The Ghost Rider by Ismaíl Kadaré Page A

new songs, the mourners summarised episodes recounted in the earlier recitals, or else elaborated a passage they had previously mentioned only fleetingly or omitted entirely. Thus it was that one chant gave greater prominence to the background of the incident, or to the great Vranaj family’s happier days, or the doubts about Doruntine’s marriage to a husband from a distant land, and Kostandin’s promise to bring his sister back whenever their mother wished. In another all this was recalled only briefly, and the mourners would linger instead on that dark journey, recounting the words that passed between dead brother and living sister. In yet another song all this was treated more briskly, while new details were offered, such as her brother’s quest for Doruntine as he drifted from dance to dance (for a festival was under way in Doruntine’s village at that time) and what the horseman said of the girls of the village: “Beautiful all, but their beauty leaves me cold.”
    The people Stres had sent to keep their ears open took careful note of the tenor of these laments and reportedto him at once. The captain sat near the window through which the cold north wind blew and, seeming numb, examined the reports, taking up his pen and underlining individual words or whole lines.
    “However much we might rack our brains day and night to find an explanation,” he said to his deputy, “the mourners will go on in their own way.”
    “That’s true,” his aide replied. “They have no doubt at all that he returned from the dead.”
    “A legend is being born right before our eyes,” Stres said, handing him the sheaf of reports with their underlined passages. “Just look at this. Until two days ago, the songs gave little detail, but since last night, and especially today, they have taken shape as a well-defined fable.”
    The deputy cast an eye over the pages of underlined verses and words, dotted with brief marginal notes. In places, Stres had drawn question marks and exclamation points.
    “Which doesn’t mean that we can’t get something out of the mourners anyway,” he said, with the hint of a smile.
    “That’s right. I’ve noticed that an ancient way of bewailing the dead has recently come back into use. It’s called ‘lamenting within the law’.”
    “Yes”, the deputy concurred.
    “I don’t know if the phrase exists in any other language, but as a servant of the law, I am, for my own part, struck by such an expression to describe women’s wailing at a funeral.”
    “Indeed”, said the deputy.
    “Maybe it means that this kind of keening meansmore than it appears to mean. That it tends to become a law.”
    His aide was at a loss for a reply.
    Through the window you could see the main road, and on it a continuing stream of people coming to attend the burial. Local inns, as well as those for miles around, were overflowing. There were old friends of the family and relatives by marriage. There were representatives of both churches, Byzantium and Rome, as well as members of the prince’s family and other lords of neighbouring principalities and counties. Count Thopia, the Lady Mother’s old friend, unable to make the journey (whether for reasons of ill health or because of a certain chill that had arisen between him and the prince, no one could say), had sent one of his sons to represent him.
     
    The burial took place on Sunday morning as planned. The road was too narrow to accommodate the crowd, and the long cortège made its way with some difficulty to the church. Many were compelled to cross ditches and cut through the fields. A good number of these people had been guests at Doruntine’s wedding not so long ago, and the doleful tolling of the death knell reminded them of that day. The road was the same from the Vranaj house to the church, the same bells tolled, but on this day they sounded very different – protracted and muffled, as if obeying the laws of another kingdom. But apart from that, there was