The Complete Short Stories

by Brian Aldiss

  Now when Jurosh heard this, he swore an oath, for as a young man he had loved Krumovic much as one loves a captive bear. Accordingly, he said to Marko that he would ride with the Saxons to relieve Krumovic. But Marko took the king on one side and said that here was a chance to make a test he early desired to make, before they came to a real battle, to try the loyalty of their Turkish arm; accordingly, he offered to ride off with Mohammed Saveji and his force and see what show they made of engaging their fellow Turks.

  This plan was approved. Mohammed Saveji was called forward, and conferred with the king and Marko under the acacia trees. Soon the detachment rode forth, while the king disposed of the rest of his force over the area, guarding vantage points, and keeping his son ever by his side.

  So they waited, while the afternoon turned golden and the fitful wind died – until into the little valley above which the king stood with part of his force came a body of Turkish foot-soldiers, clutching their scimitars and running for safety, for Marko’s intervention had taken them entirely by surprise. The king charged down upon them, the Saxons with him, bawling like men possessed.

  Hopelessly, the Turks made what stand they could. Vukasan galloped towards them with his sword drawn. He saw them go down almost at once, unable to withstand a charge, dying with their faces full of anger and empty of fear. Soon they were all strewn upon the field, their turbans, helmets, shields, and weapons lying about them. And no sooner was the foray finished than Marko was returning, to report with satisfaction on the ferocity of Mohammed Saveji and his men; and with him came Krumovic, a mighty and fearful old man whose curling black hair seemed to grow even through his armour. And he kissed Jurosh on both his cheeks and knelt before him, and hugged his bony knees.

  He and the king and the commanders of the various forces conferred together, all heartened by this small success. Then they buried the slain foes where they lay and moved on to Krumovic’s camp. And there they roistered through the evening and much of the night, so violently that Vukasan and his sister Branka were frightened. Only Mohammed Saveji did not drink, and sat apart. But when they all rode off in the morning, Krumovic’s considerable force was with them, sworn to depose the traitorous Nikolas.

  Krumovic took his place beside Jurosh and Marko, laughing heartily as they went along. ‘Ah, my fine king, you are chosen by God, blessed by God, the good God who has never failed me in my hour of need, old villain though I am! You were blinded – don’t I know it – eyes burnt out only five years ago, frying like cinders. Everyone knows it in the mountains! Now by the way you spitted those Turks yesterday it’s clear you can see as well as the next man! As well as an eagle over Novo Brdo! Well, why should God have worked for you that way if He didn’t mean you to be king of Serbia? It wouldn’t be sensible! He’s on your side!’

  ‘That’s how I shall explain things to my people,’ Jurosh said.

  ‘Good – and I’ll help you! They’ll all be behind you. They’ll soon turn that brother of yours out, you wait and see. Why, you’re twice the man he’ll ever be! I recall in Emperor Orusan’s day …’

  And off he went into a series of stories designed to show how great he had always reckoned Jurosh to be. Vukasan could not but note how his father drank in these tales and even added small details of self-aggrandisement to them; nor did he fail to note how Marko grew tired of the prattle, and dropped behind to talk with Mohammed Saveji, with whom he was clearly establishing a friendship.

  ‘Ah, if only I were a man!’ thought Vukasan, with anguish looking at all the years ahead of him before he reached puberty. ‘Then would I ride with my father and tell him to be sure of himself without the need of flattery! Already I understand many grown-up things such as sword-fighting and falconry, but I cannot understand grown-up actions. When boys shout out about how brave they are, they are generally cowards trying to blow fire into their own hearts; I wonder if it is the same with men? How shall I ever learn such things, of which nobody talks – or not in my hearing!’

  He began to try and reason with himself as to whether his father had been chosen by God; but he was as mystified about the behaviour of God as about that of men. Nor was he sure whether, even if God had chosen his father to rule, this would inevitably mean he would rule. He looked up hopefully at his father’s great maligned countenance with its unhealing bruises, but it told him nothing.

