A Weaver of Tales

By Z.A. Mayes

"Hear the song of Trajan Drevo,
The Castle of the Enduring Tree.
Brave youths and gracious maidens
Dance there no more, nor are guests
Feasted with honor at well-laden tables..."

An ancient secret casts its shadow over the castle, and over the two people who are its only hope of redemption: Martin, the long lost son of a powerful nobleman, and Ylla, the last survivor of a family destroyed by treachery. Their fates are interwoven for good or ill, in a tale of love unlooked for, of vengeance not to be denied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Aug 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456627119

Book preview

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Prologue

THAT PALE AND ADORABLE LADY, the moon, each and every night follows her lonely pathway through the heavens. There, in the east, she first rises into view, whether round and full as a white melon, or thin and sharp as a sliver of ice; there, in the west, she slips over the edge of the world, and we see her no more. This very evening, as she keeps vigil in the sky with her shining lantern, she waits for Danitza, the Morning Star, who has promised to come and tell her a story. Time passes...Danitza does not appear. The moon, for all her calm face, grows impatient; she loves stories, and no one is better than the Morning Star at telling them. At last she sees her friend peeping over the horizon.

Where have you been? What has made you waste so much time?

Yes, I am late, I am very late, but what a story I have to tell! It is the tale of a young man, lost from his family at birth, and a young woman...

I have heard that one before.

No, you haven’t—this is a new story. Struja Mama is in this story—Struja Mama who helped make everything, and looks after us all.

That is nothing new—she is the Great Goddess, the Mother of All—when has she not been part of every story?

Just listen! The vila, those lovely water spirits, who are her daughters, they are in this tale.

Oh, the vila! Our little sisters! They dance for me so charmingly when I am full moon, and they sing better than nightingales, and then I can admire my reflection so well in the lakes and streams they rule over...I would like to hear about them.

You see, I knew you would want to hear my tale. There are other folk in it as well, men and women both good and evil: nobles, merchants, peasants, priests,...

Good, I am ready...

...minstrels, weavers, saints, children,... Danitza! I would like to hear...

...people from foreign lands, and a horse, in fact, many horses...

Haven’t you left out someone?

Of course not—you are in it, too.

Then waste no more time, but tell it me!

"Patience! I must get my breath. Hear then:

Chapter 1

Wandering between hills

Is King Balatan’s road.

North to south of our country it runs,

From Najdalje,the old capital,

To lovely Uzmore, by the sea.

The road winds around and about,

This way and that,

From village to village

Where the people live life slowly

Like the sheep they tend,

Living and speaking in riddles

Whose meaning also comes slowly To the traveller’s understanding.

Old song

IT WAS IN THOSE SLOW AND SLEEPY HILLS, one day in midsummer, that the goddess Struja Mama (Mother of the Waters, Weaver of Destinies, She Who Watches Over the Worlds, the Spinner, the Mother of Bears, She Who Catches the Threads, the Great Mother...) had taken on the form of an old woman, a tall and straight-backed old woman, following her flocks about as they grazed on a hillside by the road. She wore the local peasant dress: a richly embroidered white blouse and skirt, with a red apron, and shoes with tasselled toes; her hair was silver, her eyes black, sharp, and fiery, with yet a glint of humor in them. Under her arm she had tucked her distaff, a carved and polished branch with carded wool wound round its upper half; as she walked she spun this wool, with a spindle, and sang to her beasts to quiet them. It was a fine warm day, and the goddess was enjoying the feel of the sun on her back, and the entrancing scents released by grasses and herbs as the animals grazed over them. Yes, we did well to make this world, she thought to herself, though it is so much trouble to care for. We must always be visiting it, and looking after things, it seems. But it is a lovely place. What will the people be up to today, I wonder, those who are travelling this road? What help will they need from me, and what will I get from them in return?

The road remained empty for some time, until shuffling, stumbling steps sounded and here came a man and a donkey, both laden with firewood and looking half asleep, trudging down the road on their way to market.

Tsk, said the goddess, still in her disguise. That Jeko—the way he’s packed the kindling, it’ll fall any minute. Too much wine and song last night, and she called out to him: Eh, man, look to your load! It’s slipping!

