The Salt Road

The summer I turned fifteen, my parents sent me to stay with my grandmother in the village of Stara Reka, tucked in a valley of the Rhodope Mountains. I was born in Chicago, and the only thing I knew about this place were the stories my father told—superstitions about forest spirits and water nymphs, and warnings about the old road that cut through the juniper groves. I never believed them, not really. They were just stories to scare city kids.

Grandmother Marta’s house was a whitewashed cottage with a tin roof, and behind it stood a sagging barn where she kept three horses: a chestnut mare and two geldings. She used them for hauling wood and plowing the small field of potatoes. I spent my days helping her, but at night the village was silent except for the wind and the creaking of the barn door. I’d lie on my cot and listen to the horses stamping, and I’d think about the story my father told about the ‘beli ubai’—ghosts of women who died a century ago, trampled by horses during the Ottoman retreat. They were said to ride the mist at dawn, and if they found a sleeping village, they’d steal into the barns and play with the horses’ manes.

One night, a thunderstorm rolled over the mountains. Rain hammered the tin roof, and lightning turned the yard white. I woke to a sound like tearing cloth, then a low, rhythmic humming—like something singing in a language I didn’t know. I got up and peered out the window. The barn door was open, swinging in the wind, and inside I saw three shapes, pale as birch, moving around the horses. They were tall and thin, with hair that floated as if under water. I couldn’t see faces, just outlines. They moved with a fluidity that made my stomach drop. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. Then one of the shapes turned and looked at the house, right at my window. I felt a cold hand press against my heart, and I stumbled back to bed.

In the morning, the storm had passed. When I went to check the horses, they were drenched, their coats dark with sweat, and their manes were braided into dozens of tiny, intricate plaits, each one tied with a strand of red thread that I hadn’t seen before. The braids were so tight and so numerous that I couldn’t imagine any human doing it in a single night. My grandmother came out, saw the horses, and just shook her head. ‘The beli ubai are out,’ she said, her voice flat. My mother, who had come from the city to help, nodded. ‘They haven’t come this close in years.’

I asked them what it meant. My grandmother looked at me with her milky eyes. ‘It means they are hungry. They braid the manes to call the horses, but if they find no horse, they might take a child instead.’ She said it as if she were telling me to lift a heavy bucket. That night, I decided to find out the truth. I took a lantern and a pocketknife, and I walked to the end of the village where the Salt Road began—a path that wound up the mountain, lined with stones that were said to be marked with salt to ward off evil. I thought if I could see the ghosts with my own eyes, I’d understand. But I was also afraid that they’d see me.

At the edge of the grove, I saw a figure standing in the mist. It was not like the shapes in the barn; this one was solid, wearing a black shawl, and it was holding a handful of salt. It was an old woman—the village’s hermit, who lived in a hut above the tree line. She was called Granny Kosara, and she was said to be over a hundred. She turned to me, and her face was a mask of wrinkles, her eyes black as obsidian. ‘You seek them, boy?’ she asked. Her voice was dry like falling leaves. ‘They are not to be sought. They come when the crossroads are troubled. There was a death on the Salt Road last winter. A hunter was found with his horse, both their necks broken. The beli ubai did that. They took their manes and hung them from the pines.’

I asked her why she was here, with the salt. She laughed, a hollow sound. ‘I am here to keep them from the village. But you—you have seen them, and now they have your scent. You must not sleep in the barn tonight. You must sleep in the house, with the icons, and you must put salt in every corner of your room.’ She pressed a handful of coarse salt into my palm, then walked away into the mist, heading up the mountain.

That night, I did as she said. I sprinkled salt around my cot, and I placed an old icon of Saint George on the windowsill. I slept fitfully, dreaming of braided manes and red threads. Near midnight, I was woken by a scraping sound outside. I looked out and saw the three pale shapes moving around the yard. They circled the house, and one paused at my window. It pressed its face against the glass—if it had a face; it was a blur of pale light. I felt a cold breath on my cheek, and then it whispered something, a word that I couldn’t quite hear, but it made the salt on the floor jump. I grabbed the icon and held it up, and the shapes recoiled, slipping back into the darkness.

In the morning, the horses were untouched, but there were hoofprints in the mud that were deep and wide, as if a great herd had passed. And on the door of the barn, I found a single braid of horsehair, tied with a strip of black cloth. My grandmother saw it, and her face went pale. ‘They are showing their favor,’ she said. ‘Or a warning.’ She told me that the braid was a sign that the beli ubai wanted the horses—or someone like me—to join them. She said that if they came again, I must not look into their eyes, and I must never speak to them. But I couldn’t just obey. I had to understand.

The next day, I followed the Salt Road up the mountain, looking for Granny Kosara. I found her hut among the pines, and she was sitting outside, weaving a basket from reeds. She saw me, and her black eyes narrowed. ‘You came back. I thought you would.’ I asked her how to end this. She put down the basket and looked at me for a long time. ‘There is only one way to appease them. You must take a horse to the crossroads at midnight, and let them braid its mane, and you must not watch. And then you must cut the braids and bury them at the root of a dead tree. If you do that, they will leave the village alone for another hundred years.’

So I decided to do it. I asked my grandmother if I could take the chestnut mare, and she said no, but my mother interjected, ‘He has to learn, Mother. If he doesn’t, they’ll never stop.’ So they let me. That night, I saddled the mare and rode slowly along the Salt Road. The moon was full, and the shadows of the pines looked like grasping hands. At the crossroads, I stopped. The mare was skittish, sweating. I tied her to a broken post, and I turned my back, as Granny Kosara had said. I heard rustling, and then a soft humming—the same tune from before. The air grew cold, and I felt gentle pulls on the mare’s mane. I stayed still, counting my breaths. Then it stopped. I turned around, and the mare’s mane was intricately braided, glistening with something like oil. I took a knife and cut all the braids off, stuffing them into a cloth sack. Then I found a dead oak at the edge of the grove, and I dug a hole at its base. I buried the braids, and as I covered them with dirt, I spoke the words Granny told me: ‘Rest now, spirits, for the road is yours. We are only travelers.’

I returned home as dawn was breaking. The horses in the barn were calm, their manes smooth and undamaged. My grandmother hugged me, which she rarely did. ‘You have done well,’ she said. ‘They will not come again soon.’ But as I walked to the house, I felt a chill, and I looked back at the road. For a moment, I thought I saw three pale shapes standing at the edge of the grove, watching. And then they were gone.

Since that summer, I have never braided a thing. I have not returned to Stara Reka. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I wake with a cold pressure on my chest, and I hear a faint humming, and I know that the beli ubai are not always satisfied. They are patient, and they remember the one who cut their braids and buried them. And I wonder if they are waiting for me to come back, to finish what I started. But I won’t go back. I’ve seen enough. I believe now, and belief is a heavy burden.