The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

by P. Jones

Ears, the young mother thought, are the very worst features man possesses. They stand out prominently and look uncouth, or they sprawl out along the sides of the head; they are either as colourless as if they had just been boiled, or as red as boiled lobsters. Anyhow, she was somewhat fastidious about the shape and tint of those appendages, so that now the sight of those huge hairy lobes was perfectly loathsome to her, and as she looked upon them she burst into tears. The poor forlorn baby, feeling itself snubbed, was wailing by her side. After a little while she took up her infant; the disgust she felt was stronger than ever; moreover, she was thoroughly disappointed. She had begged for a baby, not for a little puppy. In her vexation—she was a very self-willed girl, as princesses often are—she took up the babe, got out of the bed, and in two strides she was by the window. She would cast the little monster into the dark night from where it had come. She herself did not want it.

As she reached the open window the two genii, her protectors, stood before her.

"Stop, unnatural mother!" cried the taller of the two. "What are you about to do?"

The Princess shrank back, frightened and trembling. There are a few things at which we do not exactly like to be caught: infanticide is one of them.

"Know," said the Afrite, in a voice like a peal of thunder, "that the child, though with dog's ears, is not only of royal lineage, but he is, moreover, the son of a great genius. About four hundred years ago another Virgin gave birth to a Child, who, later on, was put to death upon a cross because the people did not want him as their king. Well, now, the followers of that virgin's child are our bitterest enemies; our only hope is in your son; he will grow up to become a mighty warrior and avenge us. He will waste the towns on which the gold cross glistens, he will make their kings his captives, and all their priests his slaves. The blood of the Christians will run in torrents, even as the rain comes down the ravines to-night; his shafts will be like the thunderbolts that have fallen on your tower to-night. His name—which will be heard all over the world like the rumbling in the clouds—will be The Scourge of God, and he will chastise men for their evil deeds. Wherever he passes the grass will wither under his feet, and the waste will be his wake. Only, that all these things might come to pass, thou must well bear in mind that his head be never shorn nor his beard shaven; let the tawny locks of his hair fall about his shoulders like a lion's mane, for all his strength will lie therein. As soon as his arm is able to wield a weapon, the trail of blood flowing from a heifer's wound will show him where the sword of the great god of war lies rusting in the rushes; with that brand in his hand all men will bow before him, or fall like grass beneath the mower's scythe. Love alone will overcome him, and a young girl's lust will lull him into eternal sleep. He will be versed in magic lore, and be able to read the starry skies as a written scroll. From his very infancy he will feel a wholesome hatred for the Nazarenes, his foes as well as ours."

Having uttered these words, the Afrite rose up like smoke and faded away in the dark clouds.

In the meanwhile the child grew up of a superhuman strength, short of stature but square, and with very broad shoulders; and when he was but seven years of age the gates of the castle, hitherto always shut, opened themselves for him. From that time he passed his days in the dells and hollows of the mountains, chasing the wild beasts that abounded in those gorges and in the neighbouring forests, almost inaccessible to man. His mother saw him but little, for he only came back to the castle when heavily laden with his prey.

He was but a youth when he organised a band of freebooters; and with their help he sacked and plundered all the neighbouring towns and villages, and the plains all around were strewn with the bones of the dead. Being not only invincible, but just and generous to his men, he soon found himself at the head of an army the like of which the world had never seen. He destroyed the immense town of Aquileja, the largest city of the Adriatic coast, and even burnt down the forest which stretched from Ravenna to Trieste. Whithersoever he went the houses fell, the temples and the theatres crumbled down, and he left desolation behind him; so that, before he had even reached the age of manhood, the words of the genius were fulfilled.

At that time the old King of Hungary happened to die, leaving no heirs to ascend his throne. Anarchy desolated the land. The nobles, who were at variance as to whom they were to elect, having heard, in some mysterious way, that their beautiful Princess was still alive, and that the great conqueror who was at that time plundering Rome was her son, sent an embassy to the Princess, asking her to return to her country, and begging her, as a boon, to accept the crown for her child.

The Princess, whose name was Mor-Lak (the Daughter of Misfortune), lived to a good old age. When she died she left her name to the sea and to the channel, the waters of which bathe the town in which she dwelt; therefore, the people who live thereabouts are, to this day, called Morlacchi. If they have no more canine ears, their hair is still as tawny as that of the dog-king, though all the other Dalmatians are dark. Moreover, if you go to Starigrad you can see, as I told you, the ruins of the Torre Vezza, the fairy tower where the virgin's son was born; likewise the huge chasms of the Ruino and the Sveti Berdo, the holy mountain where the Afrites slid down, in remembrance of which the inhabitants still call them the Paklenizza Malo and the Paklenizza Veliko, or, the Gorges of the Big and the Little Devil.