Master, said Vasojevic, I pray you to improve this opportunity for the best. Never mind you or me, or even Tanya (and you know how I love her). What do I care for us, if we can make our land a graveyard for Turks?
Can you do that? Cirtovich asked his father’s head.
I can. Decide now, or gain nothing.
Cirtovich, inspired by his noble friend, was about to call for the restoration to earth of Prince Lazar when the dark-glass entity returned to its senses and reached out, the suckers on the undersides of its arms scintillating with the pearlescence of certain amphorae. When it touched Vasojevic, that man, who never in any emergency, even a battle, had expressed anything but coolness, cried out like a convict being branded on the forehead; and Cirtovich, compassionating him in that moment, shouted: Free us from that!
The head smiled sadly, then disappeared. So did the creature, the two caskets and the hole which had been dug. The dark-glass cracked.
Vasojevic, did it injure you?
No, master, barely a sting—
Cirtovich closed his eyes. Upraising her chin, Marija stared at him gloomily. Nicola, Vuk and Veljko stretched out their arms to him like drowning men. As for Tanya, that young woman, pulling her long hair diagonally across her forehead, prepared to go out as if she did not perceive him. Well, this was but his fancy. But what if she now began to suffer? And in truth, he felt ashamed before the shade of his father. Well, Massimo would have done far worse; he would have wished for the ointment which transforms a naked man into a wolf.
Jovo Cirtovich seemed to hear royal processions departing in faraway crownlands.
He opened his eyes. He took his father’s vacant treasure and hurled it down. There alone those two men stood, on that low hummocky peat-island which was studded with striped rocks and cut by those narrow silvery streams whose multiple forks fell into the sea.
Just as after a rain the Triestine sky is of an impeccably African brightness, thus it should now have been in the soul of Jovo Cirtovich, for he had attained his heart’s desire. Vasojevic stood leaning on a spade. — Well, said Cirtovich, did we act rightly?
We shall soon know, doubtless.
I could have demanded knowledge—
Foreknowledge we had.
This I’ve never asked you: When you saw the Sphere of Stars, was Lazar there?
Of course, master, and seated on Christ’s right hand. He smiled and beckoned to me, and not with one finger, either. You did ask that, and I told you. We would have been welcomed—
Well, there’s nothing to prevent us now. What do you say? Shall we refresh our crew, and then sail to heaven?
Vasojevic hung his head. Within the hour he seemed not merely to age, but to grow haggard and unclean.
Oh, yes, once they had rid themselves of the dark-glass thing, they should have felt at peace, and even righteous; but so long had they lived (Cirtovich especially) in anticipation of its ominous appearances that not seeing it refined their anxieties almost unbearably; for ambuscadoes had been laid — all the more diligently for Cirtovich since he evaded them with such defiant success — and now he could not find them out. Students of probability theory will assert that his peril of death at any given instant remained no greater now than half a century ago; but he knew death to be a kind of person, or at least an entity with multiple writhing arms. Therefore, death hunted him actively and intelligently. This might have been an error. Then again, nothing is as hateful to nature as incorruptibility. High time for the grave to take him! Thus he believed; and his face grew ghastlier than before; he might have been a prisoner condemned to row until death in a Turkish galley — but no; that sort of wretch remains chained to others, for better and worse; while the most hideous quality of Cirtovich’s existence, as ever, was solitariness, even though he kept longing to stroke Tanya’s hair.
In his father’s house in Serbia there had been a strange icon, depicting one of those cubical Biblical cities where lean brown men bore long scarlet coffins on their shoulders, ascending and descending clay stairs so that the mummies they carried could exchange one tomb for another — and everything mendaciously embellished with gold. Now he knew the meaning of it.
So he holed himself up, avoiding even Vasojevic, who likewise withdrew from inessential intercourse; and they sailed north, laboring in cross-seas, wandering through all twenty-eight Mansions of the Moon. Even Friulian wine could not cheer them. But what had they to fear? Their future resembled the weary wounded man whom one meets at the end of a trail of werewolf-blood. Vasojevic was looking still older; as for Cirtovich, he was now as fishy-bearded and bleary-eyed as that famous silver likeness of Saint Blasius. For years he had found no use for the superannuated worthies of Ragusa. Now he felt like one of them. Had he gazed in a mirror, he would have confessed that his face was no longer a bland mask; but what it expressed he could not make out. He supposed himself ready to acknowledge his losses, which so often until now had seemed to swivel into sudden gains. Behind his breastbone there seemed to dwell something hard, round and smooth. His consciousness kept fingering it as if it were a marble, turning it round and round in order to know it or, better yet, to massage it down into nothingness; but it would not go away; it was fear, when he had expected to win peace. And some other feeling still less creditable settled into his guts like an anchor digging in with both flukes. What was it? Although they remained as lovely to him as the bloody Serbian earth, even thoughts of Marija and his loyal sons and his daughters running silently to and fro on the carpets in their stockinged feet, gathering hams, potatoes, onions and wines for the welcoming feast, could scarcely warm him. Besides, this time he brought no silver coins to string around the necks of his women, and so he felt ashamed. At last his hours had become sad and definite. He fancied he could hear jointless fingers stealthily caressing the hull. But his ears had been for so many years disturbed by fanciful things that he doubted them even more than he did his own heart. Believing him to be weakening in luck or goodness, the sailors began to doubt him likewise, although they could not yet show it. Meanwhile he said to himself: If I die now I never need touch Tanya’s corpse — oh, God, that the beautiful delicacy of my daughter’s skin should be burned by death’s sucker-arms! — And so he went on hoping for life, at least for her.
You’re holding up like a true Serb, Vasojevic.
Thanks, master. You know, an octopus shows no sign of pain when we cast him into the fire—
One morning when they had almost regained the coast of Africa a pallid wave arose, spread itself into fingers and sought to pluck him from the forecastle. Cirtovich ducked away, but it got Vasojevic, seizing him in both tentacles, then speeding him down into the clutch of those long, tapering arms which were cratered with teeth-ringed suckers, and as the monster submerged they had one murky glimpse of the brown beak opening; and so after that Cirtovich lacked anyone who could understand him, excepting Tanya, of course — but not even she could have helped him reason out the causality of this latest death. Was that submarine predator the same as the devil he’d cast away, or was it a visitation of God, meant to rebuke him for dismissing his better angel? Either way, he commenced to fear that his own doom would come from the sea. The mate, who loved Vasojevic, had proposed to lower the creeper, in order to hook and grapple that kraken into reach of their guns, but Cirtovich refused, saying merely: It would kill us all. — A certain sailor with a bearded old head resembling Saint Stephen’s, whose limestone flesh keeps smoothening and blurring with time, whispered that their captain was now an evil-eyed Jonah, which most of them immediately believed, and had another man been lost on that voyage, they might have risen up and marooned him there in the African Sea. Withdrawing from them, he knelt before Saint Lazar’s icon, and prayed for his friend, but almost without feeling. He had squared off his dreams into a single thing as flat-sided and sharp-cornered as the heel of a mast, and now sat in his cabin thinking about Tanya. This year he’d present her with a real woman’s dagger to wear at her hip. It pleased him to think of her at home doing the accounts. As for Marija, the love he had bestowed upon her was as the coins he had thrown into his father’s coffin. Her lilies must be blooming up now. He wished he were sitting in the garden, listening to the murmurings of the dovecote; but then Marija would be out there with her back turned. And so he grew bitter against other living beings, and the more bitter he became, the less his sailors liked him. Although they were all adept at trapping the chambered nautilus in a baited basket, they caught nothing precious, as had never yet befallen men employed by Jovo Cirtovich.