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    Zo: The Zoya Septet, #1
    Zo: The Zoya Septet, #1
    Zo: The Zoya Septet, #1
    Ebook175 pages2 hours

    Zo: The Zoya Septet, #1

    By Murray Pura

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    About this ebook

    Andrew Chornavka took on the Trappist's cowl and disappeared from the 21st century in order to forget the century before.

    Yet even at the secluded monastery in America the past finds him. A delegation from the Vatican arrives with questions about his youngest sister, Zoya, who is, to Andrew's shock, a candidate for sainthood. Reluctant, hostile, wanting only to be left alone to his dairy herd and gardens and prayers, Andrew eventually begins to talk.

    The talk takes him where he does not wish to go, makes alive again what he had hoped was dead and buried, and makes real what had long ago been lost. He knows what he has to tell is no more than a story about a family that tried to stay together, and keep love strong, when everything on earth tried to rip that love apart. Yet he also knows the archbishop wants a story about an angel who walked with God.

    But Andrew did not experience a world of angels and miracles and fairy tales. And neither did his sister Zo.

    Or did she?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMillerWords, LLC
    Release dateJan 12, 2018
    ISBN9781386957409
    Zo: The Zoya Septet, #1
    Author

    Murray Pura

    Murray Pura’s novel The Sunflower Season won Best Contemporary Romance (Word Awards, Toronto, 2022) while previously, The White Birds of Morning was Historical Novel of the Year (Word Awards, Toronto, 2012). Far on the Ringing Plains won the Hemingway Award for WW2 Fiction (2022) and its sequel, The Scepter and the Isle, was shortlisted for the same award (both with Patrick Craig). Murray has been a finalist for the Dartmouth Book Award, The John Spencer Hill Literary Award, and the Kobzar Literary Award. He lives in southwestern Alberta.

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      Book preview

      Zo - Murray Pura

      Dedication

      To the Ukrainian side of my family and their husbands, wives and children

      June (Pura) and Cal Moore, Jessica, Chay, Julian

      Paul William and Talia Pura, Alexia, Noelani, Adrian

      Terri Pura, Barbara

      Linda Pura, Micah Pura, Micaela Pura

      And to those who have gone on before us

      Roman and Anna Pura

      Paul and Rose Pura

      William and Helen (Pura) Kinasz

      Nellie (Sydor) Pura

      William Pura

      Andrew Pura

      And to the people of Ukraine in the homeland or the diaspora

      For all things strong and good, thank you

      My Destiny

      My destiny where are you?

      I have no destiny

      God if you refuse to love me

      Give me your hate

      Just don’t let my heart die slowly

      day by day

      of no use to anyone

      a fallen tree

      rotten and decayed

      I want life and life in spirit

      I want to love the human race

      If I cannot then my curse will strike the sun

      blind

      unkind

      is the life of the prisoner

      chains  slavery  death 

      But worse the man the woman

      Who sleep a sleep while alive

      No different than the sleep of the dead

      Until the sleep is unending

      And no mark on earth is left

      To prove that into the dark went

      A thing that was once divine

      My destiny where are you?

      I have no destiny

      God if you refuse to love me

      Give me your hate

      —Taras Shevchenko, poet of Ukraine

      The Moon

      The moon is.

      Round in a rut of rainwater.

      I hear.

      A bellowing. In the distance at night and I think it is people.

      It is cattle. But I see human eyes and mouths.

      I cut my hand on a knife. I tell myself. I am letting the dirt bleed out. Before I staunch the flow. But then I let it. Go on. I watch it drop over my skin and nails.

      A dragonfly lands. On my arm. Gold. Red. It remains a long time.

      I. Sit and wait.

      —Andrii Chornavka, Trappist monk

      Prologue

      Icame here because the sun and the moon make no sound or mistakes and the men who walk past me day and night do not intend to interfere with that pattern.

      The men are sworn to silence. I swear to God earth and heaven for a hundred miles in any direction have taken the same oath. I have stood outside the stone walls when I could see trees jumping up and down in the wind and heard nothing. The jet planes are high and unnoticed. Only one long white string. Perfectly taut from one end of the blue dome to the other.

      When I first came the silence was much more strictly observed. In those days, we had our own sign language and could move our hands as deftly as a swallow spins its wings. Now there are more opportunities to talk. Especially to outsiders. I prefer to avoid such contact. I found little enough of God among humans before I came here and I doubt much has changed since then. It is hard enough to find him between the walls in the company of those who search for him morning, noon and night. The crickets in the fields give me enough language.