  These troubled thoughts were soon banished. They rode over the brow of the next hill and there in the valley before them lay the Juzna Morava, with Vranje standing on its banks, the little castle visible even from this distance. Beyond it lay fair Serbia, the country of honour and valour and legend; and its hills were broader and nobler and its trees greener than the ones they had passed, and a grave enchantment seemed to pour from its landscape.

  As Vukasan stared down on this sight, his father, who had ignored him all day in preference for Krumovic’s conversation, leant over and laid his gloved hand on the boy’s. The tears rose in Vukasan’s throat, emerged as great sobs, and would not be denied.

  Two hours later, the column became an invading army. It crossed the patched wooden bridge over the Morava and entered on to Serbian soil.

  *

  Word of Jurosh’s approach had flown ahead of him. A goodly crowd of peasants stood in Vranje’s long crooked street to greet him, while the Bishop of Vranje came forth in his full regalia and bowed before him. Knowing full well the power of the priesthood, Jurosh climbed stiffly from his horse and accepted the Bishop’s blessing. The Bishop kissed him twice on the face and on the breast and said, ‘All true Serbs of the faith know that being a Nemanjid king thou, Stefan Jurosh, art born in sainthood, a descendant of Saint Simeon. More especially, God has been moved to restore thy sight that was taken from thee, as a sign that thou art by Him appointed to have disposition over our earthly being: whereupon in the name of the Serbian Orthodox Church, I thy Bishop of Vranje do offer up my prayers and my support on thy behalf.’

  Then said Jurosh, his tattered old face aglow, ‘I thank thee, my Lord Bishop. It is even as thou sayest! The Lord hath given back to me mine eyes that were stolen from me by sinners. Therefore let all here gathered know that I now see the wrongs of my kingdom, and shall make all haste to right them, beginning first with the defeat of my usurping brother Nikolas, and then joining with the Bulgar Czar to smite our common enemy, the Ottoman. If you will join me now, loyal subjects, life shall be better for you, even as it was in the days of my blessed father, the Emperor Orusan.’

  Some of the people there gathered gave a cheer, and many clustered about the king, staring up at him and exclaiming, ‘It’s true! He sees, by the living God! He sees, though Petr and Milos put out his eyes not six years back!’

  The king grew impatient of them, and of standing in the dusty street. Throwing a significant look at Marko, he said, ‘The time is come to reward those two brave torturers!’ and he heaved himself back into the saddle.

  Overhearing his father’s words, Vukasan’s heart grew grand with pride, for although he had not dared remind his father of this matter, he had kept it constantly in mind, searching the crowd to see if by any chance he could see two men he might identify as Petr and Milos – for he had a vivid picture of what they looked like, although he had never seen them.

  Calling for someone to bring the two men to him, Jurosh rode into the castle with his generals following, Vukasan among them. An ostler, looking frightened and bowing low, held their horses as Jurosh, Marko, Krumovic and Vukasan strode past him into the keep.

  Four guards sat there about a smoky fire, for it was cold and damp and dark in the room. They tried uneasily to leave when they saw who entered, but Krumovic grabbed the leader of them, booted the others out, and made the man deliver what he knew of the national situation.

  The man told them little they did not know. Although there were various Turkish raids on Macedonian soil, they were desultory, since the Ottomans’ main force was engaged in the East in bloody battles with Mongol invaders. As for Nikolas,
he and his forces were at the Bosnian border across the country, fighting off a strong Hungarian-Croat army which the Catholic king of Bosnia, Dragutin, had invited across his territory. The time was obviously favourable to attack Nikolas, and had been well chosen.

  As Krumovic kicked their informant out, two men were ushered into the gloomy chamber. Marko slammed and bolted the door after them.

  Vukasan found himself trembling. This was a moment and a scene of which he had long dreamed. He wished to walk up to them and take their hands, as he had seen his father do with those who had done him favours, but he was frozen where he stood by surprise at finding how different the men looked from his imagined picture of them. The Serb, Milos, was a sickly little hunchback, scarcely bigger than Vukasan, though his grey hairs showed him to be long past childhood. He rubbed his hands together over and over, and was plainly scared out of what wits he had. The Bulgar, Petr, distant kinsman of the old nurse Arake, was scarcely a more noble figure. He was large and fat and untidy; his skin was dark and oily and spotted; he too trembled very much, although he stood square and faced the king impudently.

