“Ranov called out something to her-I could only hope it wasn’t anything commanding or disrespectful-and after staring at us for a few minutes, she shut the wooden door. We waited quietly outside, and when it opened again I saw she was not as tiny as I’d imagined; she came solidly up to Helen’s shoulder and her eyes were merry in a cautious face. She kissed Brother Ivan’s hand and we shook hands with her, which seemed at first to confuse her. Then she shooed us into the house as if we’d been a pack of runaway chickens.

“Her house was very poor inside, but clean, and I noticed with a twinge of sympathy that she’d ornamented it with a vase of fresh wildflowers, which sat on the scratched, scrubbed table. Helen’s mother’s house had been a mansion compared to this neat, broken-down room with a ladder to the second floor nailed against one wall. I wondered how long Baba Yanka would be able to navigate the ladder, but she was moving around the room with so much energy that it slowly dawned on me that she was not actually old. I whispered this to Helen and Helen nodded. ‘Fifty, perhaps,’ she whispered back.

“This hit me with fresh force. My own mother, in Boston, was fifty-two, and she could have been this woman’s granddaughter. Baba Yanka’s hands were as gnarled as her feet were light; I watched her bring out cloth-covered dishes and set glasses before us and wondered what she’d done with those hands all her life to make them look like that. Felled trees, perhaps, chopped firewood, harvested crops, worked in cold and heat. She stole a glance or two at us as she worked, each glance accompanied by a quick smile, and finally poured us a beverage-something white and thick-which Ranov downed at once, nodding to her and wiping off his mouth with his handkerchief. I followed suit, but it almost killed me; the stuff was lukewarm and tasted distinctly of barnyard floor. I tried not to gag visibly while Baba Yanka twinkled at me. Helen drank hers with dignity and Baba Yanka patted her hand. ‘Sheep’s milk blended with water,’ Helen told me. ‘Think of it as a milk shake.’

“‘I will ask her now if she will sing,’ Ranov told us. ‘That is what you want, is it not?’ He conferred for a moment with Brother Ivan, who turned on Baba Yanka. The woman shrank back, nodding desperately. No, she would not sing; clearly, she didn’t want to. She gestured at us and put her hands under her apron. But Brother Ivan was persistent.

“‘We will ask her to sing whatever she wants to sing first,’ Ranov explained. ‘Then you may ask her about the song that interests you.’

“Baba Yanka appeared to have resigned herself, and I wondered if her whole protest had been a ritual of modesty, because she was already smiling again. She sighed, then drew her shoulders up under her worn, red-flowered blouse. She looked at us without guile and opened her mouth. The sound that came out was astonishing; first of all it was astonishingly loud, so that the glasses all but rattled on the table and the people outside the open door-half the village seemed to have gathered-stuck their heads in. It vibrated from the walls and under our feet and made her strings of onions and peppers sway above the battered stove. I took Helen’s hand, secretly. First one note shook us, and then another, each long and slow, each a wail of deprivation and hopelessness. I remembered the maiden who leaped from a high cliff rather than be taken into the pasha’s harem and wondered if this was a similar text. But strangely enough, Baba Yanka smiled with every note, breathing in huge sections of air, beaming at us. We listened in stunned silence until she suddenly ceased; the last note seemed to go on and on in the tiny house.

“‘Please ask her to tell us the words,’ Helen said.

“With some apparent struggle-which didn’t diminish her smile-Baba Yanka recited the words of the song, and Ranov translated.

The hero lay dying at the top of the green mountain.

The hero lay dying with nine wounds in his side.

O, you falcon, fly to him and tell him his men are safe,

Safe in the mountains, all his men.

The hero had nine wounds in his side,

But it was the tenth that killed him.

“Baba Yanka clarified some point with Ranov when she was done, beaming still and shaking a finger at him. I had the feeling she would spank him and send him to bed without supper if he did anything wrong in her house. ‘Ask her how old the song is,’ Helen prompted him, ‘and where she learned it.’

