The Name of Paradise

Ivan's cause of death was drowning. More precisely, drowning by misstep.

He had warmly welcomed an old friend—the Count—who had come from afar to visit him, and while trying to show him the riverside scenery, the only pride of this village, he had slipped, they said.

The villagers prized a single coin more than the word of God, yet even so they all offered their condolences for the death of the pastor who had come all the way to this remote countryside for the salvation of their souls.

Ivan's coffin was set in the center of the church sanctuary. It was the season when everything froze solid, and no flowers bloomed in the fields, so the people fashioned crude bouquets from mistletoe and laid them upon his coffin.

Anastasia sat in the foremost pew and stared blankly at her father's coffin. The village chief regarded her with a look of pity.

The child who had always gone about in old, threadbare clothes now wore black garments hastily procured from a nearby larger village on the Count's orders. That the first fine clothes of her life should be mourning attire. After glancing at the Count, who was receiving the villagers in young Anastasia's place, the village chief spoke to her.

"He is a kind man. You must never forget to live with gratitude toward him."

"……."

Anastasia only nodded weakly in reply. The Count truly was someone to be grateful for—to Anastasia and to the village chief alike.

Burying anyone in such a bitter winter was hard work. That was why those who died in winter were cremated. But cremation required firewood. When the village chief carefully mentioned the fact, the Count ordered that ten gold coins be given him, then said,

"See that the firewood is prepared without stinting."

Ten gold coins for firewood. When the village chief announced he would buy it, the people emptied their sheds of every stick at the promise of money without having to journey to the larger village. Thanks to that, a mountain of timber piled up on the outskirts of the settlement. Ivan's body would burn very well indeed.

That was not the only kindness for which they owed the Count.

He's even taking the child in.

The moment he heard Ivan was dead, the village chief had thought at once of Anastasia.

When a child in the village lost its parents, the wealthiest man usually took the orphan in. It was no true loss. In this barren land a human being was valuable labor—feed them a single potato a day and later they would dig up a hundred. Yet the village chief had no wish to take Anastasia himself.

I can see why the pastor kept her locked away.

She was twelve, yet she looked no more than eight—small and thin. Even so, the villagers who had come to mourn the dead man's final journey kept casting glances at Anastasia. The men especially.

The village chief had seen Anastasia's mother once. When the pastor first arrived, the woman at his side, heavy with child, had still been beautiful despite the clear marks of illness. He had hidden her deep inside the church; the next time the chief saw her she was already buried on the hill.

How unwilling the man had been to let anyone look upon his wife—he had buried her alone in secret, without the others knowing. Afterward he had locked up and raised the daughter who resembled her so closely. He must have known she would grow up like this.

Anton has been talking about that girl more and more of late, too.

The village chief knew his own son circled the church every day, hoping Anastasia might come outside. He knew the new great dictionary he had bought had been wanted only to lure the girl. And bring Anastasia into his own house?

I can't allow that.

His son was not a boy meant to rot in a countryside like this. He would go to a larger city—no, to the capital—and become the pride of the family. But if Anastasia were there he would trail after her without fail. One day the chief might find that girl lying in his son's bed.

That was not the future he wanted. He had been fretting over how to send her elsewhere when the Count offered to take her. The village chief disposed of his problem with ease.

After the few villagers had paid their respects, Ivan's coffin was set at once upon the pyre.

The burning stack blazed fiercely. It burned for a day and a half. From the ashes the village chief gathered the remaining bone fragments, placed them in a wooden box, and handed it to Anastasia, who stood before the carriage.

"Listen well to what the Count tells you."

"Yes…"

Anastasia looked up in surprise at the first warmth of her father's remains she had ever felt. Beyond the church, her mother's gravestone on the hill looked very small.

When she climbed into the carriage and gazed out the window, the villagers gathered to see the Count off waved. Every child watched Anastasia with envious eyes.

That the most pitiful child in the village should suddenly go to a count's household. To country folk, even working in a noble's mansion was the highest glory.

