fiction by kaitlynn mcshea

Paska and Pysanky

Entering her Aunt Oleksandra’s always felt like staring at a sepia photograph. From the dark cherry furniture, to the dim lighting, to the ever-present stench of lilacs, it was a visceral feeling of nostalgia for a different time. What time that was, Natalia wasn’t sure, because it seemed to belong to Aunt Oleksandra and only Aunt Oleksandra.

She ran her freezing fingers over the peeling, floral wallpaper of the narrow front hallway. She hadn’t spent time alone with Aunt Oleksandra in years. But it was Holy Thursday, and the paska bread needed to be baked, and her mom couldn’t stand her for another minute, and Aunt Anastasia was banned from coming within fifty feet of the dough this year. So instead of a team effort, this year’s Easter preparations would be a partner activity.

She paused before a China cabinet, shifting the knick-knacks around: miniature animals, decorative silver spoons, bells that had never been rung. She reached her blue-tinged fingers for one of the bells, but just as she was about to lift it, her aunt called her: “Pospishay!” 

She sighed and relaxed her arm back down. The movement made her head spin. She reached out a steadying hand. It grazed a miniature owl, and she flinched as she watched it clatter to the floor. Its journey left it with one less ear. She kicked the broken ceramic piece underneath the cabinet and put the owl back to its home, once again encircled by dust. Closing her eyes, she took a steadying breath, willing her head to still. With no response, her aunt called again: “Natalia? Natalia, pospishay!” Hurry up, Natalia, hurry up. 

As she approached the door, she could already smell perogies baking and hear the Ukrainian folk music wafting from the kitchen record player. It was a conglomeration of string instruments that all sounded like accordions, although none of them were. She pulled at her sweatshirt, convinced it revealed all of her rolls and bulges, and scraped her eyelashes, regretting putting on makeup that morning.

The kitchen door flew open. Natalia first noticed Aunt Oleksandra’s downturned mouth and then the flour sprinkled all the way from her close-cropped brown hair down to her apron. Despite the deep crevices lining Aunt Oleksandra’s face, Natalia knew that she used to be pretty. 

“What’s taking you so long?” she asked. 

Her rapid Ukrainian flew at Natalia like a swarm of flies. She could understand it, but not speak it herself, and replied in English. “I was just admiring your miniature collection,” she said, keeping her face straight.

Aunt Oleksandra grumbled and turned, holding the door open for her. “You look much less gaunt without all that junk on your face.”

Walking past her, Natalia pinched at her eyelashes with her nails, getting clumps of mascara as well as a few eyelashes off in the process. When she was done, her fingers were black, and she found herself standing by the kitchen table, in the middle of which rested a woven basket full of pysanky: kaleidoscopic eggs dyed and decorated. Mason jars full of bright dyes smelling like vinegar were lined up like soldiers. On two placemats rested white eggs, ready to be consecrated.

Natalia wrapped her arms around herself. The butter from the baking perogies clung to the air like dewdrops; she felt like she was absorbing the calories through her skin. 

 “First pysanky, then paska,” her aunt said, hefting herself into one of the chairs.

Natalia perched herself on the other and wiped the mascara from her fingers onto the seat cushion. Aunt Oleksandra lit a beeswax candle with a match. A honey scent filled the kitchen as the wick burned strong and bright. She moved her chair over to the corner of the table, closer to the warmth of the candle. 

Aunt Oleksandra tsked. “You’re on the edge.”

Natalia’s heart pounded. She had been so careful. “What?”

“Unmarried girls shouldn’t sit at the corner of the table. Seven years no boyfriend, no husband.”

Natalia relaxed her shoulders and let out a breathy laugh. “Aunt Oleksandra, that’s a stupid superstition. Anyway, I’m only sixteen.”

Her aunt pursed her lips until Natalia dragged her chair back to its rightful place.

Wordlessly, her aunt handed her a needle and a bowl. Natalia poked holes into both sides of the egg. She put the needle to the side and then set herself to the task of getting the yolk out. She blew until the egg whites seeped from the other and into the bowl. She used to love this part, feeling like the big, bad wolf from The Three Little Pigs. But instead of smiling at the memory, she had to pause. Her heart fluttered like a bird inside a cage; the process seemed like more effort than it was worth. Aunt Oleksandra, egg whites and yolk fully in her bowl, glared at her. Natalia muttered a “sorry” before continuing. The faux-accordions grew louder on the record player. She tapped her foot to the beat, hoping to burn off the orange juice her mom made her drink this morning. Channeling her inner wolf, she inhaled deeply and then exhaled, trying to get the yolk out all at once.

The egg cracked in her hand, leaving her with dripping fingers, a placemat full of goo, and the shards of broken shell.

Here was just another piece of evidence: everything she touched turned to shit.

Aunt Oleksandra didn’t meet her eyes. “Go get the salt.”

Natalia stood, waiting for her vision to clear, and then grabbed the salt where it lived over the stove. She held it out to her aunt like a peace offering. Her aunt pointed to her placemat. “Shake it. Let it sit.”

