‘To that you must answer that there is none,’ said the aldermen.
‘That cannot be while you have treasure, each of you, below your stair. For I will tell no lie, even to the Turk, lest I peril my soul.’
‘Then what can we do?’ asked the aldermen.
‘You must send it out of Potok to a safe keeper,’ said the hermit, ‘and by the will of God Restaur Vax is even now in the wood above St Valia. Send it to him this very night, and I swear to you that he will return to you, when the Pashas have taken their blood-price, all that is yours.’
Then they said, ‘This Restaur Vax is a brigand and the friend of brigands. He will steal our gold.’
The hermit answered, ‘I am the Hermit of Lapiri and I do not lie. All that is rightly yours will be returned. Do as I tell you, or I will go back this night to Lapiri.’
Seeing no help, the aldermen then took up their treasure from under their stairs, and the gold pins from the shawls of their wives, and sent them to Restaur Vax in the wood above St Valia’s.
On the morning of St Axun’s the aldermen came to the Pashas and said, ‘There is no treasure below our stairs to pay the blood-price. But look, this old man who is now blind was once sub-Prior of St Valia’s, and he will show you a place where is hidden a treasure of seventeen thousand kronin, and that will be your blood-price.’
Then the Pashas questioned the hermit, and he told them that it was as the aldermen said, so they carried him to St Valia’s and there, feeling the ground with his staff, he led them to a place in the vineyard and said, ‘Dig here. At a shin-bone’s depth is a great stone in which is an iron ring. Lift it up and you will see a stair. Let torches be brought and lit, for it is very dark below.’
So it was done, and they found the stone and heaved it aside and saw the stair leading down into the dark. Then they sent down a bazouk carrying a torch, and called to him, ‘What do you see?’ And he cried out, ‘I see boxes of gold, and many gold pins, spread about the floor.’
Hearing that, the Pashas rushed down the stair, each fearing that the others might cheat him of his share. As they knelt to gather up the gold, Restaur Vax and Lash the Golden fell upon them from behind and slew them. For the hermit had told them of a secret passage which led from St Valia’s Chapel in the wood into that place, and there they had lain hidden in the shadows until the Pashas came. And the Kas Kalaz and the rest came out of the wood and slew those who were above ground, all but three bazouks who escaped back into the town.
When these three told their fellows what had happened at St Valia, and that all four Pashas were slain, the bazouks were afraid, and fled from Potok, and from all Varina north of the Danube.
Then Restaur Vax told the aldermen to come to St Valia’s, and gather up the treasure, which was the same treasure as that which had lain below their stairs. And they counted it and said, ‘One tenth is not here.’
Then Restaur Vax said to them, ‘All that is rightly yours is here, as the hermit promised. But I have taken a tenth by way of taxes, for I am now master of Potok and Varina. Moreover, think in your hearts. The Turks will know that it was you who told the Pashas to come to St Valia where I slew them. That blood is on you, as on me. Therefore you have need that I should be strong, with cannon, and food to feed my army, so that I may defend you when the Turk comes to take vengeance. We are now bound each to the other with ties of blood and of gold.’
The aldermen wept and said, ‘The tax upon Potok is seven hundred kronin only, and you have taken seventeen hundred.’
Restaur Vax laughed and said, ‘If I had not come to your help you would have paid the Pashas seventeen thousand, and still you would not have been ruined.’
1 Potok has always held a number of non-Varinian citizens, many of whom were successful merchants. There have been frequent episodes of friction and some bloodshed as a result.
2 The trickster who has to deceive without actually telling a lie is a popular motif in Varinian folklore.
AUGUST 1990
THE FOLK CONCERT took place in the ruined cloisters of St Valia, a large square open space, its rough grass hummocky with buried masonry and its yellow walls patterned with the remains of archways and illegible tablets. The English contingent had not yet adjusted to Varinian notions about time. They arrived about half an hour before the concert was supposed to start and found almost no-one else there, and the sound system still being set up.
‘I’m dead beat,’ said Mollie. ‘I’ll have a nap. And let’s find somewhere near an entrance, so that we can slip away.’
‘Not in front of that speaker, Nidge,’ said Steff. ‘I value my ear-drums.’
‘I’ve got some ear-plugs,’ said Mollie.
‘It’s meant to be loud, Mum,’ said Nigel.
They found a bank of turf against the outer wall. Donna slept, sprawling and inert, and Mollie did her trick of having a nap sitting bolt upright, with her head balancing on her neck. She said anyone could learn to do it and it was just as refreshing as sleeping lying down.
Steff read. Letta and Nigel chatted and watched the crowd beginning to stream in. The sun went down and the ruined bell-tower glowed with floodlighting against the darkening sky. By the time the stars were fully out the cloisters seemed crammed, but more and more people kept pushing their way in, squeezing the mass tighter and tighter, or scrambling up the crumbling walls and perching along them.
Mollie woke and muttered to Steff, who glanced around and then said, ‘OK, listen. This might get out of hand. If it does, don’t try and get to the door. We’ll go over the wall here. I’ll lift Nidge up and then pass Donna to him. Then Letta, then Millie. Somebody will give me a leg-up. Shouldn’t happen, but just in case. Got it?’
They nodded. It was another of those differences. In England there’d have been crush barriers and marshals, and ambulances ready, because they’d been doing this sort of thing for years and knew what might happen. In Varina everything was new. This was the beginning of a new world, before rules, before problems, before disasters. It was alarming but exciting too, and somehow, Letta felt, pure.
‘Hey! There’s Uncle Van!’ said Nigel.
‘Where? I want to talk to him,’ said Mollie.
She cupped her hands round her mouth and called. It was another of her tricks. Nigel said he’d seen her hail a taxi across Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. She did it without yelling. She just flung her call and it carried. Like now. Van looked round, wildly at first, then spotted Mollie and came struggling over, causing a commotion in the crush, as half a dozen other people tried to follow him. He arrived panting and tousled, but obviously on a terrific high.
‘How’s everyone?’ he shouted. ‘Isn’t this great! Got some friends here want to meet you.’
He introduced them as they arrived. They were native Varinians, all at the same fever-pitch of excitement as Van. Everybody had to shake hands with everyone. A pretty young woman gave Steff a smacking kiss and cried out, ‘Now I have kissed both grandsons of Restaur Vax!’
Her friends all cheered.
‘And where is Letta?’ she asked, and flung her arms round her and kissed her and then stood back, holding her by the shoulders.
‘And you, you live with him in the same house!’ she said. ‘Van says you have tea with him every day! And is he well? Is he still . . . ?’
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, but instead held her hands cupped but rigid, a few inches apart in front of her, and made them quiver, as if there was some precious object between them which she was testing to see if it was still sound.