Karasevdah: Day One

[Aedh]

Part One

"Cruel--there was something cruel in him, right down in the abyss of him. But at the same time, there was an aloneness, and a grim little satisfaction in a fight, and the peculiar courage of an inherited despair. People who inherit despair may at last turn it into greater heroism."
--D.H. Lawrence, St Mawr

Day One

The man stopped and pulled open the front of his coat and there was a catch in his breathing as he swallowed. He ran a hand inside his stiff filthy shirt, smearing sweat over pale ribs, and his eyes closed a moment. They snapped open, he tossed his head on its slender grey neck, and he limped on, the only living person in all the long valley up to the line of hills in the east.

Snow had fallen two days before but now the sky had turned white and a damp fitful wind had blown up from the West, baring winter trees and turning the fields to cold mud. It was too early for spring.


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After a time the man emerged from a stand of scrub cypresses, heading for a two-story farmhouse on the hillside. He unslung the Mauser rifle he was carrying and walked slowly, unsteadily round the face of the house, past the stable door, and on the back came to a set of stairs, which he mounted with the aid of the rifle's stock.
Inside, a dog began to bark. He tried the door, then pounded on it.

"Who is it?" came a woman's voice.

"Who’d’ you think?" he replied. "Open up, Stana."

"Go to hell."

"Stana, what--?"

"I'm not letting you in stinking drunk."

"Wife, you're a fool!" he roared at the woodwork. "I haven't so much as seen a bottle. Let me in!"

She said something back but he didn't hear it. He was looking down, at a drop of blood hitting the planking at his feet.

He lifted the rifle and struck the door with its buttplate. "Goddamn it, Stana!"

"--makes us look like trash--"

"Stanaaa!"

"--can't be bothered to stay home with your family once--"

He clambered a shell. "I'm warning you!"

Drip.

"--Vuletić tosses you out on your ear--"

"Stana, listen to me a moment. Just listen. I was visiting knez Dabisav's farm the whole time. I swear it. Business."

There was quiet.

Drip.

"D'you swear it?"

"For God's sake, Stana!"

There was a pause, and a clunk and scrape as the bar was drawn, and the door opened inward. The woman was holding the bar like a club in one hand, ready to swing, but she dropped it as he took a few steps in, blinking.

"Papa!" cried a girl.

"Husband, what--?"

"Slavica," he commanded the girl, "go and get me some water."

The girl turned instantly and went out past him.

Then he put down the rifle and said, "Help me get my coat off."

Stana came to him quickly and began undoing buttons. "What happened? And where?"

His belt fell to the floor. "I've been shot."

She straightened up. "Shot? . . . Can you hold your arms out?"

"Easy now," he said and held his arms out as her long slender fingers peeled away the wool.

She loosened the coat's shoulders, brought his arms closer together, pulled down on the sleeves, and as the coat came off with a sigh folded it over once and tossed it onto a bench. Then, looking at his torn, bloodstained shirt, she produced a knife and in a few expert strokes cut away the dirty cloth.

"It's not bad," he said.

It was, but she said only: "Sit down, if you can. You may not be drunk, but you are stinking."

"I'll bet," said the man with a wan smile.

She turned away and went to the big stone stove, opening up the iron door and raking up the embers. He sat on the bench beside his coat, watching her put in a little wood, looking over at a cradle on the stove's other side.

"How's the baby?" he asked.

"Better now, I think. He was vomiting yesterday and the fever was worse. Last night I thought we'd lose him, so I sent for Father Ante--" here she hesitated, as if expecting an interruption, "--and then about dawn he fell into a deep sleep. He hasn't awakened."

"And what did the Reverend Father have to say?"

"After Anton quieted, he said a blessing over him and then left, saying to notify him if there were any change."

"H'm." The man looked thoughtful. "I'm sure you acted for the best."

"I try to," she said, crossing the room to a chest. She opened it and rummaged round, once looking over at him and adding, "So far as it's possible."

At last she came up with a piece of yellowed linen and a pair of pinking shears. She seated herself across the table from him, began to cut, and asked, "So, what's the story?"

"I . . ." He gazed toward the stove. "I don't really feel like talking about it . . . now. I'll tell you, later."

There was a long space of silence. The hiss of the fire became audible, then his breathing, and then the relentless drip of thaw from the eaves here heard against the clip-clip of her shears. Finally, she held up the linen strips, tossed them on the table, heaved a deep breath, and said, "If you've been to Uglesić's as you say, I'll hear about it from Marenka, anyway."

The man did not say anything.

"Look," she said, "I'm sorry for barring the door against you. It was uncalled for."

"So was my calling you a fool. We both had our reasons."

"I guess. But that still doesn't make it right . . . Well, at least you're still alive."

He rolled his head back with a smile. "For the moment, yes."

The door opened and the dog and the girl came through with a big bucket sloshing water over the sides.

"Oh, Slavica, thank you," said Stana. "Myshka, down!"

"That's all right," he said, ruffling the bristly fur behind the dog's ears. "He smells blood. You can't fault him for his breeding."

Stana lowered her head and scratched the nape of her neck.

Slavica put down the bucket beside the stove, stepped around the dog which was settling on the carpet, and asked, "What happened, Papa?"

"All in good time," he told her. "You'll hear soon enough." He looked as if he wanted to say something else; but he did not.

She took the kettle off, poured hot water into a bowl, and after mixing something up brought it over to where he still sat at the table. "This will fix you up properly," she said. "Husband?"

"Oh. Yes?"

"Yes."

"What've you got there?"

"An herbal plaster. It'll draw the infection, if there is any." She stooped to re-examine the wounds. Two bullets had done the real damage: one entering the abdomen and passing near a kidney, and the other angling upward, nicking a rib. He'd lost a lot of blood, maybe a litre. He'd taken another bullet under one shoulder, and another inside a thigh.

And here he was, still walking and talking.

"Sit up," she said, and he shifted. As he did the clotted skin pulled away to reveal a growth of pink membrane underneath.

