Chapter 1. Old House
My old house stood outside a small city, somewhere far away, between a train station and two rivers. It rested among farmland, forests, and gardens that had stood together for hundreds of years, like invisible guards watching over the land.How many times did I come here?
And how many times did I not want to come?
I was very young, almost a child, and those days felt as though they would last forever.
My grandmother is reading a book. My great-grandmother is sitting quietly, looking out the window. She was always at the window, it was her favorite place when she was at home. Their friends are visiting. The old house. The wooden table. The benches. The bed. The garden. The trees. The birds. Even the neighbour's cow.
The fresh smell of grass fills the air, while bright sunlight dances with the wind just outside the window.
"If it rains, we won't have to water the garden," my grandmother says.
Now I realize that I am older than some of the people who used to visit this house, people who seemed old through the eyes of a child. My mother is now almost the same age my grandmother was then.
I never truly understood how precious those moments were. I never valued them as much as I should have.
Today, I would give a great deal to sit at that table one more time and listen to every conversation.
One woman would always say,
"Everything is all right. The most important thing is that there is no war."
Several women would quietly cross themselves and nod in agreement.
To me, the old people all seemed tall, strong, powerful, and just a little frightening.
Once a year they wore their jackets covered with medals. Even my grandmother wore a medal pinned to her blue blouse. The same blue blouse I secretly borrowed and wore to school, although never with the medal. She kept it together with my grandfather's medals.
He had gone to war as well.
The older women were always serious. They listened without interrupting, allowing everyone to finish every thought before speaking. Then they would remain silent for another minute or two before quietly sharing their opinion.
Near the house stood an old apple tree and a small traditional wooden sauna where ancient rituals of cleansing had once taken place.
A bright, breezy hallway welcomed every visitor. The wooden floor creaked with every step, as though announcing to everyone inside that someone had arrived.
Almost immediately, the living room door would open, and someone would invite you inside.
During the day, the front door was never locked.
It was always open.
Always welcoming.
The old women sat around the table with a pot of boiled potatoes, fresh homemade bread, milk from the neighbour's cow, bread, and salt. They knitted while teaching me how to knit. The long knitting needles often poked my fingers, but that was all right. I was learning.
Even today, I still knit the same way they taught me, using techniques from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. I could learn newer methods, but I choose not to. I want to keep that connection with the old traditions.
"Our things are made for healing," - the women would say.
"Our food is made for healing too."
And I listened.
They told stories from long ago, especially about their youth, before the wars and before the revolution.
I listened, although I did not always understand or even try to remember.
I wanted to run outside.
And I did.
With my friends, I ran across the enormous fields. Sometimes we crossed the nearby river in a small wooden boat to explore the land on the other side. We were never afraid. Often we wandered into the forest, played in the flooded meadows with their brilliant green grass, and returned home before evening.
The garden around the house overflowed with herbs and flowers. In summer it was filled with warm sunshine beneath a bright blue sky without a single cloud.
At night the sky was crowded with stars. The fresh scent of grass drifted through the darkness.
It seemed as though I could see the entire galaxy.
Thousands of stars. Soft pink and purple circles of light. Tiny white dots. Perhaps even Perseus' Arm stretching across the sky. Sometimes I noticed thin streaks of light disappearing into the darkness.
Summer evenings were spent cooking over an open fire, caring for the garden, dreaming, and talking about the future.
New visitors always stopped by.
I still remember one woman with long dark hair. She is so clear in my memory. She stands beside the fire, serving soup from a large metal pot. Her smile glows in the firelight. Her eyes shine as she talks about simple things, the market, neighbours, everyday life.
Many years later, while I was at work, I suddenly began to see that old house differently.
Not through the eyes of the teenager who wanted to escape it.
But through the eyes of an adult who wanted to see, to hear, and finally to understand.
Chapter 4. Wizard and Warlock
Wizard
We met on a former Soviet farm where I was working for a bank.