Jeko started, and looked round; seeing that a knot on the donkey’s load had come loose, and the wood was about to fall, he touched his hand to his cap in thanks. So many hours to gather it, and only a moment to lose it. I was late to market already; if I’d had to pack it again, who knows if anyone would be left to buy it! You’ve saved me my dinner, and a scolding from my wife, may God bless you for it. With clumsy fingers he retied the knot, then pulled up his donkey from where it was grazing, and off they plodded down the road.

Struja Mama went on spinning, and singing...little clouds blew across the sky...sometime later, three young women came into view, with baskets balanced on their heads.

Ah, there’s Milan’s daughter, and Josia, and her cousin, going to help with the plum-picking at Pospan village. Seeing the old woman, and thinking by her costume that she came from a nearby hamlet that a friend had married into, they called out, Has Sofia had her baby yet? and Struja Mama answered, Yes, a fine girl, born just this morning.

May Our Lady bless them both! We’ll stop in and see her on our way back, said one of the three.

But we must not visit her without a gift, cousin, said another.

A kindly thought, my dears! Take her this gift from me, for the new baby, said Struja Mama, happy to be of use, and gave them a skein of yarn, fine-spun and soft as a cloud.

Oh, how lovely! Even my granny can’t spin as fine as that. A thousand thanks! But don’t you want to take it to her yourself?

No, dearie, you’ll see her before I do, most likely. A good journey to you.

And a good day to you!

An hour or more went by. The sheep grazed peacefully, the goddess kept up her spinning. Then from up the road came a faint rumbling sound, which grew louder; then hoofbeats could be heard along with it, and faint snatches of music drifting along on the wind. At last the travelers came into view: four armed guards, mounted, riding at ease, laughing and chatting with one another, expecting no trouble on this drowsy old road. Behind them came a stout, box-like carriage pulled by four heavy horses, a single rider, richly dressed, keeping pace beside it; following them were pack horses, carts, a flock of sheep and their shepherd, a group of led horses that carried no burdens, and finally, eight more mounted guards. A cheerful song that kept time with the horses’ hoofbeats issued from within the carriage; someone inside it played harmony on a lute.

Travelers from up north, said the goddess to herself. There’s Lord Kyril riding, and Rosina, his new lady, in the carriage—and there are his new horses, too. You don’t often see their like—what beauties, to be sure.

The song came to an end. Kyril clapped his hands in appreciation. A wiry man, not in his first youth, he had a large nose, like an eagle’s beak, and a weather-beaten, good-humored face.

Well sung, my lady! Just the tune to raise weary spirits on a long journey. And to think that when we wed I did not know you could sing. Indeed I hardly knew what a treasure I had found, beyond any of my dreams.

Now, my dear lord, you flatter me.

Never, I swear it. No words, however extravagant, could ever come near the truth of you.

So you say now. I’ll wait till we’ve been married a month or two. Then you’ll change your tune. ‘Wife, where are my boots? Wife, have you slept the day through, that the dinner’s so late? A new gown? I bought you a new gown just six years ago, or was it seven—why ever should you need another?’ That’s the husband’s song, isn’t it Milina?

The girl with the lute chuckled. I have no part in this—you have married and must bear all together. Come, the two of you, stop your fencing and give us a duet. So harmony in song may bring you married harmony as well.

A kindly thought. Husband, what song shall we have?

But Kyril had noticed the old lady on the hillside, and holding up his hand to stop the procession, rode over to speak to her. Good day, mother. How fares it with you and your flocks?

Well, master, very well, said the goddess. And you? Have you far to go?

A week’s travel, or a little more, depending on the weather. We go to Mirisan Bredo, Fragrant Hill, in the south, near Zapad Mesto.

Ah, then perhaps you raise apples there.

Yes, and we will have sheep; my wife brings them as her dowry.

And horses, too, I see. Those are not of the common sort.

No, indeed, mother, they come from the T’ayana’ai, the wild men, the gift of their king, whom I have served these three years and would still serve, were it not that my elder brother has died, and so I must go home and be a lord within four walls again.

But you will have good company there, with those two lovely ladies.

"Ah, my lady Rosina, and Milina, her cousin, who of her good nature comes with us to keep my wife company among us rough men. I set out from the T’ayana’ai with just the horses and their grooms, but see what has happened. As I traveled homeward, a fierce storm arose, so that I was like to have lost my way and perished on the road, but that I came to the castle of my lady’s family, and found shelter there. Shelter, and what I had not looked for, a wife without peer; so with all her people there are many more of us than at the beginning. But mother, you who have lived long and seen much, do you know if this road, which has wound around so much that we begin to feel a little dizzy, goes all the way to Zapad Mesto?