"Slavica, fetch me a needle," she said.

Soon she had the wounds bathed, fixed, and dressed. Then she helped him up and off with the rest of his clothes and into bed.

She cleaned up and put the tub on the hearth. Then she threw in more fuel and had picked up a heavy shawl when she heard him say something.

She went through to the bed. "What?"

"I said, 'where's Demjan?'"

"He stayed in the village, I think," she hazarded.

"The village . . .? Will you have some dinner soon?"

"Soon," she promised.


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There were many things to be done but for once she could not bring herself to do them. She supervised the girl's start on some mutton stew, and looked in on the baby. He was still sleeping. Then she looked in on her husband and he was sleeping now too and his face was relaxing, changing--an aspect was stealing over it that it never wore in waking, one that had something in it of her first husband; which owed less to her marital predilections than to that the two men had been brothers. And until now that slight resemblance had been the only thing they had in common.

She returned to the doorway and looked in at him again. He was pale, so pale that his black hair took on a bluish tinge against his waxy skin. But he would live.

Or at least die talking.


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The girl asked, "He will live?"

She turned. "Yes. You saw the wounds. If he were going to die he'd have done already."

Slavica closed her eyes and let out a long breath.

"It's not easy," said Stana. "Believe me. He's a very tough man, just like your own father Andrija was. He has to be. And you and I need to measure up all the way, because he is gospodar and his business is life and death."

"I know."

The woman took up her shawl again and wrapped it around herself.
"Are you going to visit Alija and Ivo?" asked the girl.

Stana tied off the shawl and picked up a riding-cloak. "I won't be gone long. Mind the stew and see it doesn't burn, and if Anton wakes up you are to feed him some of the canned food. It should be warm by now."

The girl said, "Yes, Mother."

Stana stooped a little, and kissed the girl's forehead. "You are a good girl, Slavica. I'll be back in a bit."

Then she turned and went out.

As soon as the door closed the girl went to the window, made a gap along the outside edge of the curtain with two fingers, and saw Stana descend to the stable level. She continued watching until the woman emerged with a brindled mare. She mounted it side-saddle, paused a moment to look around, and then set off at a canter toward a rutted track into the trees.

The girl ran in to the bed and tugged at the blankets. "Papa! Wake up, Papa, please!"

His eyes popped open and began to drift closed. "What?"

"Mother's gone off, she won't say where."

"So . . .?"

She shook him awake again. "She's probably gone off to find out what you did, and she won't understand--and if there is trouble--"

He propped himself up on one elbow. "If there is trouble, your mother will know how to take care of it, and if she does not tell you everything, neither do I. Isn't that so?"

The girl bowed her head.

"She is a good woman, Slavica. I love her, and I love you, and I would trust either of you with my life. And if she is good enough for me to trust, is she not good enough for you? Eh?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Don't condescend to me," he barked. "You resent her sometimes, feel bad about her. Hell, so do I. That's where honour comes in. If you feel now and then you can't love her, you will honour her, because she is my wife, just as she's your mother. D'you hear me, Slavica?"

"I understand, Papa."

"Slavica!" The name shot out like an oath, and the girl stiffened.

"I hear, Papa."

"That is good." He turned his head and settled back, nearly asleep already. The girl did not move for some time and when she did it was to the hearthrug where she fell to her knees and then onto her face.


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Stana was an excellent horsewoman, as it happened, and so did not try to gallop the mare through closed country; but the animal sensed her troubled mind and stepped high, now and then tossing its head.

There hadn't been anything untoward in her marrying Andrija's brother. Custom sanctioned levirate marriage when there was no other honourable match to be found, particularly where children were under consideration. She had expected certain fraternal similarities, but certainly nothing as bizarre as this.

But it seemed as if Andrija had returned from the grave.
She spurred on the horse in spite of herself.


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The girl was aroused from her dark reverie by a sudden sound. The baby was awake and crying.

She started for the stove, then checked herself. She ventured toward the inner door, peered in, and then went to the baby.
She took the child clumsily in her arms, undid the top of her dress, and offered him a small rosy nipple.


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Some time later Stana cleared the mountain and began the descent toward the village, toward the tile-roofed church. She picked her way down a dry watercourse and into the buildings, and then turned a corner and rode along the rectory wall--a wall, she reflected, that had seen service in ten centuries of intermittent religious war--and turned again and was at the iron-grilled gate.
She sent in a message by Yusef the porter and being shortly informed that Father Ante was in, dismounted and tied the horse to a column. As she walked up the garden path she was suddenly aware of her disordered hair, her workaday clothes and peasant's bark shoes--but this was an informal visit.

And after all, she and the priest knew each other well.


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Father Ante Rezać did her the honour of opening the door himself. "How do you do, gospodja," he said in his soft, hoarse voice. "Won't you come in?"

"Very well, Father, thank you,' she said, glancing up from the boot scraper. "I'm sure you'll pardon me. This thaw is turning everything to mud."

"Indeed. Two feet deep in some places, so Brother Grgur tells me. How was it on the mountain? Any worse?" He stood aside.

As their faces passed she let her glance flicker over his broad pale brow. There was something weighing on his mind. "The roads are better as you get away from the village." she said. "You should be able to get round."

"God willing," he added. "I don't keep up quite the way I used to. There was the accident a while ago, and it's been--"

She wheeled to face him. "We're certainly grateful that you could manage the trip last night."

"Yes. I trust Anton has improved?"

"His fever broke this morning, and he does seem to be on the mend."

"Thanks be for that," he said. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you."

"Will you take a little coffee, gospodja, or a glass of wine . . .?"

She pulled her hair back, looking up toward the ceiling a moment. "Some coffee would be very nice, thanks. It's been a long day."

"Very good, gospodja. Please make yourself comfortable," he said, and disappeared behind her.

After he had gone she remained just where she was for some time, seated in the deep English-style armchair staring across the room in the grey late-afternoon light filtering through the mullioned windows.