The farm had once been successful, full of life, hope, and opportunity. Now it was almost abandoned.
All the farms in our region had once been lively. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Friday and Saturday night dances. She and her friends would dress up, curl their hair using small strips of newspaper, and walk to the village club.
Young men and women stayed outside until late at night, dancing, singing, and playing traditional music.
"It was a lot of fun", - she always said.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, everything changed.
Many farms closed. Others became much smaller or were sold in small pieces of land.
Farm clubs became closed old buildings with different stuff inside, books, papers, benches, wall paintings of Soviet life.
There were two kinds of people who stayed behind in the farm where I started to work twice a week.
The first fought against poverty. They started their own farms, bought land, opened small businesses, or moved away.
The second accepted what had happened and continued living on the little the farm could still provide.
The Wizard belonged to the second group.
He accepted everything.
He lived with very little.
And he liked me.
We mostly talked about books. I had many books at home, and every week I brought him another one to read.
There was something about his energy.
It was bright.
Every time I met him, I felt as if I am washing my face in cool, clean water. And water from secret special place. Always fresh, splashy in sparkling clear pearls of water.
He was calm and polite, shy. He wore old clothes and rubber boots, but the roads were always muddy, so they suited him perfectly.
We would talk for a while. Then he would return to his work, saying he was already looking forward to the next book, or promising to bring me one of his own.
One day I asked him: "Why do you want to live here? Why don't you move to a big city? Everything would be easier."
He smiled.
There was sadness in that smile.
"And do what?" - he asked.
For some reason, I understood.
He would never feel at home anywhere else.
Here, surrounded by fields and open sky, he looked different.
Tall.
Strong.
There was an unusual beauty about him, especially outdoors.
One afternoon we walked together across the farmland toward his house.
It felt as though the weather changed around him.
The sun came out.
The sky turned deep blue.
Birds began to sing.
Then he started singing.
His voice was beautiful, the song reminded old Slavic style from movies.
When we went our separate ways, I moved to a big city, I remember thinking, I have met wizard. It gave something special to my life. Feeling of clean energy may be.
Warlock
One day I had to bring some documents for a man to sign. It was business deal.
After walking for a while, I realized something felt strange.
The feeling was like walking inside of an invisible bubble, controlled by thicker air around.
The air seemed different.
A little darker.
The road led to the edge of the city, where new apartment buildings stood unfinished, mixing country houses and those new buildings.
He lived in a small house, a good one, really standing up around all the construction mess.
I rang the bell.
An old man opened the door.
He could barely see me.
Instead, he seemed to sniff the air before looking in my direction.
Then something unusual happened.
It felt as though something invisible stopped him.
Almost like an unseen hand had appeared between us, telling him to stop.
He stepped back with expression on his face that everything is fine, almost with smile.
For a moment he looked surprised too. I felt it. He finally looked at me, then he quietly invited inside.
The room was small. Clean. Almost empty.
There was only a table, a television, and a bed. The news channel was turned on.
He disappeared behind a curtain into another room.
When the curtain opened, the scent of dry grass filled the house.
He returned carrying a magnifying glass.
Very slowly, he began reading the documents.
Every line. Every word.
It took him almost an hour to read a single page.
When he finally finished, he signed the papers and handed them back to me. There was another news program, and another.
I thanked him and left.
On the walk home, the strange feeling remained.
It was as though I were still inside that invisible bubble.
Only when I was far away from the house the air become ordinary again.
Warm. Light. Breezy.
Wizard
We met on a former Soviet farm where I was working for a bank.
The farm had once been successful, full of life, hope, and opportunity. Now it was almost abandoned.
All the farms in our region had once been lively. My grandmother used to tell me stories about Friday and Saturday night dances. She and her friends would dress up, curl their hair using small strips of newspaper, and walk to the village club.
Young men and women stayed outside until late at night, dancing, singing, and playing traditional music.
