodically covering the body wrapped in coarse linen with earth. Clods thudded dully against the cloth, and with each thump Agnieszka flinched with her whole body.
The graveyard was small, like the village itself. The old graves were overgrown with weeds; on the new ones stood wooden crosses with carved names. Now there would be one more cross here — for a man who had not died his own death, not of illness or old age, but of something strange and terrifying.
After the funeral, as was proper, the village gathered at Wojtek's house — the only place in Rechitsy that could hold all the residents. The house was communal — here they held weddings, wakes, settled disputes, and convened for council when trouble knocked at the gate. Sometimes it served as a tavern for the rare travelers who wandered into their backwater. Though what could bring a person to such a hole, with nothing but bogs and fields, Jaromir did not understand.
Wojtek set out on the table everything he had — bread, lard, boiled mutton, a small cask of ale. They spoke of Kazik, recalled his good deeds, but mostly they just drank, drowning grief and confusion. A neighbor's death was frightening — it had come too suddenly and inexplicably, without sickness or wounds, without any visible cause. Jaromir sat in a corner, not touching his mug. His health wasn't what it had been, and he was planning to go hunting again in the evening — one duck would scarcely feed the family for the next few days.
In the very center, at the big table, the elder sat with his son. Stanislav was a portly man, his face red from a good life and plentiful food. His beard was well groomed, his clothes were stout broadcloth, rings gleamed on his fingers. Beside him sat Maciej, a sixteen-year-old with a haughty expression — the son clearly considered himself above the village men and looked at them with poorly concealed contempt.
When the noise died down, Stanislav rose and tapped his ring against his mug. His voice was loud, used to being obeyed.
"A sad business," he began, "but life goes on. Kazik is dead, may the Kingdom of Heaven be his, but his fields and house must not stand idle. The village needs the harvest, needs the mill. I am ready to take upon myself the care of the deceased's household so that everything goes as it should."
Some of the old men nodded. Someone muttered, "You speak rightly, elder." But then the cobbler Miron, a man as skinny as a rail, leaned forward:
"And what about the daughter? Kazik has Agnieszka left — she's the mistress now."
Everyone looked at the girl. She sat in the corner, still pale, and kept silent, sunk in her own grief.
"The daughter?" Stanislav smirked. "What sort of mistress is she? A young, inexperienced girl. What will she do with the fields? With the mill? No, I had better look after the household, and we'll find her some other occupation."
Then old woman Nastasya, the sharpest tongue in the village, spoke up:
"Maybe it wasn't by chance, any of this! Maybe ill fate took Kazik for something. Not everything was clean with him if the gods punished him."
"Exactly!" the blacksmith Boris chimed in. "Ordinary folk don't die like that. Means some sin lay on him."
"Maybe not on him alone," said another old woman, Zofya, meaningfully. "His daughter isn't simple. She gathers all sorts of herbs, brews salves. Like some witch."
Stanislav pricked up his ears; a quick, appraising interest flashed in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"You speak rightly, Zofya. I've noticed it myself — the girl is strange. Goes out of the house at night, mutters something. And those potions of hers… Who knows what goes into them? Maybe it was her witchcraft that did in her father?"
The people murmured. Peasants feared magic more than plague or war. In their understanding, any knowledge of herbs and remedies was suspicious — only a trained healer taught by temple healers, or a priest blessed for that service, had the right to treat. And here was a young, untrained girl brewing some salves… That was not good.
"She must be driven out!" someone shouted. "Before she curses us all!"
"Let her go into the bogs, to her unclean spirits!" old woman Nastasya chimed in.
Agnieszka shrank even smaller in her corner but kept silent. Katara tugged Jaromir by the sleeve, her eyes anxious — she understood where this was heading. But Jaromir did not move. Not his affair, other people's problems. He had his own family, his own worries.
"I saw it!" old woman Zosia suddenly screeched, who had always been considered a bit touched. "I saw her leaving the house at night! Dances naked under the moon, recites incantations!"
And then Agnieszka spoke. Her voice was quiet, trembling, but in the sepulchral silence of the tavern it rang clear:
"I was gathering herbs. Moon mint. Its leaves glow in the moonlight; it's easier to find."
Everyone fell silent, staring at the girl. She rose slowly, swaying, but standing straight.
"I made medicinal remedies. From my father's book, which he got from a wandering alchemist. Many of you used those remedies — to settle the belly, drive out chills, and heal wounds."
"It's the prayers that help us!" someone objected hesitantly. "Melitele is merciful..."
Agnieszka raised her head, and something like anger flared in her eyes:
"If Melitele is so merciful, then why didn't she save my father?"
The tavern exploded. Everyone shouted at once — some cursed, some began to pray, some demanded the blasphemer be driven out immediately. Stanislav smiled with satisfaction — the better pretext for getting rid of the heiress he could not have invented.
Katara grabbed Jaromir by the hand, her fingers trembling:
"They'll kill her," she whispered. "Beat her to death to please that scoundrel. You must do something!"
Jaromir pulled his hand free and hissed at his wife:
"Quiet. It's not our business to meddle in other people's affairs. As the gods will, so it will be. And to go against a mob — that's madness."
"But the girl isn't guilty of anything..."
"How do you know?" he snapped. "Sit quiet."
But then Maciej leaned to his father and whispered something in his ear, nodding toward Agnieszka. Stanislav frowned, listened, then answered his son briefly. The boy smiled — a satisfied, predatory smile. Jaromir followed the direction of his gaze and felt something unpleasant stir in his chest. He knew that look — that's how they look at prey. That's how a wolf looks at a sheep it's about to tear apart.
Stanislav raised his hand, calling for silence:
"Stop, good people! We must not sin before the gods. The girl is young, foolish, but there's no cause to kill her. There is another way."
"What way?" someone grumbled distrustfully.
"Let her live in my house. With the servants, with the cooks and the groom. She'll clean, do the laundry, wash the dishes — young hands can work. And I'll keep an eye on her myself, and if anything — personally flog her with rods to drive the heresy out of her. For prevention I'll beat her too — so she forgets about blasphemy."
Maciej did not take his eyes off the girl, watching her the way a horse-dealer sizes up a mare. Agnieszka really was comely — tall, stately, with long dark hair and big brown eyes. Even in grief, even pale and frightened, she remained beautiful. It was clear why the elder's son had set his sights on her.
"The elder is right," chimed in one of Stanislav's retainers. "He knows how to manage things — it's not the first time he's decided what's best for the village. As he says, so it shall be."
Some muttered in displeasure, but no one dared gainsay the elder. Agnieszka tried to say something, but the old women clapped their hands over her mouth.
"Quiet, foolish girl," hissed old woman Nastasya. "It'll be even worse if you loosen your tongue."
The girl covered her face with her hands in resignation and sat back down on the bench. Her shoulders were trembling — whether from cold or from despair.
So it was decided. People began to disperse — some home, some for another mug of ale. Katara cast resentful looks at her husband, but what could one expect from a foolish woman — she did not understand how the world was arranged. It was not for them to judge what was good and what was bad. Everyone has their own fate, their own purpose, and to interfere in God's providence only makes things worse.