The Ghost Rider (6 page)

All this now came to mind as the procession followed the same path the throng of guests had taken then. And just as crystal shines the more brightly on a cloth of black velvet, so the memory of Doruntine’s marriage against the background of grief now gained in brilliance in the minds of all those present. Henceforth it would be difficult for people to think of the one without the other, especially since everyone felt that Doruntine looked as beautiful in her coffin as she had done astride the horse caparisoned for the wedding. Beautiful, but to what end? they murmured. No one had partaken of her beauty. Now the earth alone would enjoy it.

Others, in voices even more muted, spoke of her mysterious return, repeating what people had told them or denying it.

“It seems,” someone said, “that Stres is trying to solve the mystery. The prince himself has ordered him to get to the root of it.”

“Believe me,” a companion interrupted, “there’s no mystery about it. She returned to close the circle of death, that’s all.”

“Yes, but how did she come back?”

“Ah, that we shall never know. It seems that one of her brothers rose from the grave by night to go and fetch her. That’s what I heard, it’s really astounding. But some people claim that – I know, I know, but don’t say it, it’s a sin to say such things, especially on the day of her burial. We should rather pray for the poor girl, let the earth not weigh on her too heavily!”

Talk turned once again to the wedding of three years ago, and many felt that the funeral was only its extension, or, more exactly, was the wedding itself, turned upside down. After her bridal journey, Doruntine had simply gone on another outing, one that was macabre … with a dead man, or … an unidentified … Well, whoever it was, it was a most unusual journey … or rather, an unnatural one … and what’s more, with a corpse … or worse still, with a … But let’s drop all that, it’s a sin to speak of such things. May God forgive the sinners that we are, and may the earth lie lightly upon her!

And people cut short their discussions, tacitly agreeing that a few days hence, perhaps even on the morrow, once the dead were buried and tranquillity restored, they would
speak of this again, perhaps less guardedly, and surely with greater malice.

Which is exactly what happened. Once the burial was over and the whole story seemed at an end, a great clamour arose, the like of which had rarely been heard. It spread in waves through the surrounding countryside and rolled on farther, sweeping to the frontiers of the principality, spilling over its borders and cascading through neighbouring principalities and counties. It was as if many of the people who had attended the burial had carried bits of it away to sow throughout the land.

There were some folk who had prayed for Doruntine on Sunday at the funeral, asking over and over again that the dust and mud treat her kindly and not weigh too heavily on her breast. But now it didn’t occur to them that the calumnies they were putting about were more crushing than any amount of earth or stone.

Passing from ear to ear by word of mouth, the rumour was borne by every breath of air and certainly conveyed many a reproach, of the sort that everyone refrains from expressing directly but is prepared, in such circumstances, to evoke in roundabout ways. And as it grew more distant it began to dilate and change its shape like a wandering cloud, though its essence remained immutable: a dead man had come back from the grave to keep the promise he had made to his mother: to bring his married sister back to her from far away whenever she so wished.

Barely a week had gone by since the burial of the two women when Stres was urgently summoned to the Monastery of the Three Crosses. The archbishop of the principality
awaited him there, having come expressly on a matter of the greatest importance.

Expressly on a matter of the greatest importance, Stres repeated to himself again and again as he crossed the plain on horseback. What could the archbishop possibly want of him? The prelate did not leave his archiepiscopal seat very often, especially to travel in such awful weather.

