His voice was distant and somber, as if it existed in a bygone era.
It was a hot summer afternoon. The birds were silent, except for a skylark whose chirping rose into the clear sky.
The reapers had already returned from the fields.
I was standing next to my flock, in the shadow of a wild apple tree. The sheep were huddled together in a heap with their heads down, the lambs cuddled up close to them. Periodically, they would all stir at once as if frightened by each other’s dreams, and their thick locks would tremble. The air was shimmering and growing hotter. Whenever we saw the air ripple like that, we’d say that Saint John was herding the sheep.
At the edge of the property many footprints had formed a trodden path, dry and cracked from the drought. On the mornings of summer feast days, old, gray-haired men and young, robust farm hands would make their way along this path to get to the church; the women would follow, wearing skirts and carrying bouquets of flowers, all the while chatting with one another.
Now the fields were empty. Here and there a horse would shake its head, or a cow would wag its tail, each trying to defend themselves from the biting gadflies. In the distance, on the banks of the Šeimena River, the roofs of the manor houses had reddened.
I was standing alone between the scorched soil and the fields left to fallow. At such an hour, there was a feeling that something was about to happen, like a rabid dog suddenly crawling forth from the wheat or the village idiot Jonelis barreling across the meadow. Anxiously I would watch the ripe, yellow spikes of wheat, watching for a foaming muzzle to emerge from nowhere. Last year, one of these infected dogs had gotten loose in our village, and the men chased it with cudgels and pitchforks, until finally catching up with it and stabbing it by the Šeimena.
Suddenly, something stirred at the far end of the wheat field. At first I couldn’t tell whether it was a whirlwind blowing through the crops, the hump of a moving farm animal, or a person. The sheep were already scattering as if some invisible force was driving them home, when I noticed an old man emerge. He wasn’t very far from me, but I had difficulty seeing him because only his head protruded from the crops and his straw hat was as yellow as his surroundings. Heavy, drooping stalks of wheat brushed him from both sides of the path.
It was only upon reaching me that he finally raised his head and looked at me for a long time. His eyes were tired and sad, and his face was swarthy and full of wrinkles.
Leaning against a knobby cane that had been carved from the branch of an apple tree, he said:
“Bring the flock home, my child…”
I replied using the customary phrase of the shepherds.
“I haven’t finished herding, uncle.”
“As you can see, the sheep aren’t grazing anymore. They’re full,” said the old man. “Oh, and I’m a bit weak in the knees, my son. You don’t mind if I rest here in the shade for a moment and catch my breath, do you?”
“No, not at all, uncle.”
Holding on to an apple tree, he crouched down and leaned against the border wall.
As he sat in the shade, the old man gazed at the ground for a long time, with the same mournful expression. The area was teeming with bushy caraway, creeping cinquefoil, and those tiny blossoms of wild flowers that we used to call ruff and heron’s beak, that appeared to smile when they opened. The old man then pulled out his pipe and a fire striker.
I was surprised because I had only seen one other person, Isidore the beggar, use a fire striker to smoke with.
The old man took hold of the tool’s twine, and with a skilled hand, lit a spark.
After taking a puff, he remained pensive and nodded his head, as if talking to himself.
A breeze blew, and the wheat stalks gently rustled. With a fervent buzzing, a moss carder bee landed on a piece of clover, leaning its red blossoms sideways.
The man then raised his blue eyes, deep wrinkles squeezing them from all sides, and spoke:
“Now that I think about it… why yes, I was once as small as you and herding sheep.”
His voice was distant and somber, as if it existed in a bygone era.
Both of us fell silent. I was dying to say something, but remained speechless. Instead I stood frozen in place, the midday heat scorching my body beneath my straw hat. I could see that this silence was difficult for the old man, because he looked at me again—patient and wistful, hoping for some kind of intercession. He then waved his hand as if pushing something away from himself, and with determination, pointed to his chest.
But, he didn’t say anything. So, I timidly asked:
“Are you having chest pains?”
Sometimes my mother would also complain that she suffered from this type of malady.
The old man looked down at his clogs, their copper linings sparkling in the sun, and spoke with even more difficulty:
“Thank you, my son, thank you… May God help you to grow big and handsome… You see, this past evening I dreamt of my mother, may she rest in peace. She cuddled and caressed me, as if I were still a baby. And I felt her hand—so soft… so soft. She was standing with me next to the well on our farm, and it was over there in that exact spot…”
He waved his hand towards the fields of the landowner’s estate, where the barley drifted in the breeze.
With my eyes wide, I looked at the spot to which he gestured. I had never seen any farmhouses, piles of timber or foundation stones there. It was only at home that I occasionally heard stories of a blacksmith named Žirbinčius who had lived somewhere on these grounds many years ago.
