Marko Cheremshyna, Short Story “The Invalid”

Marko Cheremshyna¹ 

The Invalid²

In the fifth year of her marriage, a young lady named Petrykha began to burn with restlessness, like a lioness. The village women took notice, fueling the fire even more.

“Hey, dear sweetheart, for whom are you spinning your white fluff? Where is your youth slipping away? Where is your color fading?”

It reached the point where, every evening, the sound of a heated quarrel echoed from her hill. Her voice rang out, sharp and piercing, as if it carried the weight of an immense loss—one it could not find, so it thrashed against the rocks of the hilltop before spilling into the village to complain.

There was no peace, day or night, as the young women kept stoking the flames.

And on Green Monday, Petrykha stood before a public court.

She stood before the village assembly like a young spruce before an ancient oak forest. 

Her slender legs, hewn like cedar, trembled beneath her white shirt, while her wide hips, shifting beneath her skirt, moved with the life of locusts.

Her bright hair, tangled like fern beneath moss, peeked from under her floral headscarf, veiling the fine lines that traced her youthful forehead, running like ants across a white-hot stone above her black eyes. The morning sun poured in through the windows, gilding her round, radiant face, her strong hands resting under blue-red shoulders, and her lively breasts, which fluttered beneath her blouse at every word she spoke—like wild pigeons caught in a net.

As she spoke, she swayed in the sunlight, like a golden cloud tossing in the wind.

“Other peers of mine rock their third child in the cradle, while I, untouched, mourn beside a cripple!”

“I am neither clay nor flint. But does clay not bear fruit? Does flint not gather moss? If you came back crippled from the war, and God had taken legs from you, don’t court the girl. And if you seek to marry, then at least be honest—confess before the priest, before the village, that when they chopped off your legs, they mangled you so badly that you will never be a granddad, no matter how much you strain! And yet he shows me his fortunes and fumbles at me like a boy with a girl!”

“My husband said to me: ‘You are some kind of hussy, some kind of harlot! Know that I am tearing you apart as the doctors have taken from me—so I am telling you plainly!’”

“And then, forgive me, he grabbed me by the shirt, seized me by the skirt.”

“And I, foolish woman that I am, thought that even though he was crippled, my kids would still roll across the mountains and meadows like a wheel.”

“Don’t laugh, my dear judges, you, fine gentlemen, for I have already lost my pride to that lying bumbler.”

The advisors chuckled, their laughter strained, half-stifled. They covered their faces with their hands, feigning indifference. But the village headman twisted his mustache, smoothed the sides of his coat, and pronounced his verdict:

“Your complaint is nothing, young woman. We did not marry you, and we will not divorce you. But do not despair, my dear—you are young and strong, and, I must say, pretty. And the village is large!”

Petrykha’s chest and eyes blazed with fury. All her fire burned out, she spun in place like a wounded bird. And yet, her youth refused to break—she clenched her fists towards the judges:

“If that is how you judge,” she said, “then you shall see how those bastards will throw that cripple into the reed and disgrace the whole village!”

The judges merely shrugged.

“Petrykha, dear, the village is large!”

She slammed the door behind her and left, her rage lifting her like wings—the wings of a woman’s vengeance.

That very day, she danced in the tavern with the boys, singing to herself:

“The goats in the glades, the sheep in the valleys,
Shame on the girl who lingers in the hills among the boys.”

She tossed some silver to the violinists and treated boys to vodka. By evening, she returned home, clinging to the boys’ necks while singing:

“My head aches, my shoulders burn,
I need a doctor with black eyes.
But not the kind who tends to wounds,
The kind who’ll kiss me nice.”

Clapping her hands, lifting her skirts as if wading through a river, she shouted drunkenly:

“Well, my boys, as the headman said—the village is large!”

Her voice, sharp as a winged blade, sliced through the village air and landed atop a hut. From its bench, staring out with a waxen face and glassy eyes, sat a half-man, half-host, half-pillar—Petro, the invalid.

 [1] This short story was originally written in the Hutsul dialect of Ukrainian, an archaic dialect of the Galician-Bukovynian group within the Southwestern dialects. It remains widely spoken in the region. However, translating it into English presents significant challenges, as its differences from standard Ukrainian are primarily phonetic and lexical. Consequently, no major alterations were made in the English version. Instead, the translator aimed to preserve the story’s rhythm and convey its uniqueness through the use of idiomatic expressions. (tr. note)
[2]  At the time this short story was written, the term “invalid” was not considered inappropriate when referring to disabled people. (tr. note)