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Authors: Ismaíl Kadaré
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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. Imust 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
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. Imust 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
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