THE ORDEAL

The fire in the hearth was burning out. Panayot’s eyebrows frowned, and a shadow of determination lay on his face. He approached the sleeping Turks and struggled for a long time with his mind what to do. The ax was hanging in a handy place. If he hit with it one of them, the other one would jump.

He lay down again, leaving the ax near himself. A dream did not catch him. There was a dead silence around. Only the pine branches moved out because of the evening wind. Occasionally a bell was jingling in the sheep-fold. A pale moon rose and the shepherd saw the two sleeping passengers more clearly.

Panayot got up again, held the ax tightly in his hands, and approached them quietly. He wondered what to do. An inner voice spoke to him again and intensified his spiritual anguish. ”What evil have you experienced from these people? In the morning for the good that you have done to them, that you have sheltered and fed them, they could give you from the gold coins.”

Panayot went to bed again, but could not get to sleep. All night, he was wondering where the strangers have so much gold from. ”Bloody or stolen is that money? It may have been won by trade ... “

As early as dawn the guests woke up. They looked at the sacks and saw that they were not touched. Panayot put the bread left for the Turks to have some on their way, waiting for them to thank him. They got up quietly and loaded the sacks on the horse. The shepherd guided them where to go. They parted.

Panayot let the sheep to pasture and all day long he was thinking if he had done something good or wrong. He could not find peace. It was after noon when he decided, “It’s OK that it happened that way!”

The shepherd gathered the flock earlier and decided to pop round to the village to see his house in these troubled times, and what was more, there was no bread left.

He walked along the direct forest paths away from human eyes. His soul was light because he did not stained his hands with blood. He walked fast as if something was drawing him to the village. A cold breeze scattered the beech leaves across the naked sad forest. Autumn fogs, gray and torn, dragged along the drowning gullies. It started drizzling.

In the evening, wet and muddy, Panayot arrived in the village. As he approached his house, he saw an old, ragged Turk sitting on the wall in the rain, near the gate. Next to him, his emaciated horse, loaded with luggage, was striking with its hoof the cobblestone as if he was urging his owner to get up. The Turk was behind the refugee group that had passed near the village. Under his turban, his pale, unshaven face showed the look of a sick and desperate man. His hands were trembling.

After the nightmare in the hut with the two Turks, now a helpless refugee was standing in front of Panayot’s home. He felt sorry for the feeble stranger.

Panayot pulled the horse under the dry she