"It was a lot of fun", - she always said.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, everything changed.
Many farms closed. Others became much smaller or were sold in small pieces of land.
Farm clubs became closed old buildings with different stuff inside, books, papers, benches, wall paintings of Soviet life.
There were two kinds of people who stayed behind in the farm where I started to work twice a week.
The first fought against poverty. They started their own farms, bought land, opened small businesses, or moved away.
The second accepted what had happened and continued living on the little the farm could still provide.
The Wizard belonged to the second group.
He accepted everything.
He lived with very little.
And he liked me.
We mostly talked about books. I had many books at home, and every week I brought him another one to read.
There was something about his energy.
It was bright.
Every time I met him, I felt as if I am washing my face in cool, clean water. And water from secret special place. Always fresh, splashy in sparkling clear pearls of water.
He was calm and polite, shy. He wore old clothes and rubber boots, but the roads were always muddy, so they suited him perfectly.
We would talk for a while. Then he would return to his work, saying he was already looking forward to the next book, or promising to bring me one of his own.
One day I asked him: "Why do you want to live here? Why don't you move to a big city? Everything would be easier."
He smiled.
There was sadness in that smile.
"And do what?" - he asked.
For some reason, I understood.
He would never feel at home anywhere else.
Here, surrounded by fields and open sky, he looked different.
Tall.
Strong.
There was an unusual beauty about him, especially outdoors.
One afternoon we walked together across the farmland toward his house.
It felt as though the weather changed around him.
The sun came out.
The sky turned deep blue.
Birds began to sing.
Then he started singing.
His voice was beautiful, the song reminded old Slavic style from movies.
When we went our separate ways, I moved to a big city, I remember thinking, I have met wizard. It gave something special to my life. Feeling of clean energy may be.
Warlock
One day I had to bring some documents for a man to sign. It was business deal.
After walking for a while, I realized something felt strange.
The feeling was like walking inside of an invisible bubble, controlled by thicker air around.
The air seemed different.
A little darker.
The road led to the edge of the city, where new apartment buildings stood unfinished, mixing country houses and those new buildings.
He lived in a small house, a good one, really standing up around all the construction mess.
I rang the bell.
An old man opened the door.
He could barely see me.
Instead, he seemed to sniff the air before looking in my direction.
Then something unusual happened.
It felt as though something invisible stopped him.
Almost like an unseen hand had appeared between us, telling him to stop.
He stepped back with expression on his face that everything is fine, almost with smile.
For a moment he looked surprised too. I felt it. He finally looked at me, then he quietly invited inside.
The room was small. Clean. Almost empty.
There was only a table, a television, and a bed. The news channel was turned on.
He disappeared behind a curtain into another room.
When the curtain opened, the scent of dry grass filled the house.
He returned carrying a magnifying glass.
Very slowly, he began reading the documents.
Every line. Every word.
It took him almost an hour to read a single page.
When he finally finished, he signed the papers and handed them back to me. There was another news program, and another.
I thanked him and left.
On the walk home, the strange feeling remained.
It was as though I were still inside that invisible bubble.
Only when I was far away from the house the air become ordinary again.
Warm. Light. Breezy.
Chapter 5.
The Dark Magician and The White Magician.
People talked about her.
Some said she practiced dark magic. Others believed it was only superstition because she always wore black clothes.
No one really knew.
There were only rumors.
Some people believed them. Others did not.
But everyone was careful around her.
Only once did I look beyond her appearance.
Only once did I try to see her energy.
She reminded me of a bird.
Focused.
Still.
Her eyes were sharp. Her face was serious in a quiet, powerful way. There was no laughter in her. No lightness. No easy emotion.
She was completely present.
It felt as though she were watching me from somewhere deep inside herself.
The energy I sensed looked like a circle of fire.
Dark at the center.
Glowing orange around it.
Almost golden at the edges.
Always moving.
