The Kum Who Took the Sin Upon Himself

Some promises rest on a man's honour. And some rest on his kum. Hryts was setting off for the fair and swore to his wife: not a single drop would touch his lips. His kum Lavrin, a man of philosophical mind, volunteered to help at once. - I'll drink for you, - he says. - A kum's throat is a shared shield. Hryts rejoiced. He decided he had found the perfect scheme, where others take the sin upon themselves.

The fair hummed like a beehive. It smelled of fried sausages, dust and sweet honey. The first trial was the mead. Lavrin took two mugs and handed one to Hryts. - Hold it, but don't raise it to your mouth, - whispers the kum. - I'll drink your share, so the temptation disappears. Lavrin heroically drained both. Hryts stood beside him, holding the empty mug, and felt almost saintly. He didn't so much as twitch his nose, though the honey tickled his nostrils sweetly.

The first line of defence had held. By the cart with the pepper horilka the music played louder. Lavrin's cheeks were already red, but he could see Hryts gazing sadly at the barrel. - I shall take this fire upon myself, - the kum declared solemnly, grabbing a shot glass. - You just hold the vessel while I suffer for your promise. Hryts obediently held the little clay cup. Lavrin drank and winced, and Hryts, in solidarity, breathed the pepper fumes in deep.

His throat didn't burn, but a pleasant warmth spread through his chest from his kum's self-sacrifice. The third trial was the cherries from the nalyvka. They stood in a clay bowl beside the barrel, nearly black, glistening, so innocent-looking, as if they were simply berries after rain. Lavrin was already hugging a post and explaining to a goose that true friendship demands sacrifice. - Eat, - he waved to Hryts. - That's not drinking. That's food.

You'll tell your wife: at the fair I only had a bite of berries. Hryts ate one cherry. Then a second. Then a third - just to be certain the first two really hadn't been drinking. The cherries were sweet, tart and so treacherous that after the fifth one the ground underfoot went soft and the geese became far too dignified. Formally, Hryts had not drunk. But the cherries, as it turned out, had their own opinion about promises.

In the evening his wife was waiting for them on the porch. Hryts walked in zigzags, trying to lean on the air. Lavrin crawled alongside on all fours, but on seeing her he raised a finger: - Odarka! He didn't drink! I'm a witness! I organized the sin so the promise wouldn't come to harm! Odarka only sighed, catching on her husband's breath not the smell of drink but such a cherry truth you could have painted a door with it. - So you didn't drink? - she asked.

- I didn't drink, - Hryts said honestly. Lavrin raised a finger: - I confirm it. He only ate. And if that food knew how to sing on its own - well, that's no fault of ours. What can I tell you - people think a promise can be skirted round like a puddle. But a word is a cunning thing: it hears not only the mouth, but the intent as well.

When a man swears not to drink and then eats his fill of such cherries that even the geese step aside for him, the promise may still be whole. But the wife will spot where its little tail is sticking out all the same.