Wreaths Before the Fires

Kupala Night is three days off. The Folk Quarter is already working toward it.

The wreaths are made from what is blooming now, not what is pretty. Chamomile, because it is everywhere and does not wilt by evening. Ivan-da-marya, the two-colored one, yellow and violet on the same stem — no wreath is called finished without at least one. Cornflower for blue, if the field behind the mill has not been cut yet this year. A few sprigs of wormwood worked in at the base, not for looks. The old women say wormwood keeps off what shouldn’t be looked at directly. No one explains further. No one asks them to.

Marta Vels’ wreath-stem pile, the one I named a week ago without knowing its use, is for this. She has been sorting toward Kupala the whole time and I did not see it until today. The stems are cut short and bundled by threes, ready to be woven fast on the night itself, when there will not be time to choose carefully. Her medicine-stem pile is separate — St. John’s wort, yarrow — gathered before dawn on the day itself, while the dew is still on it. Dew gathered before sunrise on Kupala morning is saved in jars and used through the year for washing wounds. This is not folklore to the women doing it. It is a task with a deadline, like bread.

The girls will float their wreaths on the river after dark and watch which way the current carries them. The third pile on Marta’s table is still covered when I pass. I have stopped guessing.

Corvus has entered a man who says he crossed a desert to reach a name he has not yet confirmed exists. Zara has written a poem about a stool she will not touch. Both are watching something at a distance and calling it faith. The women on Ulev Street are just getting the stems cut before the flowers close.