She saturated the egg with the salt and stayed standing until her aunt wiped up the now-contained egg mess.

They both sat; Aunt Oleksandra offered her another egg.

She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself. “No, I can’t, I’ll ruin it.”

Her aunt quirked up an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Everything I touch, everything I do, it turns to--” she caught herself “--a mess. I’m just bad luck.”

“Ahh, don’t say that!” She pivoted in her chair and spat over her left shoulder three times. When she turned back around, she rapped on the table three times, as well.

It wasn’t anything that Natalia hadn’t seen before, but she couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“Go on, don’t just sit there!”

Reluctantly, Natalia mirrored her aunt by spitting over her left shoulder three times and tapping on the table. 

Aunt Oleksandra knocked her foot against Natalia’s shin. “Again, but mean it this time.”

Natalia refused to move. “It’s a stupid superstition.”

“You can’t believe in bad luck and refuse to believe in our ‘stupid superstitions’ at the same time, girl.”

She mirrored her aunt again, faking her enthusiasm.

When she turned back around and her aunt offered her the egg again, Natalia took it.

Satisfied, Aunt Oleksandra continued, “These things are just to be safe. You broke the egg because you were impatient and held it too tightly.” Natalia looked at the egg, considering it. She had been rushing the process, and you can’t rush pysanky. Her aunt continued, “And you broke my owl statue because you were careless.” 

Natalia froze, not taking her eyes off the egg in her hand. 

“Yes, I heard and noticed. Now, pospishay and get started, but don’t rush.”

Natalia took her time getting the egg yolk out, focusing on steadying her breathing so her head didn’t swim. When she finished, her eggshell remained whole.

Aunt Oleksandra handed her the pattern sheets for her pysanka. She ran her finger down the page, stopping at a design full of leaves and whirls: a white, blue, red, and yellow egg. “Do you remember why we make pysanky each year?”

Natalia looked up from the sheet. “Didn’t Mary bring eggs to Pontius Pilate as a ransom for Jesus? Her tears decorated the eggs as she walked to his court, but she tripped, right? And the pysanky scattered all over the court and all over the world at the same time.” She paused, looking into her aunt’s lined face. “Right? Or was that wrong?”

“That’s one story, yes.”

“Oh.”

“Let me tell you another.”

“Okay.” She clutched her midsection, feeling a stomach growl coming. If her aunt heard it, she’d force-feed her perogies and soup. She had meant to take Tums before coming; something about the antacid quieted her stomach. But without that option, she settled for holding her breath. 

She exhaled slowly, and instead of a roar, her stomach only gurgled.

Her aunt handed her a kitska tool and a wedge of beeswax. With a wooden handle and a rolled metal cup with a needle-like opening on one side, the stylus would transfer melted beeswax to her egg, preserving and layering colors until the final product. 

Natalia scooped beeswax into the kitska tool and held it over the flame until the wax melted. Although the flame was a welcome warmth to her fingers, its flickering light also caught the extra bit of fat hanging from her forearm. She stretched her fingers, resisting the urge to put down the kitska tool. What she needed to do was some jumping jacks and squats to melt the fat away, but Aunt Oleksandra would notice if she was gone for too long. Maybe later, after making the paska bread. If she exercised enough, maybe she could even have part of a perogy.

Shaking her head, she then drew on her egg with the needle-like side, remembering her aunt’s words from earlier: hurry up and get started, but don’t rush the process. She drew melted beeswax on her egg, trying to keep her hand steady so that the wax didn’t come out as a big glop. Natalia lost herself. Decorating the pysanky was a process of discovery. Each year, she learned the same things and spent the rest of the year forgetting them: how to hold her hand, how much wax was needed to seal a layer, how much time it took to melt the wax over the flame. She wondered, this time, how long it would take her to remember and forget.

Aunt Oleksandra did the same, but with a more practiced hand. Maybe she didn’t forget like Natalia did. Maybe, as you get older, your brain remembers things like how to cast onto knitting needles, how many tablespoons are in a stick of butter, and what casseroles are best for which social event.

Maybe, but Natalia was doubtful. She had a feeling she would have to relearn these kinds of things for the rest of her life, like remembering the memory of a dream but not the dream itself.

Once they fell into a rhythm of sharing the flame, her aunt started her story.

“The story of our Blessed Virgin Mary,” she said in her melodic Ukrainian, “is among those of our religious stories.” 

She paused while Natalia immersed her egg in a yellow dye. Once it was soaked and dried, she returned to the flame and her kitska tool, and Aunt Oleksandra returned to her story. “But,” she continued, “All of these are simply based on another story, an older story.”

Melted beeswax fell from Natalia’s kitska tool and onto the flame. It reached into the air, causing her to jump.

