BOOK 3
TUPILAK
A FEW leagues inland from the Adriatic coast, hills began swelling into mountains. That rise, the edge of the Svilaja Planina, was also the border of the district, reaching further on into the true highlands, for whose peace the zhupan Ivan Subitj was respon- sible. Yet his castle did not stand near the middle of it, but at Skradin, not far at all from Shibenik. Partly this was because the village was the largest community in the zhupe, partly so that if need be he could summon quick help from the town. Besides, I little warding was generally required; much of the country was wilderness, and the dwellers peaceable. Indeed, this was a wholly different world from the littoral, its ships and cities and outlook to the West. Here ancient ways endured, and ancient things.
Father Tomislav seemed to embody them as he passed through Skradin. He stumped along faster than would have been awaited in a man so burly. His oaken staff would be a fearsome weapon were he ever attacked. The cassock he had tucked up above dusty I’” old boots was of the coarsest linsey-woolsey, faded and darned, The rosary that swung at his side, making the crucifix bounce, was of wooden beads carved by a peasant. His face was likewise of the peasantry, broad, round-nosed, weather-beaten, small russet eyes a-twinkle over the high cheekbones, scant gray hair but a grizzled bush of beard spilling over the chest almost to the paunch, I His hands were big and calloused.
As he passed down the street, he received many hails from people. He replied boomingly, save when a child would skip near enough for him to rumple its locks. A few persons called-had he learned something about the aliens, were they dangerous, what did they portend? “You’ll hear in time, in God’s good time,” he told them, without pause in his stride. “Meanwhile, have no fear We’ve sturdy saints looking after us,” At the castle, a sentry notified him, “The zhupan said he will meet you in the Falcon Chamber.” Tomislav nodded and bustled on across the cobbles of the courtyard, into the keep. This was a minor fortress built of tawny limestone quarried nearby more than a hundred years ago; it lacked glass, proper chimneys, any modem comfort. At the north end it sported a watchtower, below whose roof was a room whence men could look widely over the landscape and sometimes loose their hawks. There, too, they could talk in private.
Having climbed, Tomislav leaned out for the view while he puffed. Below him was the daily tumult, servants, artisans, dogs, poultry, sound of voices and footfalls and clattering metal, whiffs of smoke and dung and bread in the oven. Beyond were grainfields mellowing toward harvest, a-ripple under a breeze that sent a few clouds white across blue overhead. Birds filled the sky, doves, crows, thrushes, rooks, larks. On the southern horizon, wildwood made a green wall to cut off all but a glimpse of the lake.
His gaze sought back along the Krka that, passing by Skradin, emptied into yonder water. A mile outside the village, some apple trees grew by the stream, fenced off lest pigs take fallen fruit or boys take unfallen. Tornislav saw the helm and lancehead of a horseman flash beside the rails. More guards surrounded the entire orchard. Under its leaves, the strangers sat captive.
Steps on the staircase caused the priest to turn around. The zhupan entered-a tall man, craggy-featured, the scar of a sword-slash twisting his mouth and seaming his cheek on the left. He wore his white-shot black hair at shoulder length but trimmed his beard close. His garb was as usual, an embroidered blouse, breeks tucked into half-boots, a dagger at his belt, no jewelry.
“God give you a good day,” Tomislav greeted with a sign of blessing. He would have said the same to the humblest old granny.
“That may depend on you as well,” Ivan Subitj replied wryly.
Tomislav could not quite halt a scowl when the castle chaplain,
Father Petar, came in behind. This was a gaunt fellow who seldom smiled. The priests exchanged stiff nods.
“Well, have you a useful word for us?” Ivan demanded.