Nine years. Nine wounds. In the kulla everyone else forgot him; only his sister stayed — washing the wounds with spring water and tears, wiping blood with her hair, binding them in their mother’s shawl under their father’s old clothes, weapons hanging idle at the bed-foot. Rumour ran of a swarthy Baloz (Bajloz) risen from the ocean: each house a roast of mutton, each house a maiden, a kreshnik slaughtered by day, a region ravaged by week. When the demand reached their tower, her tears fell on his face. He cursed the leaking roof; she told him it was not rain. She would rather be buried than given to the Baloz. He ordered the warhorse shod. The false farrier asked for her favours; she cursed him and found an honest blacksmith. At dawn on the mejdan the Baloz mocked a man risen from the grave. Gjergj answered: nine years on death’s door — you woke me by claiming my sister without battle. Forefathers’ law: nothing without arms. Cudgels first — the Baloz’s blow dropped the courser and flew twenty-four yards; Gjergj’s return felled the monster. Sabre cut the head; he dragged the torso to the water until the river ran black three years. Back at the kulla he bequeathed tower, cattle, and sister’s care to his companions, then threw his arms around her neck. Both hearts stopped. Friends dug one wide grave, arms still round each other, linden at the headstone. In spring a cuckoo found the twigs withered and the rooftop fallen, and told the mountain wanderer: nowhere could I find him — Gjergj Elez Alia.