A chill wind blew over the frosty, autumnal plain. On either side of the road, as far as the eye could see, despondent hayricks looked as if they were slowly collapsing on themselves. Stres pulled up the collar of his riding cape. What if it had to do with the Doruntine story, he wondered. But he rejected that possibility out of hand. Ridiculous! What did the archbishop have to do with it? He had enough thorny problems of his own, especially since tension in the Albanian territories between the Catholic Church of Rome and the Orthodox Church had reached fever pitch. Some years before, when the spheres of influence of Catholicism and Orthodoxy had become more or less defined, the principality remaining under the sway of the Byzantine Church, Stres had thought that this endless quarrel was at last drawing to a close. Not at all. The two churches had once more taken up their struggle for the allegiance of individual Albanian princes and counts. Information regularly reaching Stres from the inns and relay posts suggested that in recent times Catholic missionaries had intensified their activities in the principalities. Perhaps that was the reason for the archbishop’s visit – but then Stres himself was not involved in those matters. It was not he who issued safe conduct passes. No, Stres said to himself, I have nothing to do with that. It must be something else.

He would find out soon enough what it was all about. There was no point in racking his brains now. There was probably a simple explanation: the archbishop may have come for some other reason – a tour of inspection, for instance – and decided incidentally to avail himself of Stres’s services in resolving this or that problem. The spread of the practice of magic, for instance, had posed a problem for the church, and that did fall within Stres’s remit. Yes, he told himself, that must be it, sensing that he had finally found some solid ground. Nevertheless, it was only a small step from the practice of magic to a dead man rising from his grave. No! – he almost said it aloud – the archbishop can have nothing to do with Doruntine! And spurring his horse, he quickened his pace.

It was really cold. The houses of a hamlet loomed briefly somewhere off to his right, but soon he could see nothing but the plain again, with the haystacks drifting towards the horizon. The puddles beneath his horse’s hooves reflected nothing, and thus seemed hostile to him.
The plain is in mourning
… he muttered, repeating one of the lines of the professional mourners’ chants. He had been astonished to come across the phrase again in his informers’ reports. He’d certainly heard it said of a person that he or she was in grief, or in mourning … But not of a landscape!

The Monastery of the Three Crosses was still some distance away. Along that stretch of road, Stres kept turning the same ideas over in his mind, but in a different order now. He brought himself up short more than once: nonsense, ridiculous, not possible. But though he resolved repeatedly not to think about it for the rest of the journey,
he couldn’t stop wondering why the archbishop had summoned him.

It was the first time Stres had ever met the archbishop in person. Without the chasuble in which Stres had seen him standing in the nave of the church in the capital, the archbishop seemed thin, slender, his skin so pale, so diaphanous, that you almost felt you could see what was happening inside that nearly translucent body if you looked hard enough. But Stres lost that impression completely the moment the archbishop started to speak. His voice did not match his physique. On the contrary, it seemed more closely related to the chasuble and mitre which he had set aside, and which he would no doubt have kept by his side if he had not had such a strangely powerful voice.

The archbishop came straight to the point. He told Stres that he had been informed of an alleged resurrection said to have occurred two weeks before in this part of the country. Stres took a deep breath. So that was it after all! The most improbable of all his guesses had been correct. What had happened, the archbishop went on, was evil, more evil and far-reaching than it might seem at first sight. He raised his voice. Only frivolous minds, he said, could take things of this kind lightly. Stres felt himself blush and was about to protest that no one could accuse him of having taken the matter lightly, that on the contrary he had informed the prince’s chancellery at once, while doing his utmost to throw light on the mystery. But the archbishop, as if reading his mind, broke in.

“I was informed of all this from the outset and issued express instructions that the whole affair be buried. I
must admit that I never expected the story to spread so far.”

“It is true that it has spread beyond all reason,” said Stres, opening his mouth for the first time.

Since the archbishop himself admitted that he had not foreseen these developments, Stres thought it superfluous to seek to justify his own attitude.

“I undertook this difficult journey,” the archbishop went on, “in order to gauge the scope of the repercussions for myself. Unfortunately, I am now convinced that they are catastrophic.”

Stres nodded in agreement.

“Nothing less would have induced me to take to the highway in this detestable weather,” the prelate continued, his penetrating eyes still fixed on Stres. “Now, do you understand the importance the Holy Church attaches to this incident?”

“Yes, Monsignor,” said Stres. “Tell me what I must do.”

