Mrtva Dolina, Serbia
December, 1999
Mrtva Dolina was never truly silent. Even before the snow fell thick enough to bury the roads, the Košava wind arrived first. The wind blew from the southeast, carrying dry cold air and a sharp whistling sound that slipped through the cracks of rotting wooden windows. For the villagers, that sound was a constant reminder that they lived at the end of the world, in a fold of the Serbian mountains forgotten by God and the government in Belgrade.
Father Dragan stood before the gate of the old Orthodox church. His wrinkled hands pulled the collar of his faded black robe tighter. At nearly sixty years old, cold was no longer merely a discomfort, but a physical threat. He gazed down the main road of the village, if that frozen muddy rut could still be called a road. There was no asphalt here. Only earth hardened by sub-zero temperatures, the tire tracks of logistics trucks, and horse dung.
Today was Sunday, but the church was empty. People preferred to huddle near their wooden stoves rather than freeze on church benches listening to sermons about sin. Father Dragan did not blame them. Faith was difficult to maintain when the belly was empty and the electricity was dead for twelve hours a day.
Yet there was one reason why Father Dragan remained standing there, bracing himself against the wind that struck his face. A shiny black car appeared in the distance, creeping slowly down the hill. It was a Land Rover Defender, a vehicle far too luxurious, too clean, and too intact to belong in this village.
It was Mr. Alan Hopkins' car.
Father Dragan exhaled with relief. White vapor escaped from his mouth. He quickly wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand, wanting to appear presentable.
The car stopped right in front of the church gate. Its engine cut off smoothly, unlike the village tractors that sounded like a sick man's cough. The driver's door opened. Boris, Mr. Hopkins' personal driver, stepped out. The large man with a flat face said nothing, only walked around the car and opened the rear door.
A perfectly polished black leather shoe landed on the frozen ground. Not a trace of mud dared cling to it. Alan Hopkins stepped out of the car. The man wore a thick woolen overcoat in ash gray, a cashmere scarf, and leather gloves. He was tall, his posture upright, and his face possessed a soothing symmetry the kind of face Father Dragan had seen on paintings of holy men, if those holy men were British and smelled of expensive soap and vanilla.
"Good morning, Father," Alan greeted him. His voice was deep, warm, and possessed a foreign accent that actually made him sound authoritative. He spoke Serbian quite well, though his sentence structure was sometimes overly formal.
"Good morning, Mr. Hopkins. May your day be blessed," answered Dragan, bowing slightly. He always felt small in the presence of this man. Not because of his physical stature, but because of the aura of success he carried.
Alan smiled. The smile was not excessive. Just a polite movement of his lips that showed respect. "I hope I am not late. The roads up the hill were rather slippery from last night's ice."
"No, not at all. You have arrived precisely on time," said Dragan quickly. "Please, come in. It is somewhat warmer inside."
They walked into the church courtyard. Alan paused for a moment to look at the pile of building materials beside the cracked church wall. There was a stack of new wood, bags of cement, and cans of paint.
"I see the materials have arrived," said Alan. He touched the stack of wood with his gloved hand, as if inspecting its quality.
"Yes, sir. The truck came two days ago. We are very grateful," said Dragan, his voice trembling with emotion. "Without your donation, the roof above the altar might have collapsed during this winter."
Alan nodded slowly. "The House of God must be a safe place, Father. I am only doing what I can. I cannot allow such beautiful cultural heritage to be destroyed simply because of a foolish war."
Those words touched Dragan's heart. While the outside world dropped bombs on their great cities a few months ago, this foreign man came bringing German Marks and American Dollars to repair the village church's roof. Alan did not ask for a nameplate or praise. He simply wanted to "preserve beauty."
"You are an angel to us, sir," murmured Dragan.
Alan laughed softly, a crisp sound. "I am no angel, Father. Just an art lover who happens to have a bit of extra means. How are the orphanage children? Were last week's blanket donations sufficient?"
"More than sufficient. Mrs. Elena says the children slept soundly for the first time in weeks."
