No one ever took Agafya under their wing. And who needed her — so unfinished? Her face was okay, even considered rather pretty, but she didn’t grow tall — just a little over a meter. And most importantly — she was skinny like a willow branch. Thin, almost childlike figure — what kind of housewife could she be?
The boys glanced at her little face, but were afraid to ask her to marry them: who knows what you might crush at night — then you’d have to answer to the village elder. Time flew by, years slipped away like fast paths among birch and pine trees. The old-timers sometimes gazed thoughtfully at those trees and marveled: how tall they’d grown over the years! And they themselves wouldn’t grow anymore — it was time to pick a place in the cemetery. Life passes so fast — like sand slipping through fingers.
So Agafya lived her whole life alone. She grew old, wrinkled, but remained just as miniature and fragile. Time didn’t bend her — she stood straight, walked lightly, almost running. Sometimes if you saw her from behind — she really looked like a young girl flying by. But when you turned to face her, you saw a face — wrinkled, dry as a wrung-out rag. Yet her eyes were kind, bright, with some childlike trustfulness. She always smiled, greeted everyone.
Before she turned thirty, she got the nickname — “Bobylka Girl.” Not to offend, of course — it just stuck. At first, they called her that behind her back, then the youth got used to calling her simply “Bobylikha.” And really, what kind of girl was she? Maybe just by her walk and figure.
She lived in a little house on the edge of the village, away from everyone. It used to be quiet there, but over the years the cemetery grew and nearly reached her doorstep. Passersby were rare — some going to gardens, some for berries or mushrooms. Bobylikha sat on a crooked bench by the fence, smiling at every traveler.
“Are you not scared to live here all alone, grandma?” people would sometimes ask.
“No, dear, I feel calmer with the dead. They won’t hurt anyone. And strangers don’t dare come here.”
Her house grew old along with her. Without men’s hands — no fixing the roof or repairing shutters. The hut tilted, darkened, ready to fall sideways. In old age, Bobylikha often went visiting neighbors — to this one, then to that one. She listened more than she spoke, but everyone understood — she just wanted to be near people.
She also loved evening gatherings. She’d come to the house where young folks were gathered, stand at the doorway all evening, smiling, happy not to be chased away. The youth felt sorry for her — let the old woman be happy.
But over time, people noticed: Agafya appeared only in the evenings. No one had seen her during the day for a long time. Her windows weren’t lit, no smoke rose from the chimney in winter, the yard grew over with grass — once there was a path, now it was a meadow. People talked, gossiped, then forgot — everyone had their own business.
In the same village lived Yefimka — a daring lad. A handsome guy, a jokester, a leader. Where there was a party — he was first, where a dance — he was at the center, where girls — he was the top suitor. Roosters hid when he went outside, women giggled, men, though grumbling, still approved: the boy was wild, but kind at heart.
When he started to dance — his feet just whistled! Accordion player Trofim winked: “You’d fit in the circus — you’d chase a bear into its grave!” And Yefimka just danced harder, kicking up dust, girls screamed, men shook their heads: “What a show!”
True, wherever Yefimka went — there were adventures. He’d spill kvass at the elder’s, jump off the stove, or get into fights with gypsies at the fair. Once he slammed his fist on the table so hard that the soup flew up to the ceiling and spoons scattered all over the hut. Wherever there was noise — there he was.
Girls didn’t have peace either: he’d sing under windows, knock over buckets — then run away laughing. But secretly they were glad — such a daring lad, though restless.
So Yefimka lived — in dances, fights, and courtships. But one day he met Agafya Bobylikha — and that meeting radically changed his carefree life.
Once at an evening gathering at the Korovin’s, they talked about the dead. Old man Nikifor, with few teeth and a wedge-shaped beard, told scary stories: they said dead men wander at night, knock on windows, howl in pipes. The girls huddled scared, the boys crossed themselves and spat over their shoulders — you never know what you might jinx…
And Yefimka, not the least embarrassed, sprawled on a bench and snorted:
“Come on now, what are you talking about? Dead men? I’m not scared, even if I’m at the cemetery right now!”
Everyone gasped. The women crossed themselves and whispered: “Oh, Yefimushka, don’t get cocky, it’s a sin!” And old Nikifor, squinting, teased:
“Well then prove it, brave one. Run to the old mill behind the graveyard. They say a black dog with fiery eyes prowls there at night. Whoever sees it won’t live three days. Dare you?”
