Pran of Albania/Chapter 10

At dawn Pran started back. One of the women walked with her for a while. The others slept or had gone earlier. At first Pran knew the way, but after she was alone it did not seem so clear. She took a doubtful turn, and then another she felt surer of, went a long way—was she right, after all? She thought she recognized a group of big stones and went on, confident. Where were the camp fires? Another turn—confusion. Where was she? The sun, scarce risen yet, was little help to her. She knew to go too far the wrong way would be dangerous, take her too near enemy land. She entered thicker woods, and then a field. She went through bushes where she had to fight her way with effort. This was not right. She turned in the midst of them. Their thorns caught at her. Her heart beat too fast. How foolish to get lost!

Voices sounded. Someone was near, some of the men, maybe. She went that way. It all looked ​strange. Now the talking, though low, was nearer. She could hear words—strange words. They were not words she knew. She stopped and listened. Yes, here and there she recognized a word, but——— Suddenly Dil’s face flashed before her mind’s eye—Dil—who had taught her words like these outside the barrack wall—Slav words! This talk was Slavic talk. Her heart came to a full stop, leaped—choking her. A tremor ran through her body. What did it mean?—the Slavs as near as this! The truth burst on her. She had gone too far—over the border—or onto disputed land.

Her breath came fast. What if these men took just a few steps her way—and found her? Again she seemed to see Dil’s face, and this time it was wet with tears, and she could hear again Dil’s voice, telling of fearful things—the sack and burning of the Gruda village—slaughter and cruelty. And these men that spoke so near her, they were Slavs, the age-old enemies of her people, the very men that had sent Dil and all her village fleeing before them. For the first time fear entered in Pran’s heart and smouldered like an evil thing under her racing thoughts.

She must not stay. Another second now and she would be discovered standing like a stupid sheep waiting the knife. Even as she hesitated, uncertain ​where to turn for safety, the voices of the men came nearer. Their footsteps sounded close.

Pran looked in fresh terror round her. Where to hide? Where?—Where?—before it was too late? She ran with soft, fearful steps. A great rock loomed—under it darkness. Yes, a cave was there—God watched her surely. She breathed a prayer of thanks. She would hide there until they had passed—at least. She ran inside—and back into the blackness. How huge it was! She did not even stoop. The great roof arched above her, indiscernible. It was damp, too; she could feel under her rawhide moccasins the soft mud mingled with stones. She slipped—steadied herself, and went still farther in. Black dark before her. Suddenly she splashed into water. Before she could stop she was in it—to her knees—stumbled, but stood. Heaven!—this was far enough for safety. She could feel the cold wet well above her knees. Breathless, her heart hammering hard against her side, she turned to face the entrance, where dim light showed. Here she was safe. She strained her ears, listening for the steps. The cave, like a great ear, enlarged the sound of them. The shadowy figures of two men showed at the entrance. She could see them move inside a bit, as though to hide. She prayed they would not come farther. Through the dark she heard again ​their voices, made out the words—strange words of the language Dil had taught her—the Slav tongue.

How long would they stay there? How long could she