While They Dance Up Above

Have you ever woken up in a coffin? When your nose presses against the board and the darkness never turns grey, no matter how much you blink. I know what the lid smells like from the inside. I am still there now. It began on a Tuesday evening. At the graveyard I heard stamping under a grave and a child's laughter, then I noticed the girl. The low sun lit her bare feet. She was dancing between two crosses, humming a familiar tune.

From my house to the graveyard in Derman was a quarter of an hour. I was bringing the gravedigger a shroud; without that payment there was nothing to buy oil for the lamp. Beside the open grave lay a spade. I called the gravedigger twice, and the girl stopped dancing. - What are you carrying? - A shroud. Have you seen the gravedigger? - Are there pockets in it? - Pockets, that's all it needed.

Something about the girl touched me. I felt a strange warmth toward her and told her how that morning a bride had demanded a pocket in her wedding skirt, to hide a makivnyk from the groom. I agreed, but warned her: she'd be shaking out the crumbs herself. The girl laughed. Straightening the shroud in the basket, I found my thimble. I put it in the little pocket at my waist and pulled the drawstring tight.

Twenty-five years old, and I still have to tie everything down so I don't lose it. She, meanwhile, had stepped back toward a low mound. I followed her a few steps and set the basket down on the dry path. The girl kept close to the mound the whole time. Not once did she step onto the path that led to the gate. That corner of ours was called the Old Crossing. My grandmother used to say that people once walked through there to the church doors, before they were walled up.

You could still see the arch in the wall. Because of the mound my grandmother forbade us to cut across: "Don't go through the Old Crossing. Whoever lies down there in a place not their own will never come home again." The girl nudged a flat pebble forward with her toes. - Auntie, choose: walking or lying? - What for? Tell me where your mother is. - And when mother calls, are your legs still your own?

I decided the child had seen too much of the funeral. At fittings children said stranger things than that; I always knew when they weren't serious. - The legs are yours. But you must listen to your mother. - And who calls you? - Everyone, a little. The moment I lie down, they're already knocking at the window. - And when you lie and no one calls, is that rest? - And how. She looked at the mound and turned back to me.

- I'll give you my lying place. And you give me your walking one. - Fine, - I answered, deciding she was playing. - We'll play once, and then you'll come with me to find your people. I was kind to her. I thought after the game she'd let me wait for the gravedigger in peace. The sun was already touching the top of the mound. The girl set her heel by the pebble and showed me: a step to the side, bring the foot up, go around the mound.

- There, walk to this pebble. Then you'll be standing inside. The last step I'll take for you. Only don't move until I step. - And if I move? - Then we won't trade. And it has to be done while the sun is here. I set down the basket. - Well, show me quickly. - Only I'll do the breathing for us both, auntie. You won't forget to lie? - I won't forget, and you don't forget that afterwards we're going. I followed her around the mound.

At every step something heavy dragged along under the earth. The girl breathed in, and I had to breathe in too, even if I hadn't yet breathed out to the end. By the pebble I stepped inside the circle and stopped. The basket stayed on the path. Through the crosses I could see the open gate. The girl raised her foot. - Now it's my turn.

Her heel came down beyond the pebble. In that same instant something shoved me behind the breastbone, and my soles pressed against wood. For one more moment I saw the last strip of sun on her cheek. - Enough, I'm not playing anymore. She took one more step, and my cheek was pressed against a rough board. It went dark. I wake because I cannot turn my head.

Dark. Wood lies just above my upper lip. I try to lift my chin, and my nose presses into the board. I move my head, but under the back of my skull it is hard too, only coarse cloth laid beneath. The thought flashed through me that I had fallen into the open grave and hit my head, that I only needed to climb out. My left shoulder presses against a sloping wall. The right one too.

I run my fingers downward: tighter at my hips, narrower still at my feet. With my heels I feel a board. With horror I understood - this is a coffin. I am lying in a coffin alive. I tug at the twisted hem of my skirt; if I free the cloth, I'll be able to brace my feet harder. I manage to slip two fingers into the little pocket. On the drawstring is my knot. The thimble with the dent settles onto my middle finger; under it aches the familiar callus.

The hands are certainly mine, and the skirt is mine. It smells of damp linen, earth and incense. I lie with my nose against the cloth and cannot move away from that smell. I feel out the joint under the lid. The boards are dry on the inside, the grain runs the length of my body. Near the edge I find the point of a nail. Then a second. Anything sewn can be unpicked. Here too there is an edge to take hold of. I press the rim of the thimble to the joint.

I scrape along the grain. My elbow has no room to swing, so I work with the wrist alone. A splinter slides under my nail; I don't pull it out, so as not to lose the spot I've found. The joint crumbles. The edge of my fingernail slips into the gap. I brace my heels and press my palm upward. The board gives a little. Earth sifts down onto my face.

I freeze. The earth keeps sifting down, packing in under my chin. I let go of the lid and it settles lower. Now the wood touches my nose even when I lie flat. I gather the earth from my lips into my palm. The only place I can put it is on my own neck. - I'm here! Alive! Help! My voice comes back at me. I try louder, but after the scream there is nothing to breathe in. I part my lips and feel earth packing into my mouth.

I have to save the air. I count to ten, but only make it to seven. My chest jerks, but the breath comes small, empty. A roaring grows in my ears. Above me, someone is walking. Now my chest straightens on its own and presses painfully against the lid. From above comes an exhale, and the roar in my ears dies down. Then the steps overhead go still. By my temple, earth quietly trickles down. I exhale after it, without meaning to. I hear heavy footsteps, then the gravedigger's voice:

- Kateryna? Where are you? The basket's here, but where have you got to? I strike the thimble against the wood above my face. The blow is dull, my finger hurts, but I strike again. - She's lying down, and I'm walking here for her, - says the girl. - Ran off home? Hmm, and left the basket. Well then, tell her I'll bring the money over tomorrow. He hears her! He's talking to her! - Under you! I'm under you! Help!

I fill my lungs and scream. The wood presses on my ribs; a little earth sifts into my throat. Footsteps sounded up above. - I'll go take the spade. And you run home, little one, it'll be dark soon! His footsteps recede. I claw at the board with my bare fingernails until everything goes completely quiet, but even then I don't stop. My hand cramps. I take the thimble off with my teeth and hold it between them, so as not to lose it in the earth. With my free hand I search for the joint again.

My finger sinks into soil and goes no further. The familiar tune sounded again, to the beat of rhythmic steps. The girl is dancing over my head. I hold my breath. Her next inhale stretches my ribs. The steps move on. I press my palm to my mouth and nose without lifting my elbow, but my chest rises all the same. My head clears again. I feel the splinter under my nail more sharply.

The dance moves away. The steps reach the path where before she never once set foot. Then the gate creaks. I hold my breath. Somewhere far off the girl breathes in, and my ribs spread apart on their own, pressing into the lid. They will not even let me faint.