Well, there are two ways—if you stay on this road, you will see Zapad Mesto in two weeks travel, but if you take the next turning to the left, you will be following the Juriti River through the Kichma hills, and get there much sooner.

Rosina spoke up from within the carriage. Does the road follow the Juriti all the way?

Yes, lady, most of the way, that is.

Oh, husband, let us follow the river then, since it’s shorter. We are so anxious to see your lovely home.

It will not be truly lovely until you are there, dear wife. By all means, let us hasten that time. And mother, will you not give us your blessing for our journey, and our life together?

To be sure, master, to be sure. By all that is good, and pure, from the clear air to the solid stones, by fresh water and by the light of the sun, by the saints and angels and all those powers that watch over the destinies of those on earth, I ask a blessing on you and all your party, that your journey may be as swift as pleases you, that you flourish in loving kindness all your lives together, and that in times of hardship, you know that all these powers are with you, to help and to comfort you. And may you always travel with music as your companion.

Our thanks, indeed, mother, so we will. May you and yours also be blessed. Come ladies, let’s away. And the whole cavalcade, that had been standing by, stretched and came to life again, the wagon wheels creaking, the horses stepping a bit more lively than before.

Here now, husband, we’re to have music, aren’t we? called Rosina from the carriage.

For answer Kyril began,

As I went out one morning fair,

I met a maid with golden hair.

To her will I my love declare,

And so win kisses sweet and rare.

Milina had joined in with the lute; now Rosina tried to sing her part, while laughing over her husband’s choice, a song about the battle of wits between a maiden and her suitor:

Give you my kisses, foolish man?

Just try and get them, if you can.

I’ll change into the fleetest deer

Before I’ll waste my kisses here.

And Kyril again,

Become a deer and flee from me?

A hunter I will be, perdi!

I’ll chase you over hill and plain

Until you take me for your swain.

Through one change of shape after another, making up verses as they went, they kept the song going. The horses stepped jauntily along; soon enough they had passed around a bend in the road, where even an old woman’s keen eyesight could not follow them, leaving behind them a trail of dust and the faint imprint of joyous music on the air. The goddess went on humming it to herself long after they were gone.

West and north of the kingdom

Of noble King Balatan,

By the Grozan range,

Those grim and ghastly peaks,

Grey as deadly steel,

High and jagged,

Toothed like a saw,

There the first Bijestan,

Vouk Cheslav the robber,

Built Zamakszaka,

The Castle of the Fist,

Out of the mountain’s

Cold, grey granite.

There he ruled and grew rich,

Brigand that he was, and cruel,

And his children after him

Kept what he left, and added to it.

The iron grip of the Bjesti

Lay on all the country

For miles about...

While Kyril and Rosina continued their merry journey homeward, a more unhappy journey was taking place within the walls of Zamakszaka. In one of the richest chambers, Elin the Heartless, only daughter of Vouk Bjestan and his second wife, Maria Gadani, paced back and forth, wringing her hands. It was true, then, the rumor she had heard. Edos was married.

But not to me! Oh, not to me!

Full of fury, she snatched up a silver mirror from a table as she stalked by it. What good is beauty? Princes and kings travel from all over the wide world, seeking my hand because of my beauty. My hair is blacker than deepest night, my eyes as green as the bright sea waves—so say their poems, their mewling songs of love for me, Elin the Fair. I am fair—this mirror does not lie!—fairer than any woman hereabouts. Why else would so many come here, making fools of themselves? But he never came, the one man I wanted. With him my beauty helped me not at all. Ai! Overcome with anger, she hurled the mirror into a corner. It hit the stone floor with a reproachful clang.

Long have I waited since first I saw him. I was too sure that he would court me. A curse on my beauty! For his sake I refused them all, till none came any more. Now I am alone and he is married. What shall I do? ‘Look at Elin’ they’ll say. ‘She broke men’s hearts as she pleased—see now how she creeps about, broken on the wheel of love by a man’s despising. Her gown, rich silk the blue green color of a peacock’s neck, rustled behind her as she paced, hissing over the floor like a train of serpents. They will laugh! They will dare to laugh at me, women who have not half my beauty, all the men that I have scorned. I will not bear it!