When he returned she was leaning in an alcove, still staring into the windows. The slanting luminosity cast her features in high relief; it gleamed in her black hair, playing down the muscles in her neck and onto her shoulders where her woollen shawl had slipped down.
He put down the tray with its two cups and as he sat she looked at him and came over and sat down in her chair. Then she gently picked up on the tiny cups and took a sip.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"Perfect. A little sweet, but not syrupy. You haven't lost the knack."
He said nothing, and she looked down for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "I'm very glad to hear about Anton. He has been more fortunate than many."

"I believe it."

"Yes." He raised his head. "I take an interest in him, you know."
"I appreciate that. Kosta is trying to be a good father, and that helps a lot . . ."

The priest listened.

"I was still young, I guess, when I had Demjan. I really didn't know what was happening. And then when he was six, Slavica came along." She brushed aside a stray lock of hair with two fingers and looked toward the windows. "Slavica was so--so different. It was like beginning all over again."

"She's a very quick young lady," he offered. "Very intelligent."

"Terribly intelligent," she said. "Sometimes I don't think I can handle her. She should be having a better education, maybe, than we can give her. Perhaps at one of your convent schools."

He smiled. "They say we did have a Pope Joan."

"She'll make out. But I started thinking last night . . . about Anton. I should make some provision for his future. In case of . . . well, things happen around here, you know."

"I am at your disposal."

"You're very kind, Father, even though I don't qualify as a parishioner of yours--"

"That's not important and you know it. I've known you for twenty years. I've seen all your children born and growing up. That means something, doesn't it?"

She gave a deprecating little smile. "I'm here."

There was quiet for a while, and he finished his coffee. "Yes," he said, putting down his cup carefully, "you are here. And I would like you to tell me why."

"Why? Why not? We're still on speaking terms, even if you and Kosta are not."

"Not good enough, gospodja. With Kosta gone you would not leave Slavica alone with Anton. There is something else, and it's nothing to do with Anton."

The woman made no reply.

"See here, gospodja. Your son Demjan turned up here at an advanced hour last night, covered with mud, insisting that I--at my age--get up and ride over the hills and up into the valley to see to Anton. I assume it was your decision, and I think you decided rightly. But I didn't come just because you sent for me. I came because he said the child was dying. And now you ride down unannounced, uninvited, to talk to me, about--what? I don't know what is in you. But if I am to be any help to you, I have the right to your confidence. Do we understand one another?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"So, gospodja; what is the matter?"

"All right," she said, drawing her eyebrows together with a thumb and forefinger. "It's no secret anyway. Kosta has come back."
"Come back? How is he?"

"He might live. He was shot up pretty thoroughly."

The priest said nothing.

"Sound familiar, Father?" she cried out.

"It . . . sounds very bad."

"Thank you," she said bitterly.

"Surely you know it's no rare thing for a man to be shot these days. Maybe they fell out over business. Maybe he got to arguing politics with some Italian or Turkish swine, or some drunken Schwabe troops felt like target practice. Anything can happen in times like these."

She was silent.

"What if he was forced to defend his honour? Or yours? It happens all the time."

She said tightly, "What if we've got another Andrija on our hands?"

"So ... it's like that, is it?"

"Don't get me wrong. Kosta is plenty tough, and he's still in the land of the living. But I don't like it, Father, I don't know what's happening. All I know is that when I married him we agreed to leave the past alone, never to ask any questions. He has lived up to that. But now ..."

"You've let the past alone, but it is not leaving you alone, gospodja. And you are afraid."

"With good reason, you must admit."

"I would say so . . . but you have to realize that they are two different men. And Kosta is alive. The matter may come out. I can try to talk to him, if you like."

"Somehow, I don't think so."

"You say he is trying to be a good father. That may be the way to draw him out and get him talking."

She considered for a while. "Somebody shot him. Whoever did that is in it, too."

"It's a horrible business, gospodja," he said, and she rose. "You're leaving?"

"It will be dark soon."

"All right, then," he said, getting up. "By the way, I talked to Demjan on the way back. My grey will be foaling soon, and if you could spare him for a day I'd like him to come down--"

"He has not come home, Father."

"Oh, I meant to tell you. He felt too tired to make the trip back last night, so I put him up here. He went out this morning, I believe he had an errand in the village. He should be home by tonight."

"I hope so," she said as he opened the big door. "And, Father, tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Who do you think shot Kosta?"

"Well, I couldn't--"

"Someone did shoot him. What is your feeling?"

They watched each other a moment, their breath leaving wisps in the cooling air.

Finally he said: "I can't answer that, and you know it. I am an old man, and if you'll excuse me I should be in by the fire." He began to turn and she said lightly, "You, Ante, old? I find that a chilling thought."

He stopped and looked at her again with the tiniest of sudden smiles. "You're the same as ever, gospodja. Good day."

"Good day, Father," she said, and the door closed.

She mounted up in the courtyard and as she brought the mare round saw that the gate was slowly swinging to.

"Open it," she called to Yusef's back but if he heard he gave no sign. She looked again and the horse all at once shied away. She reined in hard; the animal was shivering.

She gave it a moment, then urged it on through and twisted back to see Yusef standing and looking at her.


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Kosta Savić became conscious and realized that someone was sitting on his chest, crushing his breath out.

He couldn't move.

He seemed suspended in a void, empty even of feeling yet for the pressure on his chest.

He had seen a man bound out and staked once.

Staked

and it occurred to him that he could open his eyes and he did.
Above him lay dim roof poles crossed by rafters, part of a wall with an odd slice of window.

"Stana?"

He tried to remember what it was he needed so he could tell her when she came. He had needed something before, but the naming of it, the recollection, had returned to oblivion as time passed. Like the time it had lost its meaning; shorn of everything else it had left only its importance. It felt almost as though he had been living another man's memories. But why then was it so important?

"Stana!"