Always spinning.
The White Magician was different.
Like the Wizard, she still makes me smile whenever I think of her.
She was beautiful, even at eighty years old.
Bright.
Alive.
She wore colorful clothes, often the same ones. At that time, most women had very little choice in what they could wear, yet she always looked different.
Her hair was blond.
She wore perfume that smelled like fresh flowers.
When I looked deeper, trying to see her energy, I saw something unexpected.
Behind her was blue.
At first it looked like a clear summer sky.
Then I noticed the eyes.
Eyes in the sky.
Hundreds of them.
As she moved, more and more eyes appeared, quietly watching.
I never felt afraid.
Only amazed.
The Dark Magician and the White Magician were not friends.
They did not visit each other or spend time together.
Yet they had lived through the Second World War on the same side.
Perhaps that was enough.
Enough for them to belong to the same unspoken sisterhood.
Enough for their grandchildren to grow up walking the same road.
Chapter 6. Party.
One time we were invited to a graduation party. Few girls graduated from medical school and invited all their relatives and friends.
I went with group of older women thinking its going to be fun and I just wanted to see different people, especially from different cities.
At the party, the women were sitting in groups, and really, not talking much or talking to each other.
There were few men, soon they started to talk, because it would look really unusual for the party when everyone is quiet.
He was a tall, handsome man.
Fit, with a tan that spoke for itself. Not a pale brown, but the rich color of coffee touched with cream. The kind of color that made you think of sunshine, travel, and distant places.
He looked at me with curiosity, but also with suspicion.
Because he was much taller than I was, his gaze seemed to come from above. His Polo shirt fit him perfectly, revealing a man who looked completely at home in a life of comfort and luxury.
"Can you tell me how old I am?" - he asked.
"You look about ten," - I joked.
He didn't understand.
Instead, he walked to a nearby store and bought me a lottery ticket.
"I am seventy-nine," - he said.
I didn't believe him.
He simply didn't look that old.
Then, almost instantly, something changed in his face.
A man, the best in honey business, according to our friends, who was standing beside me, suddenly pulled me away.
"Don't talk to him," - he said.
He pulled me a little harder than necessary.
I noticed. It felt rude.
I stepped back, almost hiding in the room, suddenly feeling as though everyone were watching me.
There wasn't much to do at the party.
Most of the guests were much older than I was.
So I watched the tall, handsome man.
From a distance, or with only a quick glance, he looked no older than forty-three or forty-four. Tall. Slim. Athletic. His skin carried the warm color of someone who spent time in the sun. His clothes looked expensive, the kind you would find only in designer boutiques. He had no socks, or short socks. I could see a bit of his legs, nicely tan too.
Everything about him suggested that he still saw himself as a young, attractive man.
He laughed easily.
He smiled often.
He looked completely comfortable.
Then I moved a little closer.
The picture began to change.
The longer I looked, the older he seemed to become.
He wore a jacket that matched his shoes perfectly. Later he took it off, leaving only his jeans, his Polo shirt, and spotless unique white running shoes.
Everything looked expensive.
Everything looked carefully chosen.
But then I noticed his hands.
They were covered with small bumps and fine lines. The skin was thin and delicate, like caramel stretched over a cheesecake.
For a moment, his fingers seemed unusually long.
Or perhaps they only moved that way.
His face changed too.
Wrinkles appeared.
Fine lines became deeper.
It almost seemed as though his face could not settle into a single expression.
At moments, it reminded me of a mask.
And behind that mask, I sensed something else.
His eyes changed.
Then I saw him clearly.
He was old.
Very old.
There was a heaviness around him.
A tiredness.
A slight trembling.
His gray hair suddenly seemed to belong perfectly with his grey eyes.
And in that moment, he became exactly what he had told me he was.
A seventy-nine-year-old man.
Then I noticed something else.
The old women were watching him too.
Quietly and patiently. I shoke a bit and left the room.