A knock sounded on the door. Elin forced herself into seeming composure. Making her way to the window, she sat down on the bench there, leaning languidly back against the cushions. Enter, she murmured, staring out the window.

The door swung open. A serving woman wearing a red kerchief came into the room, bearing a scroll.

Vlasta, a messenger brought this.

Elin extended a graceful hand. The woman advanced, and curtseying, gave her the scroll. Elin waved her away.

You may go. She waited until the door closed behind the servant before she looked at what was in her hand: a roll of parchment, tied with a red band of the finest silk, which she cast carelessly aside in her haste to get at its contents.

Dear lady,

Many women are praised for their beauty, but you overtop them all, in all men’s praise. I am no courtier, and perhaps you are even tired of words overdecorated to please you. Then my blunt words may win you, where you are surfeited with sweetness. My wife has been dead a year. I have no heirs, and so must marry. My lands are rich and broad; I will keep you in the highest state, and honor you always if you will consent to join your hand with mine. I am strong, and in good health, and not ill-looking. I can have all in readiness for you within the month, if you accept. This messenger brings also some gifts, which I hope you will accept as tokens of what will be yours hereafter as my wife. Pardon my bluntness, for I can do no better, and do not keep me long in suspense, in spite of your reputation, but come and be my bride.

Vladimir, Duke of Sumarnost

Well! thought Elin. Here is an answer. A great and ancient family—cousin to Edos, who is a mere count, and over whom I would always have precedence, and especially over his fool of a wife—how he could, when she is not even pretty—no one could laugh at me as Vladimir’s wife. They would say I had held out for the best—I could hardly do better than marry him. Except for my heart, but look what pain it has brought me. To the devil with it—what need have I for a heart? I could not have Edos in any case; at least by this I will avoid the world’s scorn, and that I could not bear. I will accept him, but he must wait two months; I will have a wardrobe to dazzle all eyes, and that takes time. The sewing maids shall sweat for it.

Two days after they passed by the old shepherdess, Kyril and Rosina entered the range of hills called Kichma, the backbone, for its prominent, rocky ridges. All day long Rosina seemed abstracted, melancholy. Kyril could scarce get her to smile. When they made camp that night, Rosina called for one of the men, one of her father’s guards, to come and sing for them.

What song would you have, vlasta?

I would not forget my old home, though I go to a new one. Sing the song of Trajan Drevo.

But vlasta...

I will hear that song, Osip.

Osip shook his head, muttering under his breath, but picked up his lute and began:

Hear the song of Trajan Drevo

The castle of the enduring tree

That grew from the cliff below

Standing through storm and fire.

Hear of fields golden with grain,

Of plum trees heavy with fruit,

Of flocks of fat sheep, thick with wool,

All brought to ruin by godless men.

Within the walls no one now sings.

Brave youths and gracious maidens

Dance there no more, nor are guests

Feasted with honor at well-laden tables.

All that was good, that was home,

Laid waste by the Gadani, cruel men

Of evil-hearted fame.

Rosina began to weep.

Stop! Sing no more! Kyril cried out. There, sweeting, there now. Do not weep so; you’ll have me crying next. For what do you weep? What place is this he sings of?

Rosina answered through her tears, "What happened there happened many years ago, when my great-grandmother was just old enough to get married. Her family lived then at a place called Trajan Drevo, ‘the Enduring Tree,’ for the lone chestnut tree that grew out of the cliff below the castle. So many, many years it had grown there, lasting through the worst of storms, through drought, through everything. It was said the castle would last as long as the tree, for their fortunes ran together.

The people there, the Mirani, were good people, well-loved by those they ruled over. They had betrothed their daughter to my father’s grandfather, but one of the Gadani sons, as bad as any of that ill-famed family, had seen her at a fair, and wanted her for himself. When her parents heard that, rather than having her marry into that brood of vipers, and fearing what the old Vouk Gadani might do, they sent her off secretly to my father’s people, to get married right away.

No sooner was this accomplished than those Gadani demons, who had not yet heard of it, came to the castle to carry her off. They arrived on a stormy night, pretending to be hunters who had lost their way. The family let them in, fed them at their own table, gave them soft beds to lie upon. In the middle of the night they got up to search for the girl. When they could not find her, they slew the whole family ..."

They shed the blood of their hosts? Kyril’s voice shook with outrage.

