A Djinni Named Conscience tsops-3

by Henry Lion Oldie

  A Djinni Named Conscience

  ( The Songs Of Peter Sliadek - 3 )

  Henry Lion Oldie

  Henry Lion Oldie

  A Djinni Named Conscience

  * * *

  ...And I should tell you, my son, that when there comes to us the Separator of Meetings and Destroyer of Pleasures – praise Allah the gracious and the merciful if this guest comes in due time and its name is but Death. For different people wander beneath the humped sky, invited and uninvited, seeking for a suitable house to come in for a minute and stay forever, bringing the host surprise in the best case...

  From the instructions of Ahmad Jammal to his son

  It’s useless to blame

  Misfortune or fate,

  Or the one who is on the left shoulder.

  Nery Bobovay

  “Sit down!”

  Peter Sliadek obediently sat on a stone, pressing the lute to his chest. The instrument resembled that moment a sick child that a negligent father dragged into the cold and slush. The lute was wrapped, over the usual rag, in a piece of stinking oiled leather and also covered with his sheepskin coat. Thanks to the junaks[1] for showing a bit of generousity. Or else it would have dampened and have been destroyed, and where was he to find a new one here, in the ravines of Jastrebatz?..

  Light fever made him dizzy. He felt shivers down his spine, like crawling creaking insects. His eyes were watery, the rocks surrounding the vagrant seemed to be giant pieces of cheese with mould. Peter was sneezing incessantly, hiding his nose inside the shaggy collar. God forbid, Vuk Mrnyavchevitch the terrible would hear him, or worse of it – Radonya the fiend, the chieftain’s right hand, – they would cut off that which sneezes! He wanted to lie down, close his eyes tight and kick the bucket without confessing. None other than Satan, the hobbled mocker, had prompted him to travel with the raftsmen down the river Drava, into the very heart of Black Walachia. In the evenings the old raftsman Grgur taught Peter to strum the five-stringed lakhuta while singing native tales. Some of them were amusing, some proud, there were also funny ones; but as a rule the things would end the same way:

  So sick Dojchin hit him with his sabre,

  Cut he off the head of his blood brother,

  Lifted he his head upon his sabre,

  Took he out his eyes from the eye-sockets,

  And he threw the head upon the pavement...

  “What did he need the eyes for?” Peter would ask the old raftsman. “What for?!” Grgur wrinkled his shaggy brows in surprise: “What do you mean – what for? You’ll give them to your beloved one, your beloved one will kiss you, hug you tight!” Peter had thought then that the old man was joking. Perhaps that’s why, being absorbed in playing the lakhuta and Walachian melodies, he moved further – over the Brda to the South-East. At first everything went well: native peasants listened to the foreigner with interest, fed him to his heart’s content, let him in for a night willingly. They introduced him to bearded storytellers, and Peter listened eagerly, automatically turning a deaf ear to the regular: “And he threw the head upon the pavement...”

  Until he went deep into the mountains.

  Here the people were less hospitable. And on Shar Planina[2] , having lost in the spurs, Peter stumbled upon the junaks of Vuk Mrnyavchevitch. A gang, in a word, though the junaks would beat anyone for “gang”, defiantly calling their mob a “troop”. Badly understanding what the defiance was about and how the troop differed from a usual gang, Peter wasn’t scared at first. The robbers would have nothing to rob off a vagrant, while murdering a helpless wayfarer without any reason – neither honour for them nor fame for their chieftain. Here the singer had guessed right and wrong at the same time. Indeed, nobody was about to murder him. They even fed him and gave him a warm place by the fire. Made him sing till dawn. And then the junaks desired fame.

  And Peter Sliadek was left in the troop.