“Ranov put the question and Baba Yanka burst into peals of laughter, gesturing over her shoulder, waving her hands. Ranov actually grinned. ‘She says it is as old as the mountains and not even her great-grandmother knew how old that was. She learned it from her great-grandmother, who lived to be ninety-three.’

“Next Baba Yanka had questions for us. When she fixed her eyes on us, I saw that they were wonderful eyes, almond shaped under the weathering of sun and wind, and golden brown, almost amber, made brighter by the red of her kerchief. She nodded, apparently in disbelief, when we told her we were from America.

“‘Amerika?’She appeared to ponder this. ‘That must be beyond the mountain.’

“‘She’s a very ignorant old woman,’ Ranov amended. ‘The government is doing its best to raise the standard of education here. It is an important priority.’

“Helen had gotten out a piece of paper and now she took the old woman’s hand. ‘Ask her if she knows a song like this-you will have to translate it for her. ”The dragon came down our valley. He burned the crops and took the maidens.“’ Ranov passed this on to Baba Yanka. She listened attentively for a moment, and suddenly her face contracted with fear and displeasure; she drew back in her wooden chair and crossed herself quickly.‘Ne!’ she said vehemently, withdrawing her hand from Helen’s.‘Ne, ne.’

“Ranov shrugged. ‘You understand. She doesn’t know it.’

“‘Clearly she does,’ I said quietly. ‘Ask her why she is afraid to tell us about it.’

“This time the old woman looked stern. ‘She won’t talk about it,’ Ranov said.

“‘Tell her we will give her a reward.’ Ranov’s eyebrows went up again, but he put the offer to Baba Yanka. ‘She says we must shut the door.’ He got up and quietly closed the doors and wooden shutters, blocking out the spectators in the street. ‘Now she will sing.’

“There couldn’t have been a greater contrast between Baba Yanka’s performance of the first song and her performance of this one. She seemed to shrink in her chair, huddling down in the seat and looking at the floor. Her jolly smile was gone, and her amber eyes fixed on our feet. The melody that came out of her was certainly a melancholy one, although the last line of the verse seemed to me to end on a defiant note. Ranov translated carefully. Why, I wondered again, was he being so helpful?

The dragon came down our valley.

He burned the crops and took the maidens.

He frightened the Turkish infidel and protected our villages.

His breath dried up the rivers and we walked across them.

Now we must defend ourselves.

The dragon was our protector,

But now we defend ourselves against him.

“‘Well,’ Ranov said. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

“‘Yes.’ Helen patted Baba Yanka’s hand and the old woman broke out in a scolding voice. ‘Ask her where this one is from and why she fears it,’ Helen requested.

“Ranov needed a few minutes to sort through Baba Yanka’s reproaches. ‘She learned this song in secret from her great-grandmother, who told her never to sing it after dark. The song is an unlucky song. It sounds lucky but it is unlucky. They do not sing it here except on Saint George’s Day. That is the only day you can sing it safely, without bringing bad luck. She hopes you have not made her cow die in this way, or worse.’

“Helen smiled. ‘Tell her I have a reward for her, a gift that takes away all bad luck and puts good luck in its place.’ She opened Baba Yanka’s worn hand and put a silver medallion in it. ‘This belongs to a very devout and wise man and he sends it to you for your protection. It shows Sveti Ivan Rilski, a great Bulgarian saint.’ I realized that this must be the little object Stoichev had put into Helen’s hand. Baba Yanka looked at it for a moment, turning it on her rough palm, then raised it to her lips and kissed it. She tucked it into some secret compartment in her apron.‘Blagodarya,’ she said. She kissed Helen’s hand, too, and sat fondling it as if she had found a long-lost daughter. Helen turned to Ranov again. ‘Please just ask her if she knows what the song means and where it came from. And why do they sing it on Saint George’s Day?’