A light in the woods, over the wood waters, showed through to him; he saw it without thinking. Something came near him. . .
It wasn't her, but it tried to be like her. Its attempts to achieve a superficial resemblance had failed so badly that anything looking less like her could scarcely be conceived to exist. No, but to her it bore a truly ghastly inner likeness, so much that he could not say whether she had clothed herself in the shape to mock him.

"Stana?"

"I am here," said the voice. He wanted to spit, but his mouth had gone dry. "I heard you calling, and so I came." The face bent down over his and smiled. And with the smile it cracked sidewise into triangular teeth, downstaring eyes in a pale white forehead streaming with blood.

He bit back first and threw himself upon it in a frenzy and they fell back together. He got on top, sank one hand into its face, and with the other slashed at its distended abdomen, and as it exploded with blood spurting and roiling off around him he stood up, knife in hand.

It had not resisted him.

Then movement among the body's ruins drew his eye.

A midportion--he began to mark its length--of a wormlike thing. The parts not covered by wreckage glistened a deep crimson in body fluids.

He watched an end weave upward, a translucent head with pea-like eye balls. It rose a foot and opened a mouth, hissing past toothless gums. He crouched to lunge for it and everything went dark.

Noiselessly and very very slowly he turned, brought the knife up, and began to move back. His nerves were alive to movement around him and operating overpitch in the total silence.

Then he became aware of a soft pounding and a roaring sound; he took it for his heart until water washed over the ground, breaking around his heels, and he knew he was on the beach.

Yet all round him was black as the pit, an inky, cloudy blackness that sat on the eyes, and filled the mouth, and crawled up the nose.

Blackness seemed to fill his lungs, flowing in and out, and to ebb and pulse in his veins; his very eyes were orbs of blackness . . . as he moved across the sand a wind blew up, gusts tearing through the black air,-- a spirit was moving upon the face of the waters, he felt it, but what spirit he neither knew nor cared.

He walked on

He walked on a strand swept by a lifeless sea, under a sky empty of stars; and the sun blazed in his memory, only in his memory.

It seemed a little like the Hell the priest Rezać had talked about.

A surge of bitterness suffused him as he thought more of the priest. His hand tightened around the knife handle as he tried to remember exactly why he hated him so. He did not know, quite, but when he recalled it he would track him down like a dog and kill him. When he stood in the burning ruins of his house and looked down at his dying body he would entertain an idea of mercy. After all, he reflected, mercy like money comes cheapest to those who suffer from no lack of it.

He smiled. No wonder, then the priest Rezać made such a show of mercy. And what of his vindictive tin-pot God and the doe-eyed Christ who knew only how to suffer? A fitting God that Christ made for sheep and old wives . . . and a parcel with them was his Devil, niggling like a German tradesman--

But none of this was new ground, he thought as he walked on. Every god exacts his price . . . it is simply a matter of clear thinking as to one's returns that matters.

He had passed from sand onto a gravel flow, and here he stopped and his fingers met with a smooth flat rock. He picked it up and rubbed it in his palm as he walked.

It was going to be difficult to kill a man who didn't really exist.


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Further than all distance away, the priest in his study put down his pen and read what he had just written, in German.

To: Herr Claudius von Stadelmeier, Imperial Commissioner, Foča Admin. Dist.

Excellency:

It would pay you to enquire into the recent doings of the gospodar Kosta Savić. You will find him and his wife very interesting people.

Rezać+


"Yusef," he called and picked up a torn, mottled bit of blotting paper.

Soft, heavy footsteps approached the doorway. "Yes, Father?"

He folded and sealed the note. "Ride to Mradisić's in Foča right away, and leave this. Don't wait for a reply, but come straight back."

"Yes, Father," said the big Turk and waited while the priest scrawled a name on the outside of the note and handed it to him.

And as the soft footsteps receded in the hall the priest threw himself back in his chair and searched his conscience for a trace of wrongdoing. He could find none.


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The man opened his eyes. He was wet and chilled and it was dark.
He lay sprawled in a hollow in the woods, in the foot of a half-overturned stump; rotten leaves and mud clung to his coat, sticking in his stiff, tangled hair.

A fine, steady rain was falling, dripping from branches and making the stump's dirty bark glisten.

He looked up. A light shone a little way off through the trees. Turning over, he grabbed a root and pulled himself to his feet. He ached all over.

He wondered how he had got to this place and what it was that was gone from inside him. And meanwhile the rain ran down his forehead, beading up in his eyebrows and coursing down his cold face.

If he could remember who he had to kill . . . or whether he had already killed him ... He found he could stand and began making his way through the brush toward the yellowish lamplight.


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The priest rose and locked the door. Then he went over and sat down again and unlocked the bottom, drawer of his desk and so began a ritual outlined in no Church manual.

He bowed his head in meditation, recalling the exact nature of what he was undertaking, and his lips moved silently a moment.

Then he set to work constructing a magic circle, and doing it carefully.


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The woman finally had to dismount; the darkness had come quickly and was complete and she was not inclined to trust the mare too much. But as she came down her heel slipped on a wet branch and she fell, hurting herself. The horse remained and as she got up she recalled that wolves were still seen in these woods as late as March.
She reached for the saddle holster but the rifle wasn't there. It was in the house needing a clean and she cursed herself for neglecting it.
There was nothing but to square her shoulders, lead on, and be glad that home was not far away.

It was starting to rain again.


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Finally, the priest Rezać was prepared. He loosened his robe, took a deep breath, and opened the drawer. From it he drew a broken silver crucifix; a locket portrait; and something done up in a bit of silk.

He closed his eyes. His lips parted slightly and his breathing deepened and slowed.

An effective invocation requires power, more than words can wholly frame or symbols shape.

The room broke away from his vision, dissolving like a sandcastle before the flood-tide's ripples; but these ripples were waves of time . . . with the waves came light, a light that was power, all-suffusing; power to shake worlds.

He called.