  ‘You are back, my lord king,’ he observed.

  Marko said, ‘You recall how five years ago King Jurosh’s base-minded brother Nikolas paid you both to put out his eyes before he went into exile, so that he might be no danger to the ill-gained succession? What did I unto you then?’

  The hunchback could think of nothing to say, but Petr said, ‘Why, Lord Marko, we – Milos and me – we were ever the king’s loyal men, though forced to act by Nikolas, and –’

  ‘What did I unto you then?’

  ‘Why, my lord, you gave us each a bag of gold, did you not, to save the king’s sight, which we would happily have done without reward.’

  ‘We didn’t want the reward,’ Milos said. ‘Didn’t want it at all!’

  ‘I bribed you both,’ Marko said, his voice suddenly quiet.

  Vukasan stared at all their faces, scarcely distinguishable in the gloom of the chamber, so narrow were the windows. He felt sickness rise in his throat, knowing this was not what he had expected, guessing that some terrible thing was about to jump out upon them all from the concealing curtains of time, some terrible thing that already existed in the mind of his father.

  ‘Father, let us give these kind men a further reward and then leave them! Let us not tease –’

  Before he could finish, Krumovic had seized him by one puny wrist and swung him away into a corner, shouting to him to stay out of matters he could not understand. Jurosh did not move; it was as if, with his mind set on some special purpose, he did not notice at all the irrelevance of his son’s interruption.

  To the trembling men he said, ‘In these five years, how many of your vile cronies have you told that I was not truly blinded?’

  ‘None my lord, none! We kept our peace, even as we promised!’

  ‘Pah, you have blabbed it out drunk a hundred times, even as you swilled away the byzants we paid you!’

  Petr said firmly, ‘My lord king, prithee let us go free from here. We are not worth your attention.’ And Milos said, ‘We told not a soul you had not been truly blinded by our irons.’

  ‘Ha! Then if I was not truly blinded, how is it that God has seen fit in His mercy to restore my sight?’

  The way that Jurosh delivered this question showed clearly that the words formed a sort of blazing core to his thinking. He appeared very large and terrifying, his helmet almost scraping the beams of the low room – and as he spoke, he drew his, cruel Prizren sword from its sheath. Marko and Krumovic did likewise.

  As if seeing for the first time the trap into which they had entered, the prisoners shrank back, and Milos clutched pathetically at Petr’s arm. The latter made a quavering attempt to answer the king’s paradox: ‘God will restore your kingdom, my lord king, but we spared your vision!’

  ‘So that’s the tale you tell to all through the dark winter nights, that you saved your king! Did you or did you not press your smouldering irons into the tender flesh of my face while I was bound helpless before you?’

  As if realising that he could not escape his fate, Milos sank shuddering and groaning to the ground. It was like a signal. Jurosh and Marko threw themselves forward together. Their swords bit through the dull air.

  ‘No, no! For Arake’s sake!’ cried Vukasan. He ran forward. This time, it was the flat of Krumovic’s sword that halted him.

  Irresistibly, the king’s sword swooped at Petr’s broad belly. As it entered, Jurosh twisted it savagely with a strong turn of his wrist, immediately, withdrew it and struck again. Petr threw back his head, crying with hardly a sound, and died on his feet. He crashed to the floor, breaking a wooden bench as he fell, and rolled over in his own blood, his mouth frighteningly open, as if gagging over one last bite he needed to take. It seemed to Vukasan that he had to gaze at that ghastly face for ever.

  The little hunchback dodged Marko’s sword, was leaping up from the floor as he struck, whirled round and threw back the bolt on the door. Krumovic cried in a loud voice that he would escape, but Marko impaled him through the kidneys before he was as much as half way through the door. Milos slid backwards, took a step into the room to retain his balance, his face working in malevolence and pain. As Marko stabbed him in the chest, he grabbed hold of the murderous weapon with both hands, and then dropped dead to the floor.

