“Sit down!”

Peter Sliadek obediently sat on a stone, pressing the lute to his chest. The instrument resembled that moment a sick child that a negligent father dragged into the cold and slush. The lute was wrapped, over the usual rag, in a piece of stinking oiled leather and also covered with his sheepskin coat. Thanks to the junaks[1] for showing a bit of generousity. Or else it would have dampened and have been destroyed, and where was he to find a new one here, in the ravines of Jastrebatz?..

Light fever made him dizzy. He felt shivers down his spine, like crawling creaking insects. His eyes were watery, the rocks surrounding the vagrant seemed to be giant pieces of cheese with mould. Peter was sneezing incessantly, hiding his nose inside the shaggy collar. God forbid, Vuk Mrnyavchevitch the terrible would hear him, or worse of it – Radonya the fiend, the chieftain’s right hand, – they would cut off that which sneezes! He wanted to lie down, close his eyes tight and kick the bucket without confessing. None other than Satan, the hobbled mocker, had prompted him to travel with the raftsmen down the river Drava, into the very heart of Black Walachia. In the evenings the old raftsman Grgur taught Peter to strum the five-stringed lakhuta while singing native tales. Some of them were amusing, some proud, there were also funny ones; but as a rule the things would end the same way:

“What did he need the eyes for?” Peter would ask the old raftsman. “What for?!” Grgur wrinkled his shaggy brows in surprise: “What do you mean – what for? You’ll give them to your beloved one, your beloved one will kiss you, hug you tight!” Peter had thought then that the old man was joking. Perhaps that’s why, being absorbed in playing the lakhuta and Walachian melodies, he moved further – over the Brda to the South-East. At first everything went well: native peasants listened to the foreigner with interest, fed him to his heart’s content, let him in for a night willingly. They introduced him to bearded storytellers, and Peter listened eagerly, automatically turning a deaf ear to the regular: “And he threw the head upon the pavement...”

Until he went deep into the mountains.

Here the people were less hospitable. And on Shar Planina[2] , having lost in the spurs, Peter stumbled upon the junaks of Vuk Mrnyavchevitch. A gang, in a word, though the junaks would beat anyone for “gang”, defiantly calling their mob a “troop”. Badly understanding what the defiance was about and how the troop differed from a usual gang, Peter wasn’t scared at first. The robbers would have nothing to rob off a vagrant, while murdering a helpless wayfarer without any reason – neither honour for them nor fame for their chieftain. Here the singer had guessed right and wrong at the same time. Indeed, nobody was about to murder him. They even fed him and gave him a warm place by the fire. Made him sing till dawn. And then the junaks desired fame.

And Peter Sliadek was left in the troop.

You’ll be a junak, they said. You’ll have gold over your ears, they said. Here’s a sheepskin coat, here’re boots. They’re gaping at the toes – doesn’t matter. We’re gaping too sometimes, but nobody gives us nothing. Here’s a piece of rancid lard – eat it. You try to run away, they said, we’ll lift your head upon the sabre, take out your eyes from the eye-sockets. “And you’ll throw my head upon the pavement,” nodded Peter gloomily. Yeah, yeah, they said. ‘Tis exactly what we’ll do. And if there’s no pavement, we’ll just throw it on the grass. Peter had no reason to distrust such forceful promises. While roaming along Shar Planina with the junaks, he quickly realized what the matter was. The terrible Vuk Mrnyavchevitch, the chieftain of the troop, dreamt of the fame of some “Old Novak”, while his assistant, the evil and ever hungry Radonya, envied “Radivoy the Kid”. Peter had heard about these heroes from Grgur the raftsman and was at a loss: what was there to envy? But apparently Radonya the fiend had his own ideas about fame.

In the evenings, after a scanty supper, Peter would be sat in the middle of the circle. They demanded songs, they taught him to distinguish the native tribes that were in constant enmity with one another: he was to praise the Belopavlich and the Bosonozhich, and also the Peper, whereas to curse the vile Morach, the Vasoevich and the dirty Rovazy. Confused in the names, not knowing how to praise senseless roaming in the mountains, Peter desperately sought for any events. The day before yesterday they went to Krushevtzy. Took a goat from a lame old woman. The local cooper scowled at the junaks – they gave the cooper a thrashing. Took a barrel. Then changed their mind, broke the barrel into boards and took a sack of millet. Here, now we’re cooking porridge. The goat meet is tough, the millet’s with bugs.

Some wild onions have been gathered to spice the porridge.

He didn’t try to escape. Fear overwhelmed him. To get lost in these God forsaken places was as easy as pie. You could fall into a precipice, get caught by wolves or a bear. Or worse yet, the junaks would catch you and start torturing. They were like children: arrogant, vain... Cruel. They had no way out, no way back – that’s why they were rushing about. They deserved pity, only that Vuk and Radonya needed not pity but fame.

A no-win situation.

In the morning Peter felt sick. The stuffed nose made him breathe through his mouth, imps were cavorting in his temples, coughing and sneezing were tearing him up from inside. While swallowing, he scarcely refrained from tears – so painful it was. His inflamed throat pretended to be the entrance into hell. Then suddenly Radonya came running: “A caravan! A caravan’s coming! Troop, come on!” Vuk grabbed Peter by the collar: “Don’t you stay behind! You sing about it after we’re done...” The rocks whirled in a crazy dance, narrow paths winded like tangled vipers; three times Peter fell down and was jerked up to his feet by Vuk’s strong paw; the boots of the junaks were tramping behind his back, Radonya was puffing, slide-rocks were rustling over the slope, and when the order “Sit down!” poked into his unhappy, tormented head, the vagrant considered it to be the supreme blessing in the world.