His hands kept moving and he began to feel distinctly warm, warm and isolated, enwombed in energy.

Time seemed to slow, then to stop: then to recede, as if it were moving away . . .

A spirit stood before him, one like a young girl, sharp-faced, crowned with white hair. He said, "Hail, my Sata."

It did not return the greeting. "What do you want, Father?”

"Not too cordial this evening, are we?"

"As for you, I cannot answer; as for myself, I have little cause for courtesy to you. You have never shown me any."

"True," he admitted. "Perhaps I will mend my ways, if you have executed my commands."

"You speak as if I had a choice in the matter . . . Why you employ the fiction is beyond me but be careful lest I turn the tables on you some day."

"I will deal with that day when it comes. Meanwhile, have you seduced your stepfather as I taught you?"

"Yes, exactly. In every detail."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"No. I still don't know what blood is on his hands."

“Ugh . . . And have you also poisoned your half-brother?"

"I have, damn you."

"With what result?"

"Must I tell you?"

"No. I am doing this for the greater good."

"Don't protest your ethics to me, please. Just ask me."

"Will he die?"

"He is poisoned. That I know."

"And what of Demjan?"

"He will not return."

"Good. You have done your work well."

"I was raised to work well."

"You were raised at my will. You will have use yet. Now go and fetch your mother."

"You have just spoken with her."

"I want to do it again. Now go."

"Don't you know she's here already? I warned you."

"I commanded you to fetch her."

The spirit put out an arm, poised a slender leg, and turned, changing, its back to him.

He kept his hands moving; his pulse throbbed and roared in his ears. All about him his power darkened, rising in pitch and intensity as if an icy wind were tearing about him.

"Turn around!" he cried out.

A voice spoke, a different voice, cool and ironical, and it said, "You have no power over me. You can summon and dismiss me, but I do as I do."

His hands moved faster now and his robe fell about him in folds. The figure half-turned, white hair whipping, and was suddenly upon him; something soft, hot covered his face and pressed into his rib cage under his armpits. He flailed for a grip but his fingers were suddenly warm and too slick to hold on, so he wiped them on his robe and sat back, shaking.


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She paused for a minute, tired.

A night wind was blowing up, covering whatever stars may have shone with clouds. No light could be seen anywhere.

She passed a hand across her face, smearing blood from her lips over her pale cheek.


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He threw open the door and staggered in, the person inside looked at him calmly and the knife still in his hand, then the girl looked up and said, "Try Sata."

"What?"

She rose from her chair and asked him, "Where's your bandage?"
"I don't know. What bandage?"

Her brows knitted and she shook her head.

"The hell with you," he said. "I am going to have a drink, and then I'm going to bed." He pulled open a cupboard, brought out a bottle, splashed some rakija into a glass, and then as he raised it took thought. "To you."

"To me?"

"To Anton, then. I don't know." He knocked it back in one and poured another.

"What's the occasion?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know a hell of a lot, do you?"

He poured another, put down the glass, and pointed to his head. "I do know this. There is something in there that is trying to get out. It doesn't fit, it has no place there. I don't want to know what it is."

"What is it?"

"It's a . . . it has--oh, shit."

"You know that much."

"Can't you leave me alone? I don't think so . . . it's like you that way."

"Like me?"

He tossed off the drink. "Why do I feel like I'm talking to myself? At once familiar and unknown, a brother whose face I've never seen. Like a Turk in the outhouse."

"You're a Turk."

He continued, "Maybe I just imagined you all along. I was stupid when I met you. A stupid farm boy who worshiped his older brother because that's all he had on his foster-father's generosity. And now--now you know me? I'm even stupider. And my older brother is dead."

"If you're going to talk like that at least put that knife down."

"It makes me wonder . . . not how he died. No, I saw all the holes in him too. But what got into him? What possessed him, to kill Bicanić and the others like that?"

"I don't know."

"I believe that."

"I mean I don't know that he killed them."

"Of course you do. Any doubt of that's just a reflex left over from when you loved him."

"That disposes of me rather neatly."

"I wish to God it were that easy." He held the bottle up to the light, watching tiny reflected flames dance and scatter as he swirled the bottle. Then he looked at her and said, "I love you, Stana."

She looked at him a long moment as if she would throw it back in his face; then they embraced, swaying, not saying anything.


He opened his eyes. The moonlight still flowed in at the window and he could see one cold glittering star among the treetops. He wondered which it was and touched the coverlet-clad figure beside him in the bed. It stirred a little. He sat up.

It was very quiet.

He shivered a little and wondered why the stove had burned so low. It had not gone out; there was no ash-smell. So he swung his legs out of the bed and his head exploded in a light that was darkness, groin-jolt shocking his spine and splitting him like a cow's carcass hung to bleed. He struck with the knife, blinding to pain but even as he drove and twisted he felt the strength leaving him.

Something slammed into the side of his head and he opened his eyes.

He was on the floor, alone.

His knife was still in his hand but he was shivering. The moonlight dimmed for a moment and he wondered what had passed through it. And even as he opened his mouth to scream, he slept.

Kosta Savić remembered the first day he had taken Andrija and Stana around for public visiting. They had walked for miles in the bright sunlight, blinking in the hot summer dust and here and there stopping where a grove dappled the road and talking with neighbours and travellers. There would be a short exchange of words, usually, smiles, a few bows, and so onward. She had looked hot under the veil but she had not sweated, nor had she once complained.

Andrija had been fidgety. It seemed he didn't want to use the church crowns for the wedding ceremony, and as they had stopped just outside the village he used some olive greens to twine his own pair.

"No," she had said.

"What?" He held them up. "What's wrong with my crowns?"

"There's nothing wrong with your crowns. I just don't want to use them."

"But do you want old Karadenić putting that iron thing on your head?"

Here Kosta had wondered . . .

"Yes," she said. "It must not only look right, it must be right. The church crowns have to be put up with. But once it's done . . . it's forever."