"Father and mother, their young sons, even the babe at its mother’s breast, for which the lady cursed them heavily before she died. Then they threw the bodies over the wall, into the deep gorge beneath; perhaps they thought the river would carry them away and hide their crime. But in the morning, everyone could see the great tree, the enduring tree that had always grown up straight and tall out of the cliff, bent over with the weight of the bodies which had fallen onto its branches and stayed there. Even after they were removed, and buried, the tree remained bent; never again has it blossomed.

So did my ancestress lose both home and family, all in one night; a servant who had hidden behind the curtains, saw it all, and brought her the ill news. Little hope she had of avenging them; my father’s people were never a match for the Gadani, with all their power. She made the song Osip was singing, lest the wrong be forgotten; someday we may yet wreak vengeance on them, and regain our home, and when that happens, the great tree will bloom again, for joy.

And this is why you have been sad all day?

The castle is in these hills, if it is still standing; this road passes it. We will see it tomorrow, God willing.

At noontime next day they came over a ridge and saw a river on their left, churning along through its bed far below. It curved around a bend ahead of them. On top of the cliff there, on the left of the river, stood a castle with one tall tower above its wheat-colored stone walls, the same color as the stone of the cliffs. Rosina drew a sudden breath, which Kyril understood as soon as his eye traveled on to the tree, bent over in mourning, that leaned so precariously out of the cliff’s side, halfway down from the castle walls.

Trajan Drevo? he asked, though he was already sure of the answer.

Rosina nodded. Look at the trees, the fields, how meagre and stunted everything is, though once it was famous for its bounty.

Orchards and terraced fields lay on the gentler slope of the right-hand side. The grain crop was short and thinly planted, the fruit trees, mostly plums, looked as though some dread disease had blighted them, their leaves curled and white with fungus.

Let us go on, urged Rosina. Let us go quickly, and leave this far behind.

To be sure. Forward! cried Kyril to the men, and they moved on, thankful that the road kept to the top of the ridge, and curved quickly away from sight of the unhappy valley.

One day followed another; in this way five years passed by. Throughout these years, Duke Vladimir and his new wife, Elin the Fair (sometimes called the Heartless), ruled his domain from the castle Sumarnost, which stood on a hill above his capital city of the same name. Sumarnost lay at the northern end of a lowland valley, surrounded on three sides by what had once been marshland, before men drained it in order to farm. The winters there had always been wet, but this last winter had surpassed them all; barely a day went by that it was not raining. At first people joked about growing webbed feet and turning into frogs, but when the rain continued on into the spring, the last sparks of humor died out, choked by the dampness; people looked and felt as grey and miserable as the lowering sky.

On one such dreary spring afternoon, while the wind blew, and the rain poured down in torrents over Sumarnost’s moss-encumbered walls, Elin the Heartless sat within, alone in her private chamber, staring into the fire that had died down to embers and barely warmed her. The servants were afraid to come in and put on more wood; she was in such a cross-grained mood she scorned to ask for any. Her eyes stung from the smoke the gusts of wind thrust down the chimney; her head ached. Every afternoon her two young sons came to visit her; how hateful it was on such a day to have them climbing over her, clinging to her, pulling at her clothes, drooling on her shoulder, the younger boy fretful with teething. They had just now been carried out again by their nurses, howling as they went, their shrill cries echoing painfully down the corridor. She thanked God they were gone, glaring balefully at her big belly, swollen with yet another child to come.

Sounds of people moving quickly came from the hallway. After the merest of knocks, the door swung open. In came the Duke, streaming with rain; he had not even removed his cloak, which a thoughtful man might have left down below in the great hall. He stretched out his hands to the fire, rubbed them, called for more wood. There he stood, dripping, steaming up the room with the reek of wet, sweaty wool, and horse, and mildewed leather, while Elin gritted her teeth and wished him miles away.

Good even, my dear! How are you faring?

Ill, my lord.

Nay, how can that be? Zapo, you blockhead, bring me dry clothes, at once.

Yes, vlasto, your big robe?

That will do. Hurry, before I drown in these wet things.

At once, vlasto, at once.

And my boys, how are they?

Well enough, if you like bear cubs.

And what else should they be? The men of my family are all bears, stout and strong.

And what am I, the she-bear? An old, ragged, furry thing for them to maul as they please? Oh, if I could only go away from here.

Go away, my love? What do you mean?

I mean to leave here, to go to the hills, anywhere away from this dreadful place. Every morning I wake to see the same walls, the same faces, as solemn, as blank as the walls. I want to scream!