They walked into the church. It was indeed somewhat warmer inside because Dragan had already lit the candles. Dim light bounced off the icons of saints whose gold paint was already peeling. Alan walked slowly, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He stopped before an old wall painting depicting Saint George slaying a dragon.
Alan gazed at the painting with unusual intensity. His pale blue eyes traced the image of the spear piercing the dragon's neck, then shifted to the expression on the saint's face flat, devoid of emotion.
"Beautiful," whispered Alan. "Look at how the artist captured the moment of death. Not with anger, but with serenity. A duty."
Dragan simply nodded, though he did not fully understand art. "It is a painting from the eighteenth century, if I am not mistaken."
"It needs restoration," said Alan, still gazing at the painting. "The red blood color on the dragon has faded. Blood should look alive, Father. Blood is the symbol of spilled life."
"Certainly, certainly. But the restoration costs. . ."
Alan turned, looking at Dragan. "Do not worry about the costs. I will handle it. I know an expert in restoration in Vienna who specializes in red pigment."
Dragan almost wept. He wanted to kiss the man's hand, but restrained himself because it might not be proper for a Westerner. "Thank you, Mr. Hopkins. Thank you."
Suddenly, a loud sound came from outside. Like a trash can being kicked over, followed by aggressive barking from a stray dog.
The sacred atmosphere shattered instantly. Alan frowned slightly, his expression of serenity disrupted for a fraction of a second before returning to normal.
"What is that?" asked Alan quietly.
Dragan's face flushed with embarrassment. He knew who it was. "Forgive me, sir. That. . . is just a usual disturbance."
"A disturbance?"
"That boy," Dragan hissed with a rare tone of hatred. "The wild deaf boy. Momcilo."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "Oh. The boy who lives in the forest? The one you have told me often steals church candles?"
"He does not just steal candles. He destroys everything. He is like an animal. No parents, no manners. The townspeople call him Drekavac."
The sound of barking outside grew louder, then came the sound of a stone hitting the iron fence. Tang!
Dragan hurried to the church door and opened it roughly. The cold wind immediately rushed in.
In the distance, near the stone fence of the church, a small figure was visible. A boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, but his body was skeletal like a dead twig. He wore an oversized cast-off military jacket that hung down to his knees, its moss-green color already stained with mud and oil. His long black hair was tangled, covering part of his face.
In his hand, the boy held a piece of rusty iron. In front of him, a stray dog was growling, fighting over something that looked like a rat's carcass or some putrid food scrap.
"Get out!" shouted Father Dragan, his voice hoarse. "Get away from here, you devil child! Do not soil the church grounds!"
Momcilo turned. His eyes were dark, sharp, and wild. There was no fear there, only pure vigilance. He did not run. He stared at Dragan, then his gaze shifted past the priest's shoulder, directly toward Alan Hopkins standing calmly in the doorway.
For several seconds, the dirty boy and the clean nobleman stared at each other.
Momcilo opened his mouth, his jaw moving stiffly as if trying to shout something. But no words came out. Only a sound of krak from his throat, like a snapping branch, followed by a frustrated growl. Apraxia, a neurological condition that no one in the village understood. To them, it was merely a sign that his tongue was cursed.
The boy spat thick, dirty saliva onto the ground, directly toward the church. Then, with a movement quick as a fox, he snatched the rat's carcass from the ground and ran fast toward the dark pine forest, leaving muddy footprints on the sacred thin layer of snow.
Father Dragan closed the door with a shaky breath. He turned to face Alan with a face full of regret.
"I am very sorry you had to see such a disgusting sight, sir."
Alan Hopkins did not appear angry. Instead, he smiled thinly. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and patted imaginary dust from his sleeve.
"It is all right, Father," said Alan softly. "Every holy place must have a devil to test its faith, yes? Consider him. . . a trial for our patience."
Dragan nodded in admiration of such wisdom. "You are right. You are absolutely right."
Outside, the Košava wind howled again, this time louder, as if wanting to erase the boy's footprints from the face of the earth. Yet Alan Hopkins continued to gaze toward the closed door, his eyes gleaming with something difficult to interpret. Not disgust. But curiosity. Like a collector who had just spotted a rare but dangerous insect specimen.