Days had passed since Yakiv Stepanovych Rybak’s disappearance, and Andriy had all but given up hope of finding his friend who had vanished into the forest. Their village was small, and after that first night everyone had noticed Yakiv’s absence. Only Elena had known the general direction Yakiv had gone, knowledge that would have cast a poor light upon Andry’s sister had it been known she, an unwed—betrothed—woman, had been alone with a man. To keep her safe from scandal, Andriy had told the community he’d known Yakiv had been going trout fishing of late.
While not completely a lie, it was not wholly the truth, either, and the deception weighed heavily upon Andriy.
Overwrought with guilt, Elena had told him that she and Yakiv had had a fight before Yakiv had stormed off towards the mountain. Alone. Without any supplies, other than a hemp cord tied around his shoulder. A detail Andriy had not dared mention to anyone else.
Andriy shuddered at the dark thought that lingered at the back of his mind after hearing that.
No matter how hard he had pressed her, Elena had refused to speak a word of the conversation that had sent Yakiv fleeing, but Andriy could guess. Knowing his friend as well as he did, Yakiv would not have taken the news of Elena’s impending nuptials to another man lightly. He’d have been jealously resentful. Furious even, especially losing her to Loukas, a man who’d been a friend for years.
But surely Yakiv hadn’t been so miserable as to do anything truly foolish, would he…?
Andriy shook his head, jaw clenched. He wouldn’t believe it. He refused to accept that Yakiv had done the unthinkable with that damned hemp cord Elena was so certain Yakiv had had with him.
A groan of anguish, thick with despair, was pulled from somewhere deep inside Andriy. He fought a losing battle as insidious images flashed through his mind. Of Yakiv swinging from some unknown tree, limbs dangling. Limp.
Filled with remorse, castigating himself for not being there when Yakiv had obviously needed a friend the most, it was long minutes before Andriy was able to regain control over himself. It wasn’t until the subtle lapping of water penetrated the well of despair he’d fallen into. The sound was oddly soothing, as gentle as a lullaby.
Abruptly, his hands fell to his sides, and Andriy stared vacantly into the river. He recognized the area, his feet having drawn him to the last place he’d seen his friend, where he’d fished Yakiv from the water so long ago it now felt. His eyes lightened on a willow branch stuck at an odd angle without recognition. To him, it appeared as any other curved stick, half-submerged and caught against a chunk of ice.
After a long moment, a deep exhalation shook his large frame.
With nowhere else to look, and with winter setting in, lingering on the mountain was far too dangerous. Heart heavy, Andriy forced himself to turn away from the river and begin his trek back to the village, his boots crunching through the frozen snow.
As he went, the wind moaned, mirroring his forlorn sigh.
The Musing of R. L. Frymire 
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