The legend of the Holy Spring of Lielie Muļķi has been known to many since the mid-19th century. From generation to generation, stories have been passed down of miraculous healings and inexplicable folk rituals in the village of Lielie Muļķi, or Mulči, located near Krāslava. A spring flows against the sun from the Dempļi marsh, its water concealing nature's healing power, and every year, on the morning of a specific day, people who wish to rid themselves of various ailments come to it. In 1840, the newspaper Latviešu Draugs wrote about this spring, citing irrefutable evidence that the blind regain their sight, the lame begin to walk, and so on. Official authorities of the time were more interested in the sulphur springs within the territory of Krāslava itself, where scientifically sounder mineral water baths and procedures were offered to high-born citizens throughout the year. With the change in the prevailing ideology, the legends were forgotten. The Dempļi marsh became overgrown, then was cultivated, and then became overgrown again. Not only the residents of Lielie Muļķi but also those of Mazo Muļķi changed their surnames to more pleasant-sounding ones, but the spring has survived to the present day. To verify this, we went to Krāslava and asked the staff of the city's community centre where to look for Lielie Muļķi. “Muitu?” the cultural workers asked at first, denying that they knew anything about a village with such a compromising name, but seeing that our intentions were pure and our resolve unshakable, the eldest among them confessed that he did know one fool. It was his mother-in-law, and after calling her, he quickly found out the way — out of town towards Daugavpils for about 8 kilometres, then at the bus stop, sharply down to the left, and there, at some house, one could ask. They would be right there — both the big fools and the small fools.

The houses of the villages of Lielie and Mazo Muļķi are indeed evenly scattered among clumps of forest, and there is no longer any point in distinguishing between them, but the mystery and even reverence with which the local residents spoke about one of the oldest human settlements in the Krāslava region only increased our curiosity.

At the eighth kilometre, there was a bus stop with a conspiratorial name worthy of a State Security Committee restaurant menu: “On Request” (“Uz pieprasījumu”), and the road that turned left truly led downwards — into snow and confusion. Having reached some houses, we successfully pretended that we were lost, and in conversation with a kind woman, we learned that we were in the very centre of Lielie Muļķi. A holy spring? The Dempļi marsh? No, she knew nothing of the sort. But she had heard that on the Thursday before Easter, the neighbours wake up even before sunrise and go to wash in the stream, and then all illnesses disappear and beauty increases. What is that stream? Well, it flows right here; it is called the Rudņa. It flows against the sun, which is why it has that antiseptic effect. But she did not know much; she was not a local. “I’ve only lived here for 43 years,” she added coquettishly. “But ask Marija Ungure; she would definitely know.” In Latvian tradition, water flowing against the sun has often been attributed with various human-beneficial, including healing, properties. It is known that in gratitude for being healed, people used to make offerings at the holy spring of the Lielie Muļķi village by “throwing a coin, a small cross, a trinket, or sometimes a piece of bread or a pretzel into the stream.” At the place where the stream water was drawn, people would tie ribbons, embroidered handkerchiefs, or rags to trees and bushes. These objects were sacred, and no one was allowed to touch them, so they hung in the branches for a very long time until the wind blew them away. A large, gnarled spruce grew by the holy spring stream, and a cross with an image of Christ was hung on it. Various gifts and coins were also placed by that spruce as a sign of gratitude. Later, the spruce was cut down.

Having driven a couple of kilometres to the south, we suddenly saw a small cemetery in the middle of a field. Everything around was white and empty, but in the centre was a clump of slender birches, a wooden crucifix, and about 30 grave mounds. The gate was locked with a rowan branch. But looking closer, we noticed that all the people buried here are, how to put it politely, — Muļķi (Fools). Marija Muļķis, Vinsents Muļķis, Edvards Muļķis... The birch tree in the centre of the cemetery has had its bark torn away along its entire length, revealing red flesh. The grave mounds are neatly maintained, but the road leading to the cemetery (at first, we did not notice it) is unnaturally wide — the width of a four-lane highway, two lanes there, two back. Judging by the dates on the tombstones, the last of the Muļķi were found here as late as the mid-80s, but everyone we asked denied that any had survived. On the way back, we noticed that the continuation of the snow-covered road led further to a ravine overgrown with bushes, where a black and angry stream was hiding. “The water in the holy spring never runs dry, no matter how dry and hot the summer, and in winter, the spring never freezes, no matter how cold the winter. The water in the spring is always clear, cool, and refreshing,” says the legend.

Walking along the stream upwards, we reached a farmhouse, whose smoking chimney quickly quieted down as soon as we approached the main building. The door was opened by a sleepy man in his prime, who could only say to all questions about the stream flowing past: “Well, it’s a stream like any other.” We later found out that it was indeed the Rudņa we were looking for, but only the owner of the neighbouring house could tell us more. By the way, the question of whether he might happen to be a Muļķis did not fluster this person, though the answer was also negative. “And your wife?” we asked. “What about her? She’s not a local at all!” The next houses were across the road, but closer to the Rudņa, which had become quite narrow and lovely in this spot. A wooden sauna, a footbridge, and a worn path to the bend in the stream indicated a stable and personal relationship. Fierce little dogs and a calm cat, and in the doorway — an old woman with a broom. Everything is exactly as it should be. Kind, laughing, and unusually high-spirited. Yes, the stream is the Rudņa. Good stream, we drink the water. We don't get sick. And so on. Only as we were leaving did we ask what the owner's name was. “Marija Ungure,” she replied. “And why are you photographing me here? In ugly clothes! They’ll put me in some newspaper! Here, take a photo of the cat instead!”
Article first published in 2001 in the magazine "Rīgas Laiks"