  You’ll be a junak, they said. You’ll have gold over your ears, they said. Here’s a sheepskin coat, here’re boots. They’re gaping at the toes – doesn’t matter. We’re gaping too sometimes, but nobody gives us nothing. Here’s a piece of rancid lard – eat it. You try to run away, they said, we’ll lift your head upon the sabre, take out your eyes from the eye-sockets. “And you’ll throw my head upon the pavement,” nodded Peter gloomily. Yeah, yeah, they said. ‘Tis exactly what we’ll do. And if there’s no pavement, we’ll just throw it on the grass. Peter had no reason to distrust such forceful promises. While roaming along Shar Planina with the junaks, he quickly realized what the matter was. The terrible Vuk Mrnyavchevitch, the chieftain of the troop, dreamt of the fame of some “Old Novak”, while his assistant, the evil and ever hungry Radonya, envied “Radivoy the Kid”. Peter had heard about these heroes from Grgur the raftsman and was at a loss: what was there to envy? But apparently Radonya the fiend had his own ideas about fame.

  In the evenings, after a scanty supper, Peter would be sat in the middle of the circle. They demanded songs, they taught him to distinguish the native tribes that were in constant enmity with one another: he was to praise the Belopavlich and the Bosonozhich, and also the Peper, whereas to curse the vile Morach, the Vasoevich and the dirty Rovazy. Confused in the names, not knowing how to praise senseless roaming in the mountains, Peter desperately sought for any events. The day before yesterday they went to Krushevtzy. Took a goat from a lame old woman. The local cooper scowled at the junaks – they gave the cooper a thrashing. Took a barrel. Then changed their mind, broke the barrel into boards and took a sack of millet. Here, now we’re cooking porridge. The goat meet is tough, the millet’s with bugs.

  Some wild onions have been gathered to spice the porridge.

  Terrible Vuk Mrnyavchevitch is here sitting,

  He is feasting in green Jastrebatz.

  Near him sits Radonya, his blood brother,

  And by him are thirty warriors-junaks,

  Drinking wine they love to hearts’ content...

  He didn’t try to escape. Fear overwhelmed him. To get lost in these God forsaken places was as easy as pie. You could fall into a precipice, get caught by wolves or a bear. Or worse yet, the junaks would catch you and start torturing. They were like children: arrogant, vain... Cruel. They had no way out, no way back – that’s why they were rushing about. They deserved pity, only that Vuk and Radonya needed not pity but fame.

  A no-win situation.

  In the morning Peter felt sick. The stuffed nose made him breathe through his mouth, imps were cavorting in his temples, coughing and sneezing were tearing him up from inside. While swallowing, he scarcely refrained from tears – so painful it was. His inflamed throat pretended to be the entrance into hell. Then suddenly Radonya came running: “A caravan! A caravan’s coming! Troop, come on!” Vuk grabbed Peter by the collar: “Don’t you stay behind! You sing about it after we’re done...” The rocks whirled in a crazy dance, narrow paths winded like tangled vipers; three times Peter fell down and was jerked up to his feet by Vuk’s strong paw; the boots of the junaks were tramping behind his back, Radonya was puffing, slide-rocks were rustling over the slope, and when the order “Sit down!” poked into his unhappy, tormented head, the vagrant considered it to be the supreme blessing in the world.

  He didn’t get to sit for long, though.

  On the road that was below the ambush there was heard the clop of many hoots, cries of drivers. A horse neighed, then another one.

  “Hey!” Vuk the terrible stood up to his full height, pulling his sabre out of its sheath. “Halt, we’re here!”

  They are going to rob it, thought Peter indifferently, trying hard not to fall into the dust of unconsciousness. This is not a goat and millet, this is a
caravan. I must look, at least from the corner of my eye!.. In the evening they’ll demand to praise it... To raise himself proved to be harder than to move a mountain. Restraining the cough, the vagrant leaned forward, risking falling from the rock on the heads of the caravaneers. Blinked away the tears. Below, on the road, there were lazing about twenty pack horses and mules, stretched in a long line. The guardians (or simply drivers?) looked despondently at the junaks who were armed with bows and slings – the junaks, shouting enthusiastically so as to scare them, scattered over the slope. Judging from the dull expression on their faces, a battle was not to be expected. The guardians had little wish for “the head upon the pavement.”

  Vuk was wheezing proudly nearby, waving his sabre.

  “Is it you, Mrnyavchevitch?” the voice was thick like tar. You would stick in it immediately and pray to God for fire not to be lit. Peter peered, not understanding who he was looking for there below.

  “Well, it’s me...” Vuk’s answer sounded uncertain, not to the point, as if the chieftain was about to answer something different but suddenly changed his mind.

