“Where the viburnum blooms, there a Cossack grows.”
In the summertime, the Podillya steppe stretched out like an endless sea: boundless, rolling, and singing with life. The wheat swayed under the breeze, rustling in every direction as if the earth itself was whispering to the sky in its own secret tongue. The bitter scent of wormwood hung in the air, and the sun-baked dust nipped at my bare soles, but that only made me want to run faster—toward the water, a shimmering silver thread glinting between the willow trees. The river always called to me: its coolness wasn’t just a relief for the body—it was a balm for my restless thoughts.
By the riverbank sat Grandpa, leaning on his walking stick, wearing a smile that carried the patience of a man who’d weathered storms, tasted salt, and seen war.
“Look, Grandpa, I’ve got a frog trembling in my hands!” I blurted out, eager to show off my quickness.
The old man shook his head gently.
“Frogs aren’t the lessons of a Cossack. A Cossack reads the sky and the steppe. Look closely: clouds from the west mean rain; from the south, a storm. It’s not the strongest who survives, but the one who listens to the land.”
The frog slipped from my grasp and vanished into the grass. That was the first time I felt it: you have to study the sky as carefully as you study a person’s eyes—both hold hidden intentions.
Village life flowed like the water in our river: sometimes slow, sometimes unexpectedly swift, but always moving forward. At dawn, the girls gathered at the well, their songs ringing out, clear as crystal, brightening the world even before the sun peeked over the horizon. Meanwhile, the men sharpened their scythes, checked their wagon axles, and traded lighthearted jabs, the kind that even made the horses snort as if they got the joke.
I remember how Mom would hang embroidered towels on the fence—red and black patterns blazing on white linen like glowing embers. I wanted to trace every flower, every cross-stitch with my finger.
“This is the sun, so life shines brighter,” she’d explain. “And this is viburnum, so your heart stays tender, and people are drawn to you.”
Her words were simple, but they carried a quiet wisdom: those threads didn’t just hold the design together—they wove fate itself.
Smells taught lessons too. The oven wafted the aroma of rye bread, the shelf held the scent of dried apples, and the storeroom smelled of flax and grain. On the porch, the bench creaked; in the corner, the poker hung, waiting for the evening fire. The world felt ordered: every object knew its place, every hand knew its task.
Most of all, I was drawn to the fire in the evenings when the village gathered for stories. In the hands of old Cossacks, the kobza came alive, its notes carrying the sound of the road—salty waves, the creak of a boat, the clash of sabers. The flames tossed sparks into the night, and each spark felt like a word from an ancient song.
“You become a Cossack when you value freedom more than life itself,” Grandpa said one night as the kobzar lowered his hand to the strings.
Those words sank into me deep, like a seed into black earth: you don’t see it sprout right away, but you feel the root taking hold.
On nights like those, I understood why the elders never tired of repeating the same old ballads. A song isn’t just entertainment: it’s a knot tying the living to those who’ve passed, teaching us not to betray ourselves.
Our holidays were loud and sprawling, like a county fair. Weddings were a whole education in themselves. Long tables draped in white cloths, bowls of dumplings, pots of borscht, pitchers of fruit drink, honey mead, and kvass. Laughter and jokes flowed like a river of song. Girls in flower crowns danced in winding circles, while the boys squared off in friendly fistfights, careful not to hurt anyone—strength was meant for joy, not anger.
I couldn’t sit still either: I grabbed a pastry and jumped into the circle. My head spun from the music, my eyes from the girls’ fluttering ribbons.
“Look at that, our Ivan’s already outpacing the grooms!” the neighbors roared with laughter.
Grandpa grinned under his mustache.
“Whoever isn’t afraid of laughter or people won’t be broken by loneliness in battle.”
But song didn’t always cradle the village in its arms. The horizon could darken in an instant. One evening, smoke rolled in from the south.
“Tatars,” the whispers hissed. Women clutched their children, men grabbed spears and rifles, and uneasy lowing echoed from the barns.
A stick found its way into my hand without me even thinking. Grandpa gave me a steady look but didn’t send me inside—he let me stand beside him. My heart pounded like a hammer in a blacksmith’s forge, and my mind held one sound: sharp, alert, like the crack of ice underfoot. The night dragged on; dawn brought a sigh of relief. The horde must have changed course. With that relief came a silent vow, not spoken aloud but felt deep inside: when the time comes, I won’t meet the enemy with just a stick.
Days of labor mingled with days of joy. Harvest time taught quiet endurance. The sun scorched, shirts clung to sweaty backs, but the sickles cut evenly, and songs kept the rhythm of the work.
“Lower the sickle, cleaner the sheaf,” Grandpa shared his wisdom.
Carrying water from the river was a simple task, but there was dignity in its simplicity. When the bucket didn’t spill, when fatigue didn’t slump my shoulders, I felt it: I’m useful. Neighbors nodded, “Now that’s a helper,” and Grandpa added, “A helper’s good, but a Cossack will grow from him yet.” At those words, something inside me straightened, like a spine aligning.
