The One-Eyed Mother

I grew up in Moscow, though I was actually born east of the capital, in a small town known as Suzdal. Since I was not there for long, I have no memories of my home town. I was told that my parents died in a house fire shortly after my birth, at which time I was taken to live with my aunt in down town Moscow.

My childhood was a happy one, and I do not recall missing my parents. After all, how can one miss something they do not remember having? I lived an average life in my aunt's home, not so different from the other girls in my class at school. I had no reason to complain, and for many years, no reason to return to Suzdal, either.

This changed shortly before my twelfth birthday, when my school teacher informed us of the week-long class excursion to Suzdal, where we were to learn more about our country's rich culture, and visit some important heritage sites. At first, my aunt had been reluctant to allow me to go. After all, she had reminded me, it was in Suzdal that my parents had died, and the trip may bring back memories that were too painful for a girl my age. My own concerns were entirely different- I did not wish to be the only one in my class to miss out on the trip.

It was early winter when we went, and my first impressions of Suzdal were those of a sleepy town, covered in a thick white blanket of snow and stark against the frozen sky, aside from the colourful domes of the its various churches and monasteries.

Upon our arrival, the local school at which we would be boarding welcomed us with a meal of hot borscht and rye bread. Having come from a city such as Moscow, this school was like nothing we had ever seen before- a humble wooden building with only a handful of students and a draughty dining hall, in which several rows of ancient-looking tables had been set out for us. As I took my seat amongst my classmates and tucked into my soup, it occurred to me that, had things be different, I may well have been a student at this school.

It was while I was deep in such thoughts that I first saw her. She was standing by the entrance of the dining hall, and she was staring right at me. She was, I presumed, employed by the school, as she was dressed in a manner not dissimilar to that of the babushkas who were now shuffling between the tables, clearing away our empty bowls. Yet this woman was of the strangest appearance I had ever seen. Younger than the others, she stood several inches taller, with pallid skin and hair an unpleasant shade of yellow-blonde which, even from a distance, appeared to have been burnt all over, resulting in a yarn-like effect. But it was her eyes that were strangest of all. Whilst the woman's left eye appeared normal, the right socket was filled with solid white glass and a cold, unmoving pupil. Unseeing, yet fixed upon me.

I immediately began to feel uncomfortable, but try as I might, it was impossible not to stare back. The woman did not move from where she was standing, making no attempt to help the other women clear away the bowls. Instead, she remained exactly where she was, watching me silently. Or at least, I thought she was watching me, but it was difficult to be sure, given her affliction.

Eventually, I forced myself to look away, glancing swiftly at several of the other children around me. Not a single one of them had noticed the strange woman- they were all far too busy talking and teasing each other. Several moments passed before I stole another glance in the direction of the entrance way. When I did, she had gone.

This was not, however, to be our last encounter. In fact, over the next two or three days, I saw as much of this woman as I did my classmates. Both around the school, in the dormitories and on our numerous field trips, she would be there. Watching, silently watching. The only places she never accompanied us to were the various churches we visited.

I liked the churches. I had liked churches for as long as I could remember. Maybe it was the influence of my aunt- a devout Orthodox Christian. When I was younger, she often recalled, I was fascinated by the churches in Moscow. I would spend hours gazing at the elaborate ceiling art and intricate designs. Still, it was of no great concern to my aunt. After all, as she frequently reminded me, no evil can pass through the doors of such a building- not unless it is God's will. It was far better for me to spend my time in churches than on the streets of Moscow.