  “Wait there, I’ll come up to you in a moment!”

  Soon near Peter there appeared a head in a shaggy hat. The face was wrinkled, swarthy, the beard was off-white. Yet the man was climbing fast, not like an old man. Vuk stepped aside, giving him a place on the path. And kept silent for a while so that the man would have time to recover his breath. For all that, climbing mountains in his age...

  The sinewy undersized man shook the dust off his caftan; put off his hat, wiping his face. Under the hat there was found a shabby turban that had once been green. Before he began talking, he cast a sidelong glance over his left shoulder as if looking for an invisible companion. Found him, nodded – either to the phantom’s advice or to his own thoughts.

  Frowned severely. “Aren’t you ashamed, Vuk?”

  Peter was expecting anything. The most probable thing would be the stroke of Vuk’s sabre. But his fever apparently became stronger, for there began delirium. Vuk the terrible shrank, looked sullen like a wet chicken. He put his blade into the sheath, stepped closer.

  The wind that came from Jastrebatz dishevelled the chieftain’s curls, fluffed up the beard of the aged caravan leader.

  “I didn’t know it’s you who lead them, Kerim-aga[3] . I thought it’s some other caravan-bashi[4] . Radonya came running, shouting...”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A bit. The junaks have sworn enemies in Brda, it’s dangerous for them to go down.”

  “So you say you didn’t know I lead? And if it were someone else? Would you rob him?”

  “I would, Kerim-aga. That’s life, you know...”

  “Do you remember – last time I’ve asked you: ‘Have you conscience?!’ ”

  “I do. You asked, and I answered then and I answer now: yes, I have conscience! Just that it’s different, the conscience – everyone has his own one...”

  Radonya ran up to them, angry. “Vuk! What are you – with this! This!..” He didn’t finish. Having stepped towards his blood brother, the chieftain smashed his huge fist into Radonya’s teeth. Blood spurted, Radonya swayed, fell down. Crawled aside on all fours, cursing in a low voice, began wiping himself with a wisp of withered grass.

  “Forgive him, Kerim-aga. He doesn’t know you.”

  “Allah forgives. All right, Vuk. You must not rob us, by no means. There are fledglings in my caravan, merchants’ sons. They’re just boys. Their fathers have sent them for the first time. If you scare them to death – they’ll never have luck in trade afterwards. Then again, we have no profit, we’re just going from Vlera to Dragash... Let’s make it honestly: you let us go, and I’ll leave for you in Dragash a ‘mountain share’ after we sell out. Just tell me whom to give it to...”

  “Vuk! He’s lying! He’ll leave the share for himself, Vuk!...” beaten Radonya halted when he caught the promising glance of the chieftain. Spat rusty saliva. The junaks on the slope waited, shifting from one leg to the other; the caravaneers wavered dejectedly on the road. Peter saw – indeed, most of them were young, not older than Peter himself, and maybe even younger.

  “Deal. Leave it to Nasty Khalil. I’ll take it afterwards.”

  “And who’s this?” the moist, very dark eyes of the caravan-bashi rested on Peter.

  “A vagrant. He’s good in singing. We keep him for fame.”

  Before he continued, Kerim-aga glanced once again over his left shoulder. Waited, pondered a bit. Peered at Vuk disapprovingly: “You have been a boaster, Mrnyavchevitch, and remained a boaster. Who can pull a song out of a soul by force?! He’ll die in your mountains, in the rain and the cold, that’s all your fame. Look, he’s ill, barely sits. Let him go with us – I’ll take him to Vrzhik, and maybe even to Dragash. Maybe he’ll recover...”

  The last thing that Peter remembered – he was tied to the saddle of a pack horse.

  Very tight.

  In the faces of the young caravaneers there was no joy about the excess burden, yet the lucky rescue from the Mrnyavchevitch’ junaks surpassed everything. The silent Kerim-aga stood nearby. Peter Sliadek wanted to thank the caravan-bashi for his mercy, but then from behind the shoulder of Kerim-aga peeped out a black guy resembling a Moor, dressed only in a loincloth, pressing with his palm his neck out of which there streamed thick smoke – and the vagrant understood he was sinking into delirium.