The archbishop, who apparently hadn’t expected this question so early on, sat motionless for a moment, as if choking down an explanation that had suddenly proved unnecessary. Stres sensed he was on edge.

“This affair must be buried,” he said evenly. “Or rather, one aspect of it, the one that is at variance with the truth and damaging to the Church. Do you understand me, Captain? We must deny the story of this man’s resurrection, reject it, unmask it, prevent its spread at all costs.”

“I understand, Monsignor.”

“Will it be difficult?”

“Most certainly,” said Stres. “I can prevent an impostor
or slanderer from speaking, but how, Monsignor, can I stop such a widespread rumour from spreading further? That is beyond my power.”

A cold flame glimmered in the archbishop’s eyes.

“I cannot prevent the mourners from singing their laments,” Stres went on, “and as for gossip—”

“Find a way to make the mourners stop their songs themselves,” the prelate said sharply. “As for rumour, what you must do is change its course.”

“And how can I do that?” Stres asked evenly.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Captain,” the archbishop finally said, “do you yourself believe that the dead man rose from his grave?”

“No, Monsignor.”

Stres imagined that the archbishop had given a sigh of relief. How could the man have dreamed that I was naive enough to credit such insanity, he wondered.

“Then you think that someone else must have brought back the young woman in question?”

“Without the slightest doubt, Monsignor.”

“Well then, try to prove it,” said the archbishop, “and you will find that the mourners will suspend their songs mid-verse and rumour will change of itself.”

“I have sought to do just that, Monsignor,” Stres said. “I have done my utmost.”

“With no result?”

“Very nearly. Of course there are people who do not believe in this resurrection, but they are in a minority. Most are convinced.”

“Then you must see to it that this minority becomes the majority.”

“I have done all I can, Monsignor.”

“You must do even more, Captain. And there is only one way to manage it: you must find the man who brought the young woman back. Find the impostor, the lover, the adventurer, whatever he is. Track him down relentlessly, wherever he may be. Move heaven and earth until you find him. And if you do not find him, then you will have to create him.”

“Create him?”

A flash of cold lightning seemed to pass between them.

“In other words,” said the archbishop, the first to avert his eyes, “it would be advisable to bear witness to his existence. Many things seem impossible at first that are crowned with success in the end.”

The archbishop’s voice had lost its ring of confidence.

“I shall do my best, Monsignor,” said Stres.

A silence of the most uncomfortable kind settled over the room. The archbishop, head lowered, sat deep in thought. When he next spoke, his voice had changed so completely that Stres looked up sharply, intrigued. His tone, as polite, gentle, and persuasive as the man himself, now matched his physical appearance perfectly.

“Listen, Captain,” said the archbishop, “let us speak frankly.”

He took a deep breath.

“Yes, let us speak plainly. I think you are aware of the importance attached to these matters at the Centre. Many things may be forgiven in Constantinople, but there is no indulgence whatever for any question touching on the basic principles of the Holy Church. I have seen emperors slaughtered, roped to wild horses, eyes gouged, their tongues
cut out, simply because they dared think they could amend this or that tenet of the Church. Perhaps you remember that two years ago, after the heated controversy about the sex of angels, the capital came close to being the arena of a civil war that would have certainly led to wholesale carnage.”

Stres did recall some disturbances, but he had never paid much attention to the sort of collective hysteria which erupted periodically in the Empire’s capital.

“Today more than ever,” the archbishop went on, “when relations between our Church and the Catholic Church have worsened … Nowadays your life is at stake in matters like these. Do I make myself clear, Captain?”

“Yes,” said Stres uncertainly. “But I would like to know what all this has to do with the incident we were discussing.”

“Quite,” said the archbishop, his voice growing stronger now, recovering its deep resonance. “Of course.”

Stres kept his eyes fixed upon him.

“Here we have an alleged return from the grave,” the prelate continued, “and therefore a resurrection. Do you see what that means, Captain?”