He smiled. "Not near long enough." He set a crown on her head, cocked an eye, then pushed it back to a raffish angle.

Kosta had turned away, but stopped as Andrija said: "You are better now?"

"Yes. But it was hard. It will get harder--"

"We'll go, then."

"Go? But this is your land, your people. After a history such as yours you can't just go. Think of your father—and grandfather."

No, Kosta thought. It's too risky.

There was silence and she saw a shadow of doubt cross his mind.
"Should we both be exiles, then?" she asked him.

No, Kosta repeated.

"No," said Andrija. "Of course you're right."

Kosta sensed something behind him. He turned around and acknowledged her glance. He suddenly felt warm inside.

"What the devil does any of that matter?" he cried. "You're getting married at last! Congratulations, damn it!" He flung an arm around each of them. "You, lady, shall find a home with us here, and you, my man, have gone Mother one better and given me the sister I always wanted." He took his brother's face in both hands and kissed him loudly on each cheek. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," said Andrija. "Perhaps you can repay me with a bottle." He pointed to the sign of Mradisić’s kafana.

"Right." They ducked in. "Mradisić! Brandy! Bring the bottle!"
The old man spared them a toss of his white head. "Does Kosta Pasha desire the four-star?"

"Yes, none of this Morača swill--and just get the dancing girls while you're about it!"

"A man only gets married once," said Andrija.

A ruddy-faced, straw-hatted head appeared in the low doorway: "Who's getting married?"

"Dabisav! You old bastard, come on in and have one on us," Kosta shouted.

Dabisav Uglesić turned outside and said something and people started coming in. The farmer crushed Kosta in a hug. "All the best, Kosta Savić, it's about time you fellows started multiplying. Though I'd have expected Andrija--"

"It is Andrija, you oaf." laughed Kosta.

Dabisav pushed Kosta out to arms' length. "You don't say! Drinks for my crowd on me," he added as the bottle arrived.

"Andrija and this lady, that is."

"Both of you! quite a coincidence. And who are you marrying, young lady?"

She smiled. "By another fantastic coincidence, I'm marrying Andrija."

"Ako, ako," said the farmer. He eyed her up and down once. "So, Andrija Savić, this is your wild Vlakh, eh?"

"No, this is my tame one. The wild one is pulling my wagon."

"Ha! ha! that's good. Will you have something to drink with me? Joj there! You! Pickles!"

The brothers looked at each other. "Thank you," said Kosta, and Andrija had some too.

Dabisav rose to his feet and looked round the room, glass in hand. "A toast for Andrija Savić and his bride-to-be: good health, good crops, many sons, and long life!" They drank.

"He didn't wish us happiness," she said in Andrija's ear.

"It's traditional," he whispered back.

"In my country--" she began.

"Ah-ah," broke in Dabisav, "no lovers' secrets here."

"To--" shouted Kosta leaping up, "to Wallachia! Home of, er--the sunrise!"

"And good horses," put in a voice.

"And thievish horse-traders," chipped in another.

"Lovely women," added Dabisav.

"And broad fields," said Andrija.

They drank again.

"Congratulations, foster-son," said a new voice.

"Thank you, Jovan Ilić," said Andrija, and the brothers rose together.

The wizened old farmer looked from one to the other of them, leaning heavily upon his stick, and his eyes lingered last and longest upon the girl, as if she were familiar, somehow.

"And your name is -- what?" asked Jovan Ilić. Andrija squeezed her hand.

"Her name is Stana Malević, sir," he answered.

They all sat down. "It's not often--thank you, Dabisav--that one must make inquiries around here. But you Savićs always did have a penchant for foreign women."

"Who hang about in taverns," added Dabisav; and no one save perhaps the woman noticed the old man's gaze harden, quartz-like.

"I'm afraid our neighbour Uglesić must answer for that," said Kosta, raising a bottle. "We only dropped in for a picnic-lunch, on our way to visit you, foster-father. We have certain business, as you see."

"I see," said the old man. "Now that your excursion has fetched up here, however, I think I will forget my game of draughts and talk with you instead."

"Surely, sir, you may have both?" asked Andrija.

"When, my son, you are seventy-seven years old, you may dispose of your wits as you please, as you'll have little enough else to call your own. I prefer to use mine one at a time; so you must tell me about the young woman."

"I should have to, at length," the bridegroom pointed out. "You were our kum and did right by us, and our father Nikola Savić."

"Yes, and like true sons you both hared off and left me the moment you sniffed your independence. I've heard all the lies about your travels, Andrija, but I want to know the truth about the girl. Where did you find her?"

"It is a rather long story, fully told--"

"Then don't speak slowly," counselled the old man. "I must hear it all."

"Very well, sir. It happened near Sasca Montană, on the river Nera over by Kaluderovo, last October. I was on a barge bound for Vidin, and helped pole it through the gorge country for two days. On the third day the river dropped more than usual, exposing sand and gravel bars. The bargeman wanted to lay over in Naidăş but before we got there we ran aground.

"We spent the night on the sandbar hoping to refloat her in the morning, and something awakened me an hour before dawn. I got up and went out on deck to find us tangled in one of those cursed Carpathian fogs; but I leaned over the side and saw that the river had dropped yet another handbreadth.

"I awakened the man and his wife and told them the news, so then we resolved that he and I should take the dinghy downstream to Naidăş, he to fetch help from his fellows, I to continue my journey, while his wife remained with the dog to keep watch on the cargo of fleeces.

"The bargeman and I made our preparations at once and set off, trusting to approaching daylight to burn off the mist. It was slow going. Even so we had not been long on our way when he shouted at me to duck--a heavy rope appeared in the fog suspended four or five feet above the water. As we passed under it we also heard a commotion as of horses and men a short distance away. Somebody was trying to ford the Nera, and not doing too well at it.

"He was afraid, but I prevailed upon him that we should try to help whoever it was and perhaps receive help in return. And so at length, with a great many grumblings about helping the helpers of the Evil One, he pitched in, poling the skiff backward. Soon that great greasy rope again showed in the fog, and standing and grasping it I began to pull.