“There was once a dragon that lived in his nest on the edge of a cliff. He had many names besides ‘dragon,’ including ‘demon’ and ‘the devil.’ He was free to roam the world, creating havoc and destruction. When he was too tired to leave the cliff, he sent his minions instead. But the people of that small section of Eastern Europe, what we now call Ukraine, had enough. A brave soul, perhaps the reincarnation of the Virgin Mary herself, brokered a deal and subdued him in a great fight. He is now chained to that very cliff. The deal is that as long as we continue to decorate our eggs each year between Christmas and Easter, the demon is staved off. Some claim that the dragon’s minions count how many pysanky are created each year, and if the number is low, his chains are loosened, and he causes havoc and destruction. When the number increases, his chains are tightened. We make pysanky to ward off demons in the world, but also our own lives.” She paused before continuing. “So you see, the world depends on the pysanky.”

Natalia caught herself staring at the flame with her kitska tool too far for its wax to melt. The story was just another tradition from the Old Country. Aunt Oleksandra was born in the 1940s, and it showed. But still, the story tickled her memory.

“Have I heard this before?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” her aunt replied. “What do you think of it, now that you’re older?”

“I really don’t think that making pysanky each year saves the world from a chained-up dragon. That’s just ludicrous.”

Her aunt’s mouth was a straight line. “Don’t be too quick to dismiss your heritage’s stories, girl.”

Natalia nodded and stood to submerge her egg in the red dye. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so candid with her aunt; she might think the old stories were stupid, but that didn’t mean she had to say it to her face.

Just as she sat to apply the last layer of wax, the oven beeped. Her aunt bustled from the table, taking the reheated perogies from the oven.

“Would you like a perogy?” 

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”

When her aunt sat, she lifted her egg to Natalia, as if to ask her a question.

Instead, Natalia cut her off. “Do you believe in it? The dragon story?”

Aunt Oleksandra shook her head. “Do I believe in a chained-up dragon? I don’t know, probably not. Do I believe that making these pysanky each year holds the world in balance? I don’t think so. But do I believe that pysanky challenge us to find the good and evil in ourselves? I think I do.”

Natalia didn’t know what to say.

“It took me years,” her aunt continued, “to master myself, my own chains. My pysanky were the disgrace of our family until I could sit down with myself for a few hours, to let myself think and remember. When you do pysanky by yourself, with just you and the flame and your egg, you are the dragon on the cliff.”

She looked down at her own egg. It was now almost completely covered with wax; it only needed to be dunked in the dark blue dye. The wax was black from holding her kitska tool too close to the flame, and it made the egg look the color of soot. Natalia couldn’t imagine Aunt Oleksandra’s pysanky ever looking as bad as hers. As for her chains, Natalia guessed that they had something to do with fleeing Ukraine. At least she had an excuse for having demons.

Natalia stood to dunk her egg in the dark blue dye at the same time her aunt moved to immerse hers in the black dye. They stayed that way for a few minutes, letting the record player and the lengthening shadows of the sun converse for them.

Together, they lifted their eggs and dabbed them clean of excess dye.

“I forget, what do we do now?” she asked.

“This time, we don’t pospishay. We take our time holding our eggs to the flame until the wax melts and the beauty is revealed underneath.”

“Won’t the flame burn the egg?”

“Not if we find our edge, getting close enough to the flame to melt but not close enough to burn. We tread lightly.”

Natalia bit her lip, foreseeing a burnt egg or another counter full of eggshell shards. But after a few moments, the wax began to melt, and when she wiped it away, only a gleaming pattern resided underneath. She rotated the egg, continuing the same pattern until all the wax was gone. The revealed pysanka had wobbly lines and missing patches of dye, but it could be worse.

She looked up, her eyes meeting her aunt’s. “Put it in the basket.”

Natalia stood. Her vision tunneled, but instead of fading like it usually did, it encompassed her reality entirely. She grabbed onto the table. When the darkness subsided, she saw that her pysanka had splintered over the table. The eggshell’s shards pressed into her palm. Three hours’ worth of work, gone.

Her aunt, stood, too. “When’s the last time you ate?” she asked, peering at her.

Natalia shook her head. She couldn’t really remember.

“I didn’t flee Kiev just to have my great niece starve herself in Pittsburgh thirty years later. Sit.”

Natalia sat. Her aunt bustled around. She cleaned up the fractured egg before she placed the plate of perogies next to her.

She used to love perogies, and not just how they tasted. Each Christmas, her entire family would get together, making hundreds to freeze and save for the rest of the year. But now, the perogies smelled like carbs and fat and guilt and shame. 

She pressed her chapped lips together and listened to the pounding of her heart.

While she stared at the perogies, her aunt gave her a new egg and needle. Her voice was surprisingly soft. “You have chains, girl. Loosen them.”

Natalia wasn’t sure how long she sat there, unmoving, as her aunt started the paska bread without her. But after the kitchen filled with more shadow than sun, she took a perogy and pressed it to her lips.

Kaitlynn McShea is a writer and teacher from Indianapolis, Indiana. In 2019, she graduated with her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick. She is currently a PhD student in literature at Ball State University and is a co-founder of the Heartland Society of Women Writers. She has work published in SILVER APPLES, MYTHIC MAGAZINE, LITERARY ORPHANS, and more.