At these gazes she was receiving for the first time, Anastasia hesitated without managing a greeting, and the Count raised the leather shade that served as a window. Anastasia closed her eyes. She did not know where she was going, yet it seemed this golden carriage would carry her to some more beautiful place.

As the carriage moved, the villagers bowed their heads. When they raised them much later, the carriage was already leaving the village. The great event of the Count's visit that had befallen this small country settlement was over.

When the carriage disappeared completely over the hill, the people returned to their homes. From tomorrow it would be the same dull routine again.

In the excitement of the Count's visit there was a fact they had forgotten. That in this season there was no ground thawed enough for a foot to slip. That even if a man fell, there was no river thawed enough to carry him away.

No one thought of it. They would remember only the Count's visit forever.

"Ugh…"

Inside the swaying carriage Anastasia clapped a hand over her mouth. Then she carefully lifted her head and stole a glance at the Count. Even after three days of travel his bearing remained upright and elegant.

She soothed her churning stomach and hugged the carriage cushion. The ashes of her father that she had held when leaving the village were no longer in her arms. Not long after they left the settlement the Count had taken the box and thrown it straight out of the carriage.

The remains he had said he would bury in Ivan's hometown had been cast onto land no one could name. Anastasia had started up in shock, but under the Count's cold gaze she had no choice but to sit again.

It was not that she felt any affection for her father. Still, he had been a person bound to her by the name of family…

After discarding the ashes the Count had been briefly icy, yet after a time he grew kind again. With Anastasia before him he began to speak of her mother. Thanks to that she learned things about her mother she had never known.

As the name Chloe itself suggested, she had been from Ils, not Novgord. Crossing the North Sea by ship, the vessel had sunk; she had clung to a floating bag and held on until Ivan, then a fisherman, rescued her. The family who had sailed with her had died, and she had no cousins she could contact, so her mother had nowhere to go. A year later Chloe married Ivan. And one month after that marriage she met Count Lauderdale, who had come to rest at a villa near that seashore.

"It was a good time. Your mother did not go home, so your father came looking for the villa every day."

The Count said this and laughed low. Even though it was laughter, Anastasia trembled. The laughing Count was somehow frightening. After three or four short stories he said no more.

The hard, awkward journey continued. Then, when the carriage suddenly began to run on a road that jolted far less, she heard the coachman say that the manor was not far. At the coachman's voice the Count spoke to Anastasia.

"You will need a new name."

"A new… name?"

"Yes. I too am of glorious Ils blood. Therefore the things I cherish on my land receive names of Ils. So I shall give you one as well."

The things I cherish. Those words lingered in Anastasia's ears.

Then the coachman's voice came again.

"We have arrived, my lord."

At that the Count threw wide the shade he had kept drawn the entire way.

"Ah!"

At the sudden flood of sunlight Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut. The light was so bright it created darkness in her vision. For a moment she could see nothing. Instead she felt other things—a warm wind unimaginable in winter, the fragrance mixed within it, the song of beautiful birds she had never heard.

Her eyelids moved slowly, and the landscape began to take shape. The instant the blur sharpened into clarity, Anastasia forgot even that the Count was there. She sprang up and went to the window.

"Ah…"

At what entered her sight she could utter no word beyond that short gasp of wonder.

Only days before she had been in a barren frozen waste, yet outside spring had come. A broad meadow thick with grass, sheep gathered here and there grazing upon it, a river quietly sparkling as it flowed in the sunlight, flowers of every color. And beyond them a vast manor house.

The Count did not scold her rude behavior. Instead he spoke with pride.

"This is my land—Edenhurst."

At his answer the corners of Anastasia's eyes reddened. Ah… at last I…

A little way off stood a large stone carved with the name of the land.

Anastasia quietly shed tears as she engraved that name upon her eyes, her mind, her heart.

Edenhurst

That was the name of the paradise Anastasia had so longed for.