The men shifted nervously, some even cleared their throats. But Yefimka just snorted, put his hat sideways and loudly barked:
“I could take on ten such dogs — tie them all by the tails! Wait here, I’ll be back soon — and not alone! And I’ll bring granny Agafya along so she won’t be scared.”
He turned to Bobylikha, standing in the doorway with a radiant smile:
“Will you come with me, grandma Agafya?”
The old woman nodded happily, her eyes shining from the unexpected attention.
So they set off — Yefimka playing the hero, and Bobylikha all wrapped in folds and a kerchief. He walked briskly, kicking up his legs, but glanced sideways into the darkness — watching for a beast with fiery eyes. But all around was quiet — only crickets chirped and the wind rustled the leaves.
“Well, granny,” he said cheerfully, “I see I’m a pretty poor suitor for you, huh? At your age, you never met guys like me?”
“Oh, we did, dear,” whispered Agafya, “but not such fools as you.”
Yefimka snorted but showed nothing. And here was her crooked little house — with a tilted porch and shutters barely hanging on hinges.
“Come in, sweetie,” whispered Bobylikha, “don’t disdain the shabby house.”
Yefimka swallowed. His feet slowed down by themselves. But retreating — that would be shame.
“I’d even go to hell!” he shouted, more to himself than to her.
He ran up the porch — creak creak. The door wasn’t locked, it opened slightly on its own — creak again. He stepped over the threshold…
“There, by the bench, are a splinter of pine and matches,” came a voice from behind, “light it, dear.”
Yefimka froze. The house was dark as a cellar. Only the splinter crackled and the draft whistled through the cracks. And on the stove lay… that very Agafya, but no longer alive. Her face dry as parchment, hands folded on her chest, her body bony as if long decayed, but untouched by time.
He turned — no one behind him. Only the shadow from the fire flickered on the wall.
“Well, that’s a suitor for you…” — flashed through his mind, and for the first time he crossed himself with a trembling hand.
But Yefimka, though wild, was kind at heart. He stood, head raised, thinking:
“She didn’t bring me here for nothing. Another man would’ve run away, but I… I’m not a coward. A God’s soul, she wants peace. That means I have to help.”
He spat over his shoulder, adjusted his belt, and resolutely went to the stove.
“Well, granny Agafya,” he mentally addressed the deceased, “if you need me — tell me what you wish. I’m no priest, can’t do the funeral rites. I’ll bury you simple — forgive me.”
He took an old blanket from a nail, carefully wrapped Bobylikha in it — light as dry brushwood! — and carried her to the porch. Moonlight gently lit her wrinkled face.
“Now, granny, I’ll make you a proper house,” he murmured.
He rolled up his sleeves, found some boards in the yard — some were still sturdy. He skillfully wielded the axe — chips flew in all directions. By morning, the coffin stood — no beauty, but strong, made sincerely.
When the sun rose, neighbors came out. They saw Yefimka, all sweaty, with an axe — couldn’t believe their eyes.
“What are you doing?” they shouted.
“I’m burying Bobylikha,” he simply replied. “Who wants to help — welcome, who doesn’t — don’t get in the way.”
The men exchanged looks — and grabbed shovels. By noon, the grave was ready. They lowered the coffin, someone began “Requiem aeternam,” others just crossed themselves.
When the earth covered the grave, Yefimka loudly said:
“Well, granny Agafya, now sleep peacefully. I’ll go to church, I suppose.”
And for the first time in his life — he went to light a candle.
Since that night, Yefimka seemed changed. Where he used to be first to dance — now he declined parties: “Got things to do, chores.” Where he fought — now he separated fights: “Stop it, fools, it’s a sin!” And the girls? They used to follow him like bread, now they were afraid even to come close — he looked at them like kin.
The village gasped, whispered: “No doubt, granny Agafya guided him from beyond!” And Yefimka just silently crossed himself and more often headed to church.
And a year later, on Agafya’s memorial day, he announced at the meeting:
“Brothers, forgive me. I’m going to the Nikolsky monastery — to save my soul.”
No one could imagine such a thing! The men stood dumbfounded, the women threw up their hands: “Is it really you, Yefimka? Gone mad?”
And he, looking somewhere into the distance, quietly replied:
“My parents taught me for twenty years — didn’t teach me. But granny Agafya… made everything clear in one night.”
And he left. Without accordion, without songs — in a simple shirt, with a satchel over his shoulder.
And in the village for a long time they talked that on the night he left, they didn’t see a black dog with fiery eyes at the old mill, but two shadows: a tall one in a monk’s robe with a staff… and a small, fragile old woman who nodded after him as if saying:
— Well done, dear. Well done…