“You must understand that Sena, Tomislav’s wife, was a woman born to sorrow. Her father was a bastard of the zhupan before me, by a serf girl, whom they say was of rare beauty. He manumitted his son, who became a guslar-a wandering musician, a ne’er-do-well-and at last shocked people by bringing home a bride from the Tzigani, thos~ landless pagans who’ve lately been drifting in. She herself was Christian, of course, though it’s unsure how deep the conversion went.
“Both died young, of sickness. Their daughter Sena was raised by kinfolk who-I must say-blamed every childish wrong she did on her heritage. I’ve often wondered if it was pity as much as her loveliness that made Tomislav seek her hand.
“You’ve heard of their afflictions, A while after Nada was
born, Sena sank into dumb, helpless mourning, and lay thus until
she died, What memories of her mother did the girl afterward
carry around? In haphazard fashion, Nada learned from neighbor
women what she was supposed to know, more or less. Her father
spent his whole love upon her, who was all he had left, but what
good can a man do? He may have confided in her more than he
should-a priest does carry the woes of many others—he may
have made her see too early that this world is full of weeping. I
know not, I’m only a soldier, Vanimen,”
Ivan drank, summoned fresh wine, sat again mute before he went on:
“I remember Nada well, myself. As zhupan, I travel much about in the hinterland, to keep abreast of what the knezi-judges over villages-and pastors and such are doing. Besides, Tomislav brought his family here whenever he could, as on market days. We’ve no proper marketplace here, but folk do meet to trade back and forth. I suppose in part he hoped to ease the restlessness of his older children.
“Oh, Nada became fair! I heard, too, that she was quick-witted, and kinder-hearted, even toward animals, than is best for a peasant, Certainly I saw her laughterful and frolicsome. Yet already then, and seldom though we did meet, I would also see her withdrawn, silent, sad, for no clear cause.
“I suppose that’s a reason she had no suitors, however gladly
the young men would dance and jest with her when she was in
the mood. Besides, her dowry would be very small. And she was
overly slender; how well could she bear babe after babe, to keep
a household alive? Fathers must have weighed these things on
behalf of their sons,”
Ivan swallowed, put his goblet down, stared at a shuttered
window as if to look beyond and lose himself in the rain. “Well,”
he said, “here comes the part that’s hard for me to tell, Let me
go fast,
“She had broken into bloom when Mihajlo, my older son, came visiting and saw her here in Skradin, At once he began paying her court. He’d ride through the woods to her zadruga, and how could Tomislav refuse hospitality? He’d arrange that she come to Skradin for this or that celebration—oh, everything quite proper, but he wanted her and meant to have her, “Mihajlo was. . . is . . . a charming fellow. Nada’ s two broth-ers and her sister had flown the nest, and doubtless she’d heard somewhat herself of a wider realm outside, a realm where maybe her choices were not merely to become a drudge or a nun. . . I know not. I know only that her father, Tomislav, sought me and asked if Mihajlo intended marriage.
“What could I say? I knew my boy. When he wedded, it would be for gain; meanwhile he’d have his sport, also afterward. Tom-islav thanked me for my frankness, and said those two must stop seeing each other. Because I think well of him, I agreed. Mihajlo wrangled with me, but in the end gave his promise. She was not that much to him.”
“But he to her-“ the merman said, half under his breath.
“And her father-she must have loved him too. The melancholy
caught her when she was torn asunder-“
“She was found floating in the lake,” Ivan interrupted roughly. “Since then, it seems, she haunts it. You’ve naught to fear from her, though, you merfolk. Need we carry this sad little story onward?” He lifted his vessel. “Come, let’s get drunk together.”