“That’s where our farm stood,” said the old man as he pointed to the barley. “One day, the estate came and evicted us—they said we had encroached past the boundary of their land. So they took our land away and evicted us. That was the kind of power the landowners wielded at that time. And I still recall the farmhouse, and the barn, and the cattle shed, and the cherry orchard. I always wanted to see it one more time. But nothing remains—not a stone, nor a tree. Not even the well my mother and I were standing next to in my dream. There, she caressed me and said that she forgives me…”
He fell silent and closed his eyes, his face full of sorrow. When he looked back up at his parents’ farmstead a tear was visible on his wrinkled face. As he mournfully beheld this land, his mind was likely wandering back to the days of his childhood, where he could see his brothers and sisters, and his old mother.
I felt sorry for him, and I said:
“Perhaps you don’t have a place to live, or maybe you haven’t eaten today?”
He shook his head and spoke:
“God nourishes all things, except for the restless heart. No, I have my own little nest over there by the Žaliaja Lake… so then, my mother caressed me and said she wasn’t angry. And once I raised my hand against her. Later she died, her body devoured by jaundice. Her death still gnaws at me, filling me with anguish. I used to work in the fields, and it was as if I could see her standing next to me, looking at me in the same sad way as the time I hurt her. You see, I had become infatuated with a girl named Genovaite. She was an orphan, hardworking and a singer, but my mother did not like her. One time she said to her, ‘You will never be my daughter-in-law!’ At that moment I flew into a rage and struck my mother. She said nothing to me, not when I made Genovaite my own, nor when my mother was on her deathbed. She just kept following me with her eyes. Maybe she was crying to herself… and so she died in silence. Whether I was ploughing the land or cutting the clover, I would see my mother standing and waiting, looking at me so sorrowfully. Looking and saying nothing, not even moving. And tonight, you see, she came and caressed me, giving me the gift of forgiveness. Now I am going to the old cemetery, where her bones lie, and where her eyes remain closed in slumber. And when I’m there I will talk to her, so that my heart will be unburdened… Do you ever go to this place, my child?”
He pointed to the cemetery at the end of the village, where no one was buried anymore, except for babies who died during childbirth.
“No uncle. I’m frightened of the cemetery,” I replied.
He then said:
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. The fact is, all of our parents lie there.”
As he said this, he leaned on his arm and struggled to get up. I went over and helped him.
Standing, the old man pointed to our house and asked:
“Is this your farmhouse?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You live in such a fine place.”
I looked at our farmstead. The willow leaves were blowing in the wind, their silver backs bending and shimmering—those beautiful trees of my homeland. In the springtime, I would make a whistle from the leaves and pipe out my poor little songs.
“Perhaps you’re surprised that I took time to speak with you,” said the man. “I don’t know you, and you’ve never met me either. Well, I suppose this old man’s confused you… with his mouth drooling as he chatters away. Although you may not have understood me, I do feel more at ease. Now I will make my way to the sacred place and bow down, asking for God’s mercy. And you, my child, be good as you grow up. That way you’ll remain healthy…”
I didn’t say anything. Instead, I smiled awkwardly. That was my farewell…
The old man started to walk away, gradually making his way toward the border of the property. Each step was carried out slowly, almost imperceptibly, and after a while only his hat could be seen rustling against the oat stalks lining both sides of his path. Eventually I lost sight of him, and I imagined his head continuing to nod as he sank deeper into the crops, as if something was pressing him into the land which cracked from the midday heat. He was moving past the ploughed fields of his homeland, past the cradle of his infancy and past the distant glow of his house, clinging to the rough clods of his ancestors’ land. He continued trudging through the ripe summer fields, his body inseparable from the yellow harvest, and slowly the midday stillness enveloped him and the surrounding plains.
The hot air shimmered around me, and across the wide plains of our land; the only sound that could be heard was the monotonous and dreary chirping of the grasshoppers.
Suddenly, I heard another voice in the distance. Running to the meadow was my youngest sister, who was waving and calling me in for lunch.
I then raised my whip. The sheep, without separating from their fold, huddled together and scurried home. The lambs chased after them.
Having met the flock ahead of the sheep, running and skipping along was my little sister.
Matthew Vasiliauskas is a graduate of Columbia University’s creative writing program. Based in Los Angeles, he has covered the Lithuanian culture and arts scene for journals such as VAN Magazine and All About Jazz, and his fiction writing has appeared in publications including Conjunctions and Decomp Literary Journal.
Header photo by Adina Voicu, courtesy Pixabay.