  The rest of that day Vukasan spent as a child, weeping into his sister’s lap. Branka nursed him and cried with him. He had run from the terrible place of the murder shouting hysterically, and his father had been unable to stop him. Only when he was much calmer did he recall the words his father had shouted at him as he charged in horror from him: ‘My subjects would have thought me a feeble king if I did not slay the men who blinded me!’

  So Vukasan wept and wept, and wondered which would prove the harder to subdue: truth or Serbia.

  Heresies of the Huge God

  THE SECRET BOOK OF HARAD IV

  I, Harad IV, Chief Scribe, declare that this my writing may be shown only to priests of rank within the Orthodox Universal Sacrificial Church and to the Elders Elect of the Council of the Orthodox Universal Sacrificial Church, because here are contained matters concerning the four Vile Heresies that may not be seen or spoken of among the people.

  For a Proper Consideration of the newest and vilest heresy, we must look in perspective over the events of history. Accordingly, let us go back to the First Year of our epoch, when the World Darkness was banished by the arrival of the Huge God, our truest, biggest Lord, to whom all honour and terror.

  From this present year, 910 HG, it is impossible to recall what the world was like then, but from the few records still surviving, we can gather something of those times and even perform the Mental Contortions necessary to see how events must have looked to the sinners then involved in them.

  The world on which the Huge God found himself was full of people and their machines, all of them unprepared for His Visit. There may have been a hundred thousand times more people than now there are.

  The Huge God landed in what is now the Sacred Sea, upon which in these days sail some of our most beautiful churches dedicated to His Name. At that time, the region was much less pleasing, being broken up into many states possessed by different nations. This was a system of land tenure practised before our present theories of constant migration and evacuation were formed.

  The rear legs of the Huge God stretched far down into Africa – which was then not the island continent it is now – almost touching the Congo River, at the sacred spot marked now by the Sacrificial Church of Basolo-Aketi-Ele, and at the sacred spot marked now by the Temple Church of Aden, obliterating the old port of Aden.

  Some of the Huge God’s legs stretched above the Sudan and across what was then the Libyan Kingdom, now part of the Sea of Elder Sorrow, while a foot rested in a city called Tunis on what was then the Tunisian shore. These were some of the legs of the Huge God on his left side.

&nb
sp; On his right side, his legs blessed and pressed the sands of Saudi Arabia, now called Life Valley, and the foothills of the Caucasus, obliterating the Mount called Ararat in Asia Minor, while the Foremost Leg stretched forward to Russian lands, stamping out immediately the great capital city of Moscow.

  The body of the Huge God, resting in repose between his mighty legs, settled mainly over three ancient seas, if the Old Records are to be trusted, called the Sea of Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the Nile Sea, all of which now form part of the Sacred Sea. He eradicated also with his Great Bulk part of the Black Sea, now called the White Sea, Egypt, Athens, Cyprus, and the Balkan Peninsula as far north as Belgrade, now Holy Belgrade, for above this town towered the Neck of the Huge God on his First Visit to us mortals, just clearing the roofs of the houses.

  As for his head, it lifted above the region of mountains that we call Ittaland, which was then named Europe, a populous part of the globe, raised so high that it might easily be seen on a clear day from London, then as now the chief town of the land of the Anglo- French.

  It was estimated in those first days that the length of the Huge God was some four and a half thousand miles, from rear to nose, with the eight legs each about nine hundred miles long. Now we profess in our Creed that our Huge God changes shape and length and number of legs according to whether he is Pleased or Angry with man.

  In those days, the nature of God was unknown. No preparation had been made for his coming, though some whispers of the millennium were circulating. Accordingly, the speculation on his nature was far from the truth, and often extremely blasphemous.

  Here is an extract from the notorious Gersheimer Paper, which contributed much to the events leading up to the First Crusade in 271 HG. We do not know who the Black Gersheimer was, apart from the meaningless fact that he was a Scientific Prophet at somewhere called Cornell or Carnell, evidently a Church on the American Continent (then a differently shaped territory).