We didn’t miss the markets either—a burst of the world’s colors and smells all piled together. Blacksmith Stepan hauled his anvil to the square, sparks flying like stars when he swung his hammer. I caught the rhythm—thud-thump, thud-thump—and understood: strength without precision is nothing, and precision without strength is just as empty. A few copper buckles, knives, horseshoes—everything had its weight and worth. At the market, you’d also hear news from afar: who’s allied with whom, which roads turned dangerous, what song was sung in a distant village and had already made its way to us.
Once, someone brought a curiosity—a Tatar arrow with a narrow steel tip. Grandpa turned it over in his hands for a long time before speaking softly.
“Sharp, but even this breaks. It’s not the iron that decides—it’s the hand that holds it and the mind that guides the hand.”
That was the first time I thought: a weapon is just an extension of thought.
There was another lesson, silent but watchful. In the fall, the steppe could catch fire easily from wind and dry grass. That year, flames raced through the ravine like lightning. Red tongues surged toward our hayfields, and it seemed like just one more moment and the house would go up in smoke. Grandpa gave orders, short and calm, no panic.
“Cut a firebreak! Beat down the grass! Where it’s thin, set a counterfire!”
We worked as one: hoes, shovels, wet sacks; a small controlled blaze ate up the fuel ahead of the main fire, choking it out. When it finally died down, the earth smelled of char and damp freshness. Exhaustion ached in my knees, but it was a sweet exhaustion—the kind that comes from work that saved a home. Grandpa summed it up plainly.
“Fire respects those who don’t panic. So does an enemy.”
Something shifted inside me then: fear learned to obey reason.
Grandpa wasn’t just a guide; he was a teacher of character. From an apple tree branch, he carved me a light wooden saber—not a toy, but a tool for practice.
“Feet wider, don’t tense your shoulders,” he muttered, showing the motion slowly. “Don’t chase the blade—watch your opponent’s shoulders. Intent starts higher than the hand.”
My heart raced with every good swing, but what thrilled me most wasn’t the whistle of the wood—it was the moment I could predict a strike and counter it. Stubbornness walked hand in hand with patience: two sisters without whom you’d never become a master or a warrior.
Evenings brought a different school—one of quiet words. On the porch, Grandpa told stories of times in foreign lands when he had to speak humbly to an enemy to survive, only to strike hard when the moment was right. I learned then: bravery doesn’t always roar; sometimes it stays silent and waits.
There was an incident the village remembered with a chuckle for a long time. After a night of heavy rain, our calf got stuck in the muddy meadow beyond the willows. The men were out mowing—no one to help. The water was cold, the muck pulled me down. I took the risk—skirted the thorny bushes, waded in from the shallower bank, grabbed the rope we always kept under the porch, looped it around the calf’s neck, and pushed with my shoulder under its flank. The calf sputtered, flailed its hooves, but finally stepped onto solid ground.
“Now that’s grit!” Mom said, wiping mud from my forehead.
I felt shy from the praise, but it stoked a fire inside: useful means needed.
Sometimes the steppe tossed out signs you couldn’t ignore, like turning your head from bad news. Once, at the edge of the woods, we found hoofprints—not ours. The tracks veered oddly, as if the riders feared being seen outright. Grandpa stared at the grass, already starting to spring back, for a long while before speaking.
“Scouts. Not ours,” he said. “They’ll circle until they find a weak spot.”
That knowledge sent a chill under my skin. But with it came clarity: danger shouldn’t be feared in the abstract—you have to meet it in detail. When you know its face, it can’t kill you with its shadow.
From time to time, life reminded me of another strength—the power of prayer and stillness. At a nearby monastery, I loved gazing at the dark icons, their gold leaf worn thin, but the faces still breathing with life. The monks welcomed pilgrims simply: warm porridge, bread, a quiet word of advice. One of them, thin and attentive, said to me,
“The true sword hangs not at your belt, but in your heart. If it’s crooked there, no blade can straighten it.”
Those words were easy to believe: they carried a peace stronger than iron.
Songs walked alongside labor. They lifted our steps, wove the street into a single ribbon. In the evening air, the kobza regained its power. I found myself hearing something personal in those melodies: as if an invisible string had formed in my soul, resonating whenever another note rang out. I learned to be silent—and because of that, my words grew heavier when they finally came.
Slowly, an inner measure took shape: don’t rush into a fight, but don’t hide behind others’ backs; don’t mock the weak, but hold the gaze of the strong; don’t shout your plans—act.
The steppe is a patient and demanding teacher. Nights under the stars taught me to look far; days taught me to notice the small things: how grass bends with a breath of wind; how a bird suddenly shifts its flight because something glints below; how the river, calm in the morning, can darken and roar with flood by evening. In all of this, I felt a great balance I longed to grow into: to be both soft and hard, like water and stone.
So passed my childhood—between bread and saber, prayer and laughter, work and song. Each day added a knot to the rope I’d one day use to descend into the darkness of battle. For now, I’m learning. Learning to listen to the land, to people, and to myself. And when I sometimes ask the wind about the future, it answers with a simple rustle: stand steady.