  Because naked Moors excreting fire and smoke are not to be found in Jastrebatz.

  * * *

  “We won’t have enough money...”

  “I don’t care! After we sell our goods we’ll be fine... Have you seen those slave girls? Virgins, so juicy! And they’re not some wenches from Montenegro that would be glad to cut your throat at night – these are Walachians, plump, modest, hard-working ones!”

  “Still we won’t have enough money. Even if we sell the goods...”

  “Harping on the same string! We’ll take a loan. There are lots of usurers here – Lombards, Avraamites... Anyone will loan to Hussein Borjalia!”

  “You’ve visited usurers already. Secretly from Kerim-aga.”

  “So what? Once they’ve rejected, the next time they’ll agree. They’re just showing off, to increase the interest. I’ve sent Ali to them today once again.”

  “Have they agreed?!”

  “They will, what choice have they got? They ordered him to tell me they’d come to the inn, they want to discuss it in person. You know me, I’ll persuade even the dead!”

  “The dead don’t loan. You shouldn’t have kept this in secret from Kerim-aga...”

  “Like hell I shouldn’t! He’s never satisfied: shame, not shame! Am I, the son of Mustafa Borjalia, to seek advice from some worthless caravan-bashi?!”

  Peter was lying, his eyes closed, listening to the argument of the young merchants with half an ear. They talked Arnavitika[5] , interspersing their speech amply with both Walachian and Turkish words. He could make out only part of it, but then again, what was there to make out? One wants to buy slave girls, the other complains about the lack of money... His head didn’t hurt at all, the throat smarted slightly, but on the whole life evidently was getting right. It was warm and dry. Having stirred, he felt with interest that he was dressed in someone else’s clothes. And he was covered up to his chin with a prickly blanket made of camel’s hair.

  “All the same, you shouldn’t... My father has told me: Hassan, listen to Kerim-aga! Listen to him as you would to me! He won’t give a bad advice...”

  “Ha! So you listen to him, kid! While I have my own mind! Have you seen that your Kerim is on the best terms with Vuk’s bandits? Only did I pull out my sword, and he’s already – shish-hashish, yak-teryak! Best friends! I tell you – they give him a part of the ‘mountain share’...”

  “Hush! There he goes...”

  Peter stirred. Little by little memories were awaking: the road, the strong hand of Kerim-aga that prevented him from falling down, a hot drink sme
lling of herbs and honey, his sweaty and limp body, his body wants to sleep...

  “Where am I?” asked the vagrant.

  “In the outskirts of Vrzhik, at an inn. Lie down, lie down...”

  He managed to turn his head without effort. Even strange. Peter risked sitting down – he did it from the first attempt. Closed the caftan on his bare chest. “The lute!” belated shivers ran down his spine. “Where’s my lute?!”

  “Here’s your lute. Lies in the corner, safe and sound.”

  “I have nothing to pay you with. I have nothing except songs...”

  Kerim-aga, who was standing near him, glanced habitually over his left shoulder. Waited for an invisible smile, smiled in response. As if delivered someone’s gift to Peter.

  The young merchants had already disappeared. Now they were alone.

  “All right. You’ll pay with songs. Only later on. Now you need to sleep. Were I late for a day or two, those mountain sheep would torment you to death!”

  “I don’t want to sleep...”

  “So what? Sometimes you have to do things that you don’t want to... If you wish, I’ll tell you a tale. For you to sleep better.”

  “About whom?”

  “Let me think. About Chebotache Muyo or Khalil the Falcon – better not, it’s hard to sleep to the clang of blades. About Talimeh the Maiden? No, you’re not in the mood for women. After this you may dream about the evil shtoyzvola, she’ll drink off all your masculine strength...”

  Peter nearly burst into laughter. A laughable picture: a sick vagrant and near him a grey-haired caravan-bashi, who is choosing from all the tales known to him the most sedative one.

  Yet Kerim-aga didn’t share his gaiety.

  On the contrary, the face of the caravan-bashi became in a sudden not so old, but very sad. “So: once upon a time – some thirty, and maybe forty years ago – there lived in Vlera a merchant...”