38

The Song of the Miorita

Peter scrambled to his feet and rushed to Tomas, who had managed to sit up.

“How did you do that?” Peter cried. “You were so drunk!”

Tomas smiled.

“Haven’t touched a drop all afternoon,” he said, “but it worked.”

Sofia came over. Her uncle was with her.

“Tomas,” Milosh said. “Are you hurt?”

Tomas chose not to answer this.

“How are your people?” he asked.

“Some are hurt. Some badly. But all are alive. Thanks to you. I am glad you came to your senses at last.”

“I didn’t come willingly,” Tomas said.

“What happened?” Peter asked. He turned to Milosh. “You came to take the sword by force?”

“Yes,” said Milosh, “but when we got here we found Tomas waiting for us. It seems something had changed his mind. Someone.”

Peter glanced at his father, then looked away at the ground, his heart pounding.

“We knew they would come for the sword, so we waited. We didn’t expect them to bring you, but it played into our hands.”

Sofia looked at Peter, smiling, but Peter was looking at his father on the ground.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Milosh knelt down beside Tomas, feeling for the wound.

“One of them got a blow in. Here.”

Tomas winced as Milosh pressed his stomach. Pulling back Tomas’s clothes, they could see a huge discolored swelling already forming.

“You’re bleeding. We must get you inside.”

“No,” said Tomas.

“No?” said Milosh.

“Peter. What did you see in the village? There are others from the graveyard, aren’t there?”

Peter nodded.

“Dozens,” he said.

“That’s not possible!” Milosh cried.

“It’s true, Uncle. I saw them,” Sofia said. “And they won’t stop now.”

Tomas sat up straighter. “We have to act. We have learned a lot today. We have seen hostages walk in daylight. It seems Agnes was among them. There may be others. I have never heard of that before. So the Shadow Queen’s power is growing. Some of them may even have been living among us, biding their time. And the hostages have learned about the sword, and they want it. Well, they will get it, but we have learned something else too.”

Tomas turned to Sofia.

“What you did…How did you know?”

“I…I didn’t,” Sofia said slowly. “I just believed.”

“There!” Tomas said. “And what did you believe?”

“I’m not sure…”

She shook her head, puzzled, and Peter laughed.

“I know!” he said. “I believe it too. I understand the song.”

“And what does the song teach us?” Tomas said. “Does it teach us to go to our deaths, without fighting? To accept our fate?”

“No,” said Peter. “No. It teaches us to embrace death while we live, to understand it, so that when we do finally come to die, we may accept it without fear. And that way we can live free of fear, believing in ourselves.”

“That is it,” said Milosh. “That is it. Death is part of life. They are inseparable. You cannot have one without the other. The song teaches us that if we accept a wedding with death, we can go to our graves content. It is people’s failure to understand this that makes them prey to the Shadow Queen.”

“How?” asked Peter.

“She can feel the discontent of the dead, those who were not content, those who had not understood the Miorita. These people are open to her power, and so she brings them back from the grave.”

“And now we have another weapon!” Peter cried. “A song!”

Peter could feel this faith within him, as a presence that he had failed to see until now. Belief in the song, and true understanding of its message, that was it. Enough to give power, enough to lay the hostages to rest.

“Yes,” said Tomas. “And a great confrontation is upon us. Help me to my feet.”

“No, Father!” Peter cried. “You must rest. Let someone else take the sword.”

“Your son is right,” Milosh said. “Give the sword to me. I am not as skilled as you, but I will do my best. You are hurt.”

Seeing no help from anyone, Tomas rolled onto his side, then scrambled to all fours. He raised his head, and trunk, and knelt. He put one foot flat in the snow, and pushed for all he was worth. He stood.

“No, Milosh. I am not hurt,” he said. “I am dying. But my swordhand is singing. I will take the sword into the village, and put an end to it.”

Milosh dropped his head, unable to meet Tomas’s stare.

“Please, Father,” Peter said. “Please don’t.”

Tomas turned to his son, his face pale with pain.

He spoke softly, so that only Peter could hear.

“I have been a bad father to you. Please give me the chance to be a good one.”

Tears welled in Peter’s eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand, but he looked his father in the face, and nodded.

“We will help you,” he said.

“The song!” Sofia cried. “We can help you with the song!”

Tomas nodded.

“Then let’s be ready,” he said. “We have the sword. Milosh, you have six men here. More in your camp. Peter, my son. Sofia. And we have the song! If only I had a horse. Peter, you should have seen me with King Michael! When we rode our warhorses into battle, the ground itself shook with fear!”

“But look!” said Sofia. “You do have a horse! Sultan!”

They all turned and saw the old white horse walking serenely through the trees toward them, his head nodding as he came.

Tomas laughed.

“What do you say, Sultan? Can you manage it?”

Sultan snorted.