But the baby? How can you travel now?

It will do no harm; there is a month still to go. The sooner it comes out, anyway, the happier I’ll be. I must go away.

But where will you go? The house at Green Lake needs repair, after all the snow they had, and White Hill is too far away, and the road mostly washed out...

I’ll go to Tisztalo Drevo, the Bent Tree; it’s supposed to be sunny there, or so my Uncle Gadani, who left it to me, always said: it may not grow much in the way of crops, but how the sun shines!

And the curse?

What, do you believe that silly tale? Nonsense, it is my own property, and go there I shall. That’s only a story made up by the peasants, to keep our noses out of what they’re up to. No, I’m going.

Will you take the boys?

Nay, what would they do there but plague the life out of me; I’ll take my women, the midwife and so on.

I can’t go either?

And why should you? I know well enough how to birth a child! Now, do not fuss me any more. I’ll send for you after the child is born.

A month later, at Tisztalo Drevo, the full light of morning poured in through the windows of the duchess’s chamber, onto the bed. Elin lay still, staring at the opposite wall. Just moments ago she had borne the Duke a third son. He will be pleased, the fool. He hopes this child will bring me around. The others didn’t. I don’t love them, and I don’t love him. My heart is dead, if I ever had one. It died the day I heard that Edos was married. I wish I had died with it. I was the fool then, listening to my pride, marrying the duke so that no one would guess. I am a fool now, to go on living when I have lost all taste for life. At least Vladimir is away, so that I am spared his rejoicing.

The midwife came into the room carrying a small bundle, wrapped in embroidered linen.

Your new son, your grace. She held him up for his mother to see. The next moment she nearly dropped him as Elin screamed out. No! No! Oh, horrible! Take it away!

Your grace?

Away with it, do you hear? Get it out of my sight!

In a nearby chamber the midwife tried to soothe the screaming child, while other women huddled round her, speaking in hushed, shocked voices, that echoed strangely in the high-ceilinged room.

You must quiet it—the cries make her worse.

What’s wrong with her—why doesn’t she want it?

She can’t bear the sight of it—says it’s half-witted or something. She wants it gone.

I’ve never seen a healthier babe—she can’t be in her right mind.

She’s still the duchess, and the duke’s not here.

What shall we do?

Put it out to nurse for now—anything to calm her. The duke can decide when he arrives.

The wet nurse is ill—it’s no good giving him to her.

He ought to be christened, too. Did the Duke say what name?

Martin, if it was a boy.

I’ll fetch the priest, then.

But who’s to nurse it?

My daughter’s just borne a child.

Who’s that? They all turned to look: the chief washerwoman, who had brought up clean linens for the duchess’ bed.

She’s bursting with milk—she’ll easily feed two, or her own can drink from the goat. The ladies wrinkled their noses in disdain. Healthy as the day is long—you’ll not find a better nurse for twenty miles around.

The assembled ladies looked at each other. The duchess was still screaming in the other room, though the child was quiet now, staring up at the midwife’s worried face. There was no need to speak further. They nodded agreement to the washerwoman, and set about readying the child for its christening.

On the same day, in Kyril’s castle at Mirisan Bredo, Rosina and several other women were gathered in the weaving room. Because of the chill mountain air, a fire burned in the fireplace. Some of the women were spinning; Milina worked embroidery on fine fabric, a pattern of many-colored flowers. Rosina sat at her loom, counting the picks, lines of weft, of white and blue in the blanket she was weaving. One of the spinners was telling the tale of Irlist and Gentoul, the part where the Fog King slithers in from the sea at night and steals the beautiful Irlist away while Gentoul sleeps.

Drat it all! cried Rosina. Cousin, help me a minute here. I want to turn the loom so that the light falls on it more. I lose count of the picks—Risa, your stories are too exciting—then I can’t see how many I’ve done, I’m in such a shadow. There, that’s much better. Thanks, Milina.

You are too careful about your weaving, cousin, or should I say too picky?

Oho, a wit among us! And who would not be careful of her first child’s first blanket? Look at you and your wedding dress there. Do you think young Josip will notice a stitch amiss? He’d have you if you went to church in an old sack, he’s so smitten. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know what he’s in for.

I’m sure I’ll be no worse a shrew than you, cousin. And as for your child, it would thrive as well in an old rag, as so many babies must.