"I wasn't sure what to expect--smugglers, perhaps--but the voices I now heard were unmistakably those of Gypsies. Now, I know a few words of the Romany, so I hailed them. A couple of figures appeared toward us, up to their knees in river-water, and one of them replied in his language. I had to ask him to switch to Serbian, and at that they both levelled guns.

"My companion groaned aloud at this and in the increasing greyness of dawn I rapidly explained our predicament. After I had done they gabbled for a moment between themselves and the boatman cursed me for a fool. 'They'll shoot us here like dogs and rob us, and plunder my barge, too,' he wailed.

"'I don't think so,' I told him. 'I've had dealings with these gentlemen before, and they repay favours.' 'With a knife between the ribs,' he replied, and at that point one of the gypsies spoke out.

"'Is your boat a good stout one?' he asked. I said that it was. 'Very good,' he replied. 'We took advantage of the low water to try to ford here, but a wagon was swept away. If you help us to salvage its contents with your boat, we will help refloat your barge. A bargain?'

"'A bargain,' I called, as the my companion cursed again. But we pulled the boat forward nonetheless and the two rovers helped us portage it across a mud-bank close to midstream.

"Finally we came to one wagon in the riverbed awash over the axles and cut away and beyond it the centre of activity, with ten or twelve gypsies soaked to the skin, standing hip-deep in the torrent. Another wagon had capsized and lay one axle protruding to the sky and its top broken away. It was rather larger than most caravans, having little paint and no decorative woodwork. I guessed it had been hired for some special freight--but exactly what lay beyond my power to guess, or care, until several of the gypsies hauled a box forth from the wreck. It was quite a large box, such as might hold twenty rifles, and it took six of them to pry it from the muck and lift it out of the rushing water into the boat.

"'You help us take this one,' said the first gypsy, pointing to the bargeman. 'You help the others salvage the rest of the cargo.' I said all right and the boat disappeared into the fog.

"The next hour I spent up to my waist in frigid water retrieving a number of oddly assorted items, among which were several pieces of feminine apparel. It took us some time to right the big wagon, and the fog was nigh to gone by the time we shook the rovers' hands and proceeded upstream with six of them and four horses.

"The barge was stranded only about a half hour's going upstream. We took pick and shovel to the strand, and when the horses arrived the gypsies harnessed them up and helped lighten the barge, handing the lumber along a human chain. This accomplished, we refloated her easily and the zigeuner gentlemen took their leave, not staying for coffee under short protests of haste.

"We passed down the river; their safety line was gone and so were their caravans. Their cause for haste must have been great for them to have continued with such a badly crippled wagon. They had not abandoned it there. In fact, little trace of their passage remained at all, save the churned-up mud-bank.

"My hands were needed that morning to Naidăş; but it was not far, and when we laid up there later in the day an impulse bid me quit the barge and follow the Gypsies. I could not rid my mind of the memory of that huge rope suddenly looming out of the river-mist."
Here Andrija had fallen silent for a time, seeming to watch the shadows of olive branches wave and tremble in the bright afternoon's breeze. At length he produced a bag of tobacco from his breast pocket, built a cigarette, lit it, and went on:

"In view of their haste I judged it best to provision myself and set out at once, which I did, making my way back up along the river by foot, taking some short-cuts, with such good speed that I reached the ford two hours after dark. That was well, as the river was starting to rise again.

"I slept under a tree that night. It was cold and clear and very quiet, and I didn't sleep well.

"Dawn came over the purple Carpathians, and I rose as soon as I could see. The Gypsies had made south into the mountains by a scanty track, and it was easy to trace the hired wagon with its erratic wheel marks, and to see where it had halted every now and then so its damaged axle could be adjusted. All day without rest I pursued them and ever on and upward toward the fells of the Almăjului. By late afternoon I was in danger of actually overtaking them and being seen in the stunted upland brush, so I stopped again.

"It was clear again and moonless and freezing cold; the myriad stars glittered down with malevolent intensity, seeming to overbear the sky by their numbers. Here and there a shadow would veil them briefly, and shivering I realized that wisps of cloud were flying high up.

"It was far into the night when I thought I heard a small far-off sound like a human voice crying out. I listened for a minute, hearing nothing, and then it came again, clearer, a bestial cry of pain and rage followed by several faint but definite gunshots. I was up at once and away stumbling along the track by the faint frosty glow of the zodiacal light.

"I don't know how many times I fell, cutting and bruising myself, rushing down that hellish trail. At least once I misread a turn and ploughed headlong into a thorn bush and wrenched myself out again in one convulsive motion; I feared there was more blood on the trail than mine.

"At last I came upon a small plateau bordered by rock-falls, and here were my tzigane wagons drawn up round the embers of a fire. All was quiet again, yet I could feel something there and alive. I had only my khindjal for a weapon, but I was not seeking to kill. I unsheathed it and made for the nearest caravan, a shadow in a shadow, silent on the icy ground.

"The vehicle's door stood ajar, a sure danger-sign. I flattened myself against the outside and cautiously rounded the corner. A hand protruded from the doorway, a dead hand, not yet cold. I stayed put for a count of five hundred, hearing nothing but the occasional cry of a night bird afar off.

"Looking to the embers of the campfire I saw near it two dark smudges on the ground. I knew they were human bodies, and that they were dead. What I strove to detect was a scent of life.

"There was yet one caravan placed between where I was and the tall square shape of the damaged wagon. I made my way quietly past it toward the hulk's rear and was feeling for the door latch when a noise brought me round--to be lashed across the face by a whip. I fell, and the whip cut me across the neck and shoulders.

"'Who are you?' I yelled. "What do you want?' My answer was another lash. I scrambled away from the wagon to show I meant not to enter it, and the whip stayed put. I pushed myself to my feet and tried to make out my opponent.

