“‘God have mercy on any enemy of yours, young man.’
“I turned to the voice with a start. I had been standing, the ax limp at the end of my exhausted arm, the cold slowly creeping in where the heat and the anger left. A wild sort of laughter (had I been listening, I would have found it all too like the wolf’s) escaped from my lungs, pushed with white steam by my excruciating panting. I had heard no one approach and when I saw the man, I was reduced to only panting—and that I kept as restrained as life could bear.
“The man was a stranger. I had seen few strangers before. Everyone in our village was known to me since childhood and I had only ever been taken on one trip to the town of Szekszard in my life. There was some strangeness in the man’s dress and in his voice as well, but as far as I knew, the whole world beyond Szekszard dressed and spoke like that. I was curious, but not very anxious.
“‘So tell me,’ the stranger said, moving closer, leaving his horse tethered to a tree behind him. ‘Who was this dangerous enemy you so bravely slew just now?’
“I didn’t dare answer truthfully, ‘My grandfather,’ so I gave the pat answer: ‘The heathen Turk.’
“‘I see,’ the stranger said, and his dark eyes twinkled merrily. ‘And have you ever seen a Turk before?’
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘but my father...’ And I gave him a brief recital of my heritage, complete with snatches of my uncle’s poetry.
“‘Bravo,’ the stranger said. Then: ‘Does your doctrine include rendering aid to strangers?’
“I didn’t remember it doing so, but my religious bent assured me it ought to, so I said, ‘Yes.’
“The man told me he had lost his way and would be obliged if I could point him on the road to Szekszard.
“‘Are you from Szekszard?’ I asked.
“‘From a little village just south of the town,’ he said with a smile and added, as an afterthought, ‘If you can just tell me the way to Szekszard, I can manage the rest by myself.’
“I told him the way, proud of my knowledge, but ‘It will take you until sunset or more to get there.’ He confessed his obligation to me nonetheless. Then we stood there looking at one another in silence. I do not know what was crossing his mind, but mine was forming the question, ‘Tell me, in your village south of Szekszard, would you have any use for a boy? Strong, willing—just watch me with an ax...’
“But before I had courage to express my thoughts, his made him laugh and slap his knee with pleasure. ‘Look here, boy. Just to show you how grateful I am, what do you say we build ourselves a fire with your wood and sit down together and have some lunch? I just shot a deer. You see, I spent all night lost in the woods without any supper, so early this morning I decided even if I was lost I didn’t have to starve. Now that I am found, there’s no need to let the meat go to waste.’
“I accepted his invitation gratefully. In other circumstances, I might have invited him to our house, but I was in no mood to return there, to show a new friend my disgraceful origins.
“The stranger knew all sorts of tricks. He got the green wood to burn as if by magic. We set our wet clothes out to dry, and never have I tasted venison so good. He knew how to make a boy talk, too. I had soon spilled all my troubles to him, every detail I could think of about my relatives’ fights with the Turks, their personal quirks and habits. Where they stored their ammunition. Even the priest had never shown so much concern over what a boy had to say. Finally, I even confessed to him what particular and humiliating family episode had driven me into the woods.
“The stranger laughed, but not like they had laughed. His chuckle was gentle and, it seemed, inspired by compassion.
“‘Next time your grandfather tries that trick on you,’ he said, ‘you just tell him how the emperors of Byzantium used to have their own sons castrated because they knew there was no better way for second-and third-born boys to come to power than to remain forever just behind the throne. If your grandfather knew any better, he would not laugh at the sexless ones as he has done.’
“And then he told me that, though he had been born in the little village somewhat south of Szekszard, he had seen much of the world, including Constantinople of the Turks. He was full of tales to make a boy’s heart glow. He gave me hope that the world need not begin and end with one’s kinsmen and the mud of the village road. In particular, he spoke of the khuddam not as freaks and subhuman, but as honorable opponents in a complicated game for very high stakes. What the game was eluded me in my youth and naïveté.
“He said, ‘I do like to come to Hungary, if only because the women do not have khuddam on their side and here my side wins, as easily as taking sweetmeats from a sleeping infant. But then I always like to return to the land of the Turks again. I find the game insipid without the mystery and the challenge! Like a war without an enemy.’ And he laughed out loud again and slapped his knee.
“It grew late and we both knew our time