Perhaps it would. Very well, why should we work our fingers to the bone? Let’s away to the rag bag at once. Rosina rested her shuttle, firmly impressing on her memory that it was the fifth white pick—one more, and then two of blue.

Anna the eldest shook her head. If you did, you’d soon be fixing them up into something new. It’s beauty you want, the both of you—you’ll never be able to settle for less. She stopped the turning of her spindle to wind on the thin linen thread she spun. Beauty steals upon one’s soul like the Fog King stole upon Irlist, and never lets go. Lose your heart that way and you’ll never stop hunting beauty till you have it, just like Gentoul, who kept on till he had found his love again.

I hope my child may be one such, said Rosina.

How else, with such a mother and father? Have you dreamed of your child yet?

Rosina hurriedly took up the shuttle again and began to weave.

She has—look at her—she’s blushing, said Risa, and Milina asked, What did you dream? Is it a boy?

Rosina shook her head.

A girl, then, chuckled Anna the eldest. Born in the fall—that’s a good time for girls—an autumn woman is wise all her days.

What’s her name to be?

Rosina started to speak, but didn’t.

What is it? Rosina, tell us. What did you dream?, begged Milina.

I dreamed of a maid with hair the color of copper, healthy and fair to see.

Her name?

Rosina wrinkled her brow. It was an old name—you hardly hear of it any more. Ylla will be her name. She turned back to her weaving.

A good name—it has a musical sound, said Milina.

There’s a saint by that name, isn’t there? asked Risa.

Yes, I think so—I’ll ask Father Simon. Why, look, she’s weeping! Cousin, what’s amiss?

I saw her wedding, in the dream.

Yes?

They were standing before the priest. The bridegroom—he wore a fool’s motley, all parti-colored, black and red. She’s to marry a fool! Rosina’s weeping became a storm of tears. Milina rushed to comfort her.

There, there, cousin.

I don’t want my daughter to marry a fool!

That’s mostly what they do marry, and have since time began. Cheer up, my lady—it’s a dream. It may mean something very different, said old Anna.

Truly—it might be a man who loves to joke, a man with a merry heart.

Do you think so?

Most certainly, cousin. Come now, you don’t want her to marry a dour, grim man, with a face that would sour the milk if he looked in the pitcher?

Aye, like old Lord Danilo in the next valley, said Risa.

No, of course not.

Well then, lay your fears to rest. A merry-hearted man will find his way to the good through a whole sea of troubles, like your own dear lord.

Thank you, Anna, and all of you. How silly I am, anyway, to worry so about what is many years yet to come. Risa, suppose we hear some more about Irlist, and leave these gloomy thoughts.

Elin at last lay quietly, exhausted. They had closed the shutters; a single candle lifted the room from darkness. A lady sat next it, watchful lest the duchess harm herself. Bitter were Elin’s thoughts.

‘Edos’ face—the one man I loved—his very eyes, his lips, his expression. How could a child just born show me that face—how could I bear to have that face always before me? True, the duke’s his cousin, but they’re nothing like! Oh, to banish that face forever from my sight, my memory!’ She began again to toss and turn. The watching lady called for help. With three others holding her, Elin was made to swallow a strong sleeping draft. Within minutes she lay unconscious, though not at rest.

The old washerwoman bustled up to the open door of her daughter’s hovel. See here what I’ve brought you, daughter—gold and good fortune.

What, that puling thing? What’s that to me?

The duke’s own son, that’s what. His mother’s gone mad, won’t have him about. I’ve made your fortune, daughter—the duke will pay well for the raising of this one.

As if I hadn’t enough to do already with my own boy, sweet as he is. I want no noble’s brat here, with its delicate ways.

Nay, you’ll take him. I’ve promised the ladies.

I tell you no!

Ah well, too bad your Fedor’s got such a bad temper. Wonder what he’ll do when he hears where that babe of yours got his red hair.

And who but you would tell such a thing! Hand the whelp over then, if you’re so set on it—I’ll nurse it. But see you keep your nose to your own business, and let mine be.

The next afternoon there issued from the same hovel the sound of a baby crying, loudly and desperately. As the screams continued, a woman appeared, a woman of unearthly beauty; a faint light seemed to cling to her, for she was a vila, Vila Sveta, the overseeing spirit of this region. She approached the hut and looked in to see what was the matter. There was Martin, all alone,