"He stood with his back to the east, and in the faint aurora I could see only that he was a man shorter than medium height and slightly built, and that he carried a whip he knew how to use. Then it came to me that he might not know Serbian, so I tried my Romany. I might as well have spoken to a stone.

"Again I waited, and the figure remained motionless, voiceless. I raised my knife, again to no response. But when I began to move, ever so carefully, toward the wagon, out lashed the whip, cutting across my chest.

"I stepped back and palmed the khindjal again, tossing it in the air. No response. I threw it at him. He went down but too late; the blade sunk in under one ear instead of his chest where I had aimed it. He writhed a moment and was still. I approached him to pull out the knife, and as I wiped off the black blood I noticed something peculiar about his face and I saw that he was blind.

"The stars were now paling fast before dawn's onset; I wanted to be gone before full daylight, so I went straight to the wagon. The door was not quite closed, its bolt drawn. I pulled it open with three fingertips. My face--something . . . had flown out and brushed my head, with a wing . . . I backed off, even forgetting the pain from the lashes. But it was dark inside . . . I glanced round me and saw a hurricane lantern hanging from the next caravan. I seized it, pulled a wax vesta from my pocket, and lit it, trembling. Then I advanced to the door and held it up. She half-lay there on the bare floor and rolled over backward as I entered, coming up on all fours, shaking with fear and the cold. No wonder--I must have looked like a Ghǔl.

"She had been terribly abused. There was blood on the front of her shift and blood, too, on her face; but I could not imagine how she had survived the freezing night wearing only a smock. Her unnaturally flushed skin and gleaming eyes told me that her body was using its very last reserves of strength.

"I put the lantern down, slowly, and knelt, my hands open. Then, always meeting her look, I removed my coat and tossed it gently in her direction. She looked from it to me but made no other move. Slowly and distinctly I said, 'I mean no harm. Who are you?' Again I waited in vain. I tried my Romany again, and then wondering whether she understood human speech at all fell back on Turkish.

"She started, and from her face it was clear I had touched home. It would certainly account for the abuse she had suffered at the hands of the gypsies. 'You are cold,' I said. ‘Put on the coat. Put it on,' using the imperative. At last her native tongue seemed to calm her; her shaking subsided and finally she plucked up the coat and wrapped herself in it. 'Do you speak Turkish?' I pressed. 'Yes or no?' But still she remained silent.

“Morning was rapidly flooding the wagon through dozens of chinks and whatever the fate of the other gypsies the chance of our discovery was increasing with it. I arose, telling her we needed to go before they found us. Then I held out a hand, asking her to go with me, but it was not until I made to leave that she scrambled after me. I led the way outside, but once out I stopped in my tracks. No less than five dead men lay about the campsite, including the one who had wielded the whip. And there it came to me that in some awful way I had killed all of them.

"My first impulse was to run; but in the cold brilliant sunlight we took each other's hands and I decided to look closer. It was quite curious. It appeared that they had killed each other but few of the wounds actually looked fatal.

"I was aroused from my musings by a squeeze on my hand. My companion looked down at her bare feet, which were turning pink in the frost. I picked her up--no little thing in itself--and set off. The gypsies' horses were long gone and as it stood anyone we met there would have been less than helpful. I had no clear idea of where I was or where to go. I just staggered back the trail I had come.

"It is as well I remember little of the following days: that we survived is enough. We found the blanket I had abandoned, and made it her garment while I tore up my shirt to bind her feet. After two days she walked, paling and tired but never saying a word. Nights we slept together but I did not touch her; she comforted me so as she was and I did not want to hurt her too. She was like a wild bird lighted on my shoulder.

"We skirted Naidăş and made across the river by night with a fisherman, and at last came to a village near the old Roman road. There my strength gave out. I collapsed in the street with fever. Someone took us in and must have attended to her; she nursed me for a week. I still don't know what she did for me but I recovered, and as soon as I could stand thanked her and told her good-bye and at that she spoke for the first time I had heard and said, 'No.'

"We have travelled a long way together since then, she and I, and I have told her about myself, and learnt something of her life and background. They would make a fine song. She was born to a Vlakh family and reared in the ways of that close and backward folk, a sheepherder's daughter. Or so she thought, until his death, and his widow told her that he had found her abandoned, and adopted her as his own. She was betrothed to a Bulgarian soldier who lost her and his life to the Turks, and she was sold into slavery. She escaped, made her way across Thessaly and Macedonia disguised, fell in with hajduks, was betrayed and sold again. That is how she came into the Gypsies' wagon. I would tell you more, sir, but in good faith I cannot. The long and short of it is, sir, that I love her and she loves me, and we would rather marry with your blessing than without."

A long silence ensued. The old man called for his hookah and it was filled, lit, and passed before he spoke again.

He said, "Ask her to let me see her, please."

Andrija glanced at her and she lifted her veil; and every eye in the room was upon her. The old man looked hard and long at her, as if his memory were stirred; at length he lifted two fingers, the memory perhaps eluding his grasp, and the veil fell into place once more.

"Is she a Christian?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, not Roman Catholic or Moslem--though properly modest in such matters."

“Has she a slava?”

“A feast-day? No, sir.”

"H'm. So she is not a Serb. Wherever she’s from." After this the old man lapsed back into silence. After a time his eyelids drooped and then he neither spoke nor moved until Kosta prodded Andrija in the side and the latter said, "Sir--"

"I'm awake, thank you," rejoined Jovan Ilić testily. "And that's more than I'd be if I had only Brancić to beat at draughts. I shall talk with you again very soon, as you must not dream of dining anywhere but at my house tonight. We have much business."

Business . . .

What was it? . . . some sort of a deal . . .


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Stana was at the door when she heard his shriek.

She threw herself against it, pitching headlong in, and stumbled through the room. He was tangled in a sheet naked on the floor screaming curses. She got hold of an arm, pinned and straddled him and took his head in both hands.

She knew what to do.

She had done this before.


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