The Rowan Garden

Varvara hated her name. She truly despised it. No matter how you said it, it sounded wrong. Her full name — Varvara — felt crude, almost barbaric, while the affectionate form — Varyushka — sounded like something knitted out of wool.

“When I turn eighteen, I’ll change my name,” the girl thought as she walked beside her friend, who bore the beautiful name Elena.

The girls were in their final year of school and attended a theater studio. They were the same age and almost the same height. But while Lena had the flowing golden hair and sky-blue eyes befitting her name, Varvara had dark, unruly strands framing her face, and her nearly black eyes were round like a little mouse’s.

Often returning late from rehearsals, the streets were already lit by lanterns. Somewhere in the middle of the way, Lena and Varya parted — one turned right toward the private houses, the other headed to the new district shining with lit windows. Naturally, Varya got the less fortunate path.

Her grandmother’s old wooden house looked much like the others, except for the beautifully carved shutters made by Varya’s late grandfather. He had decorated many neighbors’ windows too, but their house still looked a bit more charming.

The main difference became especially noticeable in autumn and winter. While other yards had vegetable gardens with apple trees, bird cherry, lilac, raspberries, and currants, Varya’s grandmother’s garden was a pure rowan grove. Impractical, yet incredibly beautiful. Bright red clusters blazed against the white snow almost until spring.

Varya had asked her grandmother many times why she didn’t uproot half the rowan trees and plant something useful. The old woman always answered the same: “One day you will understand, but fortunately, that time has not yet come.”

Better if it never came.

No one could have predicted what happened. After saying goodbye to her friend one evening, Varya could never have imagined that the next morning a police officer would knock on their door.

His questions about when she last saw Lena, what time they parted, where Lena went, what they talked about, whether anyone had threatened her — all of it filled Varya with a terrible feeling she had never known before. A dark premonition covered her like a storm cloud, despite the bright March sun outside.

After realizing the girl knew nothing, the officer said calmly, as if talking about the weather:

“Elena Dergunova was murdered yesterday after you parted.”

“How murdered?” Varya whispered, afraid to say the terrible words out loud.

“Strangled near her house,” the man replied as he left, closing the door behind him.

April came. Lena’s killer was never found.

On the evening of the fortieth day after her friend’s death, Varya’s grandmother called her to sit at the table.

“Do you remember asking me why we only grow rowan trees in our garden? My dear girl, the time has come to tell you.”

She laid out newspaper clippings in front of Varya.

“Your father died when you were very small. Your mother and I raised you until you were six. Then one day she didn’t come home from work… You were told she slipped, fell, and hit her head. But that was a lie. Your mother was murdered. The killer was never found. Her death was the first rowan tree in our garden.”

The old woman handed her granddaughter a clipping. From the photo, Varya’s mother smiled.

Not letting the girl cry, the grandmother continued:

“And this is the second rowan.”

Twenty-three clippings were laid out one by one. Each told of a tragedy — a murder where the killer was either never found or escaped justice.

“That’s why there are twenty-three trees. And now it’s time to plant the twenty-fourth. I’ll need your help. It will happen tomorrow. I’ll meet you when you come back from drama club. And don’t be surprised by anything.”

The next evening, as Varya left the theater studio, a pretty blonde girl called out to her.

“It’s me,” she said quietly. “I came to meet you, as promised.”

“I don’t know you,” Varya replied.

“Look closer.”

The girl took Varya by the hand and led her back into the club. Under the bright lights, Varya froze. In front of her stood her own grandmother — but sixty years younger, transformed into a beautiful blonde.

“Now you recognize me. Let’s go home. Act natural, laugh, talk about boys, movies — anything. Someone will be watching us from that crossroads. At the place where you and Lena always parted, we’ll separate. You go home, and I’ll follow her fate. I’ll explain everything later. Time is short.”

They walked the usual route. Varya talked nervously about films the entire way. At the parting spot, Varya turned toward home, while her grandmother continued alone.

Unable to resist, Varya hid and followed secretly.

Forty meters later, a man caught up with the blonde. After a few words Varya couldn’t hear, he grabbed her arm. The girl whispered strange words in an unknown language. The air smelled of an approaching thunderstorm, and the man began to shrink rapidly, screaming in terror.

Varya ran up to them. The blonde was picking up something from the ground with a handkerchief.

“Why are you here? Quick, let’s run home while I still have strength. This needs to be buried immediately.”

She unwrapped the handkerchief. Inside was a small black egg with a foul stench. Without giving Varya time to think, the blonde grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

Back at the house, instead of going inside, the grandmother went straight to the garden. She buried the egg deep in a pre-dug hole and covered it with earth. As soon as it disappeared under the soil, she said a young rowan must be planted there the next day.

Inside the house, she threw Varya’s clothes into the stove, washed her hands, and burned the towel too. Then she aged back into her usual self and sat exhausted on the couch.

The next day, when Varya returned from school, a young twenty-fourth rowan tree was already swaying in the garden.