Ivan shrugged. “What I told you, however briefly, when you arrived yesterday. A foundering wreck of a foreign ship; dead bodies of this race, and of what appear to be Italians—likeliest Venetians-that must have fought them; that’s what the satnik’s men collected. Wisely, he’s taken steps to keep news from spreading. The corpses were buried in secret, the soldiers got strict orders to say nothing to anybody. Rumors are bound to spread regardless, but we can hope they’ll stay mere rumors and die out after a while.”
“Save here,” Petar muttered, and ran fingers through his blond beard. His other hand sent clicks along his rosary.
“Yes. Well, not much traffic goes in or out of Skradin,” Ivan said. “I’ve sent a request for help-food and reinforcements—but had no answer yet. Doubtless the satnik has a letter on its way to Ban Pavle, asking for instructions, and is wary of acting till he hears. This leaves me holding the entire burden, wherefore I seek what counsel I can get.”
“From anybody whatsoever?” Petar scoffed.
Tomislav bristled, gripped hard his staff, and growled back, “What would your advice be?”
“Safest to slay them” Petar said. “They mayor may not be human, but Christian they surely are not-not Catholics of the Western rite, mauger that one of them knows Latin, nor of ours; not Orthodox schismatics, not even of the abominable Bogomil heresy, not even Jews or paynim.” His voice grew high; between the chill stone walls, he sweated. “Naked, shameless, seen freely copulating. . . why, the very heathen have some decency, some kind of marriage. . . . And nothing like a prayer, a sacrifice, any act of worship, nothing like that has been observed among them in their plight.”
“If this be true,” Tomislav said, turning mild, “why, the worst of sins would be to slaughter them, when we might instead lead them to God.”
“We cannot,” Petar insisted. “They are beasts, they have no souls, or they are something worse, something out of Hell itself.”
“That remains to be seen,” Ivan interrupted.
Petar clutched at the zhupan’s wrist. “Lord-my son-my son, dare we risk damnation such as they could bring? The Holy Glagolitic Church is beleaguered already-by the Pope, who should be our loving father, by the Orthodox of Serbia and the Empire, by the Satan-inspired Bogomils—”
“Enough!” Ivan freed himself. “I bade Father Tomislav come here and meet those beings for sound reasons. Must I repeat them to you? I know him of old as a man wise in his fashion; he’s no ignoramus either, he studied in Zadar and later served its bishop; as for devilment or witchcraft, he lives where folk know more about that than we do. He himself has been touched—”
There appeared that on Tomislav’s face which caused the warrior to break off his speech and finish lamely; “Have you, then, discovered aught?”
The rustic priest stood a moment, fighting down his feelings, before he replied. Then it was with a trudging calmness. “I may have. Petar addressed their leader wrongly when he showed he commands a bit of Latin. That person is proud, he’s suffering from his wounds, he’s sick with fear on his people’s behalf. Shout at him like at a slave, rail at him about their ways, which have harmed no one unless maybe themselves. . . how do you expect he’ll behave? Naturally he turned his back. You did better for us, Zhupan, when you sent in your military chirurgeon to treat their hurts.”
“Well, then, you spoke softly to the chief,” Ivan said. “What has he told you?”
“Little as yet. However, I feel sure that’s not out of unwillingness. His Latin is scant and bears a grievous accent.” Tomislav chuckled. “I confess my own has gathered rust, which didn’t help matters. Moreover, we’re entirely foreign to each other. How much can we explain in a few hours?
“He did convey to me that they came hither not as enemies but only in search of a home-beneath the sea.” That occasioned less surprise than it might have, for the looks of the merfolk had immediately raised speculation. “They were driven out of their country in the far North; I’ve not learned how or why. He admits they’re not Christian, though what,they are is still a mystery to me. He promised that if we let them go, they’ll seek the water and never return.”
“Lies are cheap,” said Petar.
“Do you think he was truthful?” Ivan queried.
Tomislav nodded. “I do. Of course, I can’t take my oath on It.”
“Have you any notion about their nature?”
Tomislav frowned out at the sky. “Um-m-m. . . a guess or two, maybe. Just guesswork, founded on certain things they know or believe in my flock, on what I’ve read or heard elsewhere, and on my own. . . my own experience. Most likely I’m wrong.”
“Are they of the mortal world?”
“They can be slain, the same as us.”
“That is not what I asked, Tomislav.”
The priest sighed. “My guess is that they are not of Adam’s blood.” In haste: “That doesn’t mean they’re evil. Think of Leshy, domovoi, poleviki, such-like harmless sprites-well, sometimes a touch mischievous, but sometimes good friends to poor humans—”
“On the other hand,” Petar said, “think of viljai.” “Be still!” Ivan shouted in a flash of wrath. “No more croaking out of you, hear me? I may well ask the bishop to send me a different confessor.”
He turned back to Tomislav. “I’m sorry, old fellow,” he said.
“I. . . am not... that tender-skinned,” the priest of the zadruga answered with difficulty. “It seems to be true, in the past few years a vilja has been flitting about my neighborhood. God forgive the malicious gossipers.”
He squared his shoulders. “My guess is that we’d do best, both for ourselves and in the sight of God, to let those people go,” he said. “Take them back to’ the sea, under spears if you like, but take them back and bid them farewell.”
“I dare not do that, save at the behest of an overlord,” Ivan replied. “Nor would I if I could, before we are quite certain that no harm can come of it.”
“I know,” Tomislav said. “Well, then, here’s my advice. Keep them prisoners, but treat them kindly. And let their headman go home with me, that we may get acquainted.”
“What?” shrilled Petar. “Are you mad?” Ivan himself was startled. “You’re reckless, at least,” he said.
“That wight is huge. When he has recovered, he could rip you asunder.”
“I hardly think he’ll try,” Tomislav answered low. “At worst, what can he slay but my flesh, whereafter my parishioners will cut him down? I’ve long since lost any fear of departing this life.”
The zadruga was a hamlet of less than a hundred souls, whose families were close kin. It lay a full day’s travel from Skradin, on a path that wound northerly, then westerly, through the woods around the lake, though never in sight of yon water. Here men had once cleared land along a brook and settled down to live by farming, with timber cutting, charcoal burning, hunting, and trapping on the side. They worked the soil in common, as they would have done were they free peasants. Most of them were actually serfs, but it made small difference, for the nobles of Hrvatska were seldom oppressive or extortionate, and nobody wanted to leave.
The thorp formed a double row amidst croplands, shaded by trees left standing. Of wood, one- or two-roomed, thatch-roofed, houses stood off the ground, with stalls beneath for livestock and gangplanks to the living quarters. The lane between them was muddy when it was not dusty, and thick with dung. Smells were not offensive, though; sweet green distances swallowed them up. Nor did dwellers pay much heed to the flies of summer. Behind each home was a kitchen garden.
Granaries stood about, small, slat-sided, elevated on skinny boles whose roots made birdlike feet, as on Baba Yaga’s famous abode. A couple of sheds held tools and related necessities. Twowheeled carts were parked beside when not in use; these were gaily painted. At one end of the lane was a little workshop, at the opposite end the chapel, hardly larger, also colored in fanciful designs, the shakes of its roof bulging to form an onion dome that upheld the Cross. There was no mill, but foundations and the crumbled remnants of an earthen dam showed there formerly had been. Nowhere did fields and meadows reach beyond sight. The forest encompassed them. Some places it was at a distance, other places it crowded close, but everywhere it brooded, crowns in sunlight but full of shadows beneath. Most of the trees were oak or beech, with a mingling of different kinds. Brush grew dense between.