      It was not my desire to talk. Certainly not about the past. I cannot return. What is the point of the talk? But along with an oath of silence I took an oath of obedience. I am ordered to break silence. I break it.

      Whenever I make the break, it is always a mistake. They think the talk will help. I know it will disappoint and anger. There will be great disillusionment. A catastrophe, like the breaking apart of a planet, the dismembering of a world. All because of words.

      It is better, always better, that monastics should have nothing to say. They can speak after they are dead.

      The First Hour

      VIGILS

      1911—1918

      God knows I told the archbishop everything. How ordinary it was when Zoya was born, how ordinary our lives were until the war. But he had his own ideas. Tall, towering over me like a crag, an officer in the American Rangers once, wounded in combat, broad shoulders, and on top of this warrior’s body, an entirely different sort of head. As if he had come from ancient Rome. Fine grey hair on three sides, always combed, a narrow face, a perfectly shaped nose, grey eyes that never flinched, the cheekbones of a patrician, a statesman. He sized me up instantly.

      Zoya’s brother. I see the resemblance. Around your eyes. You are not glad to see me.

      I don’t even know you, your grace. But I welcome you to our abbey.

      Father Abbot put you at my disposal.

      Dom Alexander. So what do you want?

      His retinue frowned at me in unison. His personal assistant, long and dark in his cassock, appeared to frost over. He had a face like a ditch and hands like mattocks. The sort of person you do not want founding a religion or governing a country. The archbishop looked down at the palm of one of his hands which he had just opened. He offered a small smile, his eyes still averted.

      Brother Nahum. Your sister is practically a saint. I am sure it is more than a little uncomfortable to think the girl you had pillow fights with will presently be acknowledged as having an exalted place in heaven and worthy of prayers and veneration from all good Christians. You will get used to it. Perhaps you will even get to like it. After all, your prayers to her will be particularly effective. I have heard that she was a favorite of yours and that the two of you were inseparable.

      That’s not true, your grace. We did not get along well. It was her sister she was close to.

      Yuzunia? It is my understanding the pair of them were enemies.

      Not so. They were devoted to each other.

      And you? Were you devoted to both your sisters?

      As much as a brother can be.

      You were born in Canada, weren’t you?

      Yes, your grace.

      When did you come to the United States?

      After the war.

      Which one?

      The second one.

      To this abbey?

      Yes. I have never been anywhere else.

      And you’ve liked it? You’ve liked the monastic life?

      It suits me.

      Why didn’t you stay in Canada?

      God brought me here.

      Wasn’t Zoya in Canada?

      For a time. Then she also came to America.

      To follow you?

      No.

      Then why?

      Ask her.

      Ditch-face almost took a step towards me. His grace gazed at me. His eyes were tight. You will cooperate with my investigation? It is my job to bring good news back to the Holy Father concerning your sister.

      I will do whatever Dom Alexander wishes. I have sworn obedience.

      But what is it you wish?

      That I be left to my work with the corn and the cattle.

      He smiled again, his grey eyes on my face. We will not take you away from that. But we will remain here until my questions are answered. I will be persistent.

      As you wish, your grace.

      Yes. It is my wish.

      Dom Alexander took me aside after Vigils. He wants to speak with you. There is no getting away from it, you might as well make a beginning. But do this for me. Keep a journal of everything. What you say, what he says, your memories, where your own thoughts take you. Show it only to me. Do not be afraid of what you write. This whole affair will be difficult for you. Zoya was still alive when you came to this abbey.

      Yes.

      This is an opportunity to get it all off your chest. Thank God for that and for the archbishop. He is the catalyst. After your talk is done spend an hour and get it down on paper.

      The Holsteins.

      Will be taken care of by Brother Luke and Brother Arthur. Be grateful you can escape this late winter cold for one morning. Now hurry. He is waiting in the refectory. Remember that he is the Holy Father’s personal emissary. He will be a cardinal soon, they tell me.

      He sat in the dark at the long refectory table. His personal assistant was nearby lighting a candle and had a notebook.

      A candle is a nice touch, don’t you think, Brother Nahum?

      Why is that, your grace?

      Candles, candles, everyone tells me about your sister and her candles.

      If everyone has told you about her why do you need me?

      You are the brother. Do you hate your sister?

      No.

      Will you be honest with me?

      I will try my best to answer your questions.

      Will you?

      I have nothing to lose. Perhaps what I say will change your mind about my sister.

      I doubt it. I have spoken with a great number of people. Did you know I was three months in Russia? They all remember her.

      I remember Russia too, your grace. And Ukraine. Not in the same way these persons you spoke with do.

      We will get to your account of Russia another day. Tell me what happened in your home. Tell me what it was like growing up with her. I will balance what you say with what the neighbors have told me.

      What is he doing?

      My assistant will record anything of importance. Now. Please begin. You were how many years apart? Ten?

      She was seven years younger than me, your grace.

      The archbishop lit the first of many cigars. They were long and narrow and black and their smoke filled the room and stung my eyes. He chain-smoked them, lighting a fresh cigar from the glowing butt of the old. I asked myself if he really smoked that much or whether it was something he did to throw me off balance. The smoke curled around the candle flame and the burning of the cigar lit his eyes now and again when he drew some of the smoke into his lungs.

      It was the dead of winter and the day was like a stone wall. No crocuses pushed through the snow and ice. Old neighbours have sworn they saw them. I never noticed any flowers, but I was six or seven at the time and would not have cared.

      I had come home pulling my toboggan the night before. The sky was an inferno. The bare trees were chiseled precisely into the red stone of that night. Windows burned. It must have been thirty below. My cheeks stung. When I came in the back door, Yuzunia, my sister, was there with a broom to sweep the snow off my felt parka, a navy one that I fastened with wooden toggles. Her eyes were large. She grinned. Her long black hair was lit by the lamplight.

      Mama is having the baby. Mykhailo has gone for Doctor MacIntyre.

      Yuzy was 12. I had two older brothers, Mykhailo and Stepan, but it was Yuzy who always played with me. That night she fed me a bowl of soup and cut me thick slices of dark brown bread. Two of our neighbors were already with Mama in the bedroom, Mrs. Pishki and Mrs. Dutchak. The doctor came through the front door and Papa shook his hand.

      Good evening, Andrew, how’s my Scottish soldier? he asked before he went up the stairs.

      I am well, sir, and ready for battle, I answered.

      It was the old joke because I had been born on Bobby Burns Day, so Papa and Mama had given me a Scottish name, not only for Bobby Burns but for Doctor MacIntyre who had wrestled me out of the womb.

      I think, Andy, you had a good thing going in there, he often said, his voice stout with Glasgow. It was like Culloden to get you into the world. Everyone used the Ukrainian Andrii except him.

      So Zoya was another hard one. Feet first and he turned her around with his strong short fingers. His shirt was unbuttoned and stained, his sleeves rolled up and his suspenders biting into his shoulders when he came down to the kitchen. It was early in the morning and he asked for a coffee. I was still up because everyone had forgotten about me, even Yuzy, who was supposed to get me to bed every night. Papa sat with him. So did Mykhailo and Stepan. Chairs squeaked and scraped as they pulled them up to the table. Doctor MacIntyre saluted me with his coffee mug.

      More like Bannockburn, Andy. A great battle and a great miracle. You have a beautiful little sister, as pretty as Yuzy.

      Yuzy smiled and dropped her head, pushing back her hair with both of her slim hands, adjusting her bun, then saying, Andrii. Why are you still up? I told you to go to bed hours ago.

      You didn’t tell me anything.

      Don’t talk back. Out you go.

      Goodnight, Andy, called Doctor MacIntyre. There’s not much of it left but make the best of it. It’s grand news you’re not the baby anymore.

      I lay in the dark in my room and through the shut door I heard their voices and the laughter, great gusts of it. I looked out my window when the bedroom started to brighten. The backyard was buried in crusted white snow and the apple tree poked tall and dark out of a drift. I thought its branches looked like the long lean arms of a praying man.

      A shimmer went through me. The dawn was opaque and I remember it as a backdrop to the praying tree. It had grown quiet in the kitchen because my brothers and my father had gone to the front door to see Doctor MacIntyre out. I felt completely alone in a wonderful way.

      I shared the bedroom with my two brothers. They finally came in, banged around a bit, then smothered themselves under their blankets. I pretended to sleep. Papa would lie on the horsehair couch, Yuzy had made a bed for him

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