Page 49

But first, I must help Karmela with the gala. I accompany her to a nun’s house, where we print copies of the flyer and hang them around town. Several people watch from afar, keeping their distance. “Don’t worry,” Karmela assures me again. “They will come.”

When we go near Ko Doma, I try to avoid searching the customers for some sign of Luka, but I can’t help myself when I notice his tall figure out of the corner of my eye. He’s speaking to a group of women around my age, seated at a table. I watch in quiet envy as they all laugh at something he said. A moment later, he glances in my direction, and I hurriedly turn away. Maybe he’s only being a friendly waiter—or maybe he’s already moved on.

As he should. We were mostly friends. But the ache in my chest says otherwise. The urge to get back to the bunja and find an end to the curse blazes even stronger.

When Karmela and I run out of flyers, I tell her that I want to go for a walk before she can give me another task. “I think it would be good for me,” I lie.

She appears a little surprised but nods, her gaze darting to the maroon beneath my eyes. “Alright. Just be careful. It’s hot.”

“I will,” I assure her.

The sun beats down as I follow the same trail toward Slatinica. At least I’m wearing better shoes this time. I reach the bunja more quickly than before.

Gray and solemn, it watches me from across the field, mouth gaping wide in greeting. A shiver ripples down my spine at the sight, and for a moment, I consider doubling back. What if the necklace doesn’t protect me after all, and the mora appears? What if she attacks me for intruding?

Clutching the medallion around my neck, I take one small step, then another, marching across the field. When I reach the same point as last time, just before the entrance, I pause, listening. But it’s difficult to make anything out above the rapid beating of my heart. The moments pulse by, turning into minutes. Surely, if the mora was inside, she would have noticed me and come out.

“Hello?” I call shakily. Nothing. I pick up a rock and toss it inside the dark space. Still nothing. Edging closer, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and shine it toward the entrance. It appears to be empty. Sweat drips down my back as I stand there, debating what to do.

As I fret, the mora’s taunt whispers across my mind. Open your eyes.

Determination builds within me, crowding out the fear. I came to Tolba for the truth of my family history, and the mora is somehow wrapped up in it. And so, with a deep, bracing breath, I enter.

Cool air wafts over me as soon as I step inside.

My veins pump with adrenaline as I do a quick twirl, half expecting the mora to emerge from the shadows at any moment. But after several spins, I accept that I am alone.

I pause in the center of the bunja, waiting for my vision to adjust to the darkness and my heart rate to slow. Then I study the small space. A faint smell of damp wool lingers in the air. The ground is bare, covered in dry dirt. In one corner, a large stone is propped up like a seat. The roof arches into a dome above me, the stones packed so tightly together that no sunlight seeps in. And it is silent. So silent. I cannot hear the sea, the cicadas, or the rustle of the grass. It is as if the world beyond has disappeared.

I move around, stroking the rocks, examining their rough texture and skilled layering. But as the minutes slip by, a feeling of defeat bears down on me. There’s nothing here. Only stones and dirt and darkness.

With a shaky sigh, I sit on the stone and cradle my head in my hands. As much as I hate being here all alone, I also dread going back to the house, to the reality of my cursed life. To her.

My exhaustion seems to multiply, pressing down on my shoulders. It was foolish to come here for answers.

“Why is she haunting me?” I ask desperately, running my hands through my hair. “Why won’t she leave me alone?”

More silence. Perhaps I have truly gone mad, speaking to rocks. But then I feel something—a subtle pulse, like a gentle wave nudging against my body. Not a big crashing one, but a small ripple, the kind that carries you a few inches in the water if you let it. Another one comes, brushing against my skin, bringing with it a smoky scent and a tinge of melancholy. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t fight it. On the third wave, I close my eyes, yielding to the pressure. The stone beneath me falls away, and I drift and drift, the smoky fragrance growing stronger, like incense overwhelming my senses.

When I open my eyes, a small fire burns before me.

Startled, I attempt to leap away, but my body doesn’t react, remaining crouched beside the flame. I try to move again, but nothing happens. As if I have no control.

A pot hovers over the flames, with some sort of stew boiling inside. I rock back and forth, hugging my knees to my chest as I stare into the fire. Hot tears roll down my cheeks and a sob bubbles up my throat. I’m crying, though I have no idea why.

I tug at something around my shoulders, wiping a red shawl across my face. I catch a glimpse of the rest of my outfit. I’m wearing a soiled blouse with wide shoulder straps and a red apron, both patterned with flowers. Beneath it is a long, blue skirt. Similar to what the mora wore when she haunted me in the bath.

Despite the panicked thoughts racing through my mind, I carefully spoon some of the stew into a rugged bowl. There are a few more items on the ground beside me. A burlap bag, an assortment of herbs spread on a ragged cloth, a small book with a red cover. I eat the meal greedily, tasting gamy meat and salt.

The air around me shifts, transforming in a foggy haze.

I’m now huddled at the bunja’s entrance. I peer toward the surrounding trees, tense, as if looking or listening for something. The voices of two men echo from outside, growing louder. I jolt, then quickly snatch the book lying on the ground and hurry outside. As I dash from the bunja, the men shout in Croatian from across the field.

“I saw the mora! There!”

I flit behind a massive tree, panting. As I wait, the voices of the men float toward me. “Maybe it’s a trap,” one of them says. “Maybe she wants us to go into the woods.”

The other man is silent, perhaps considering this idea. I tremble, heart racing. If I am indeed within the mora’s body, then she is not some vicious enchantress or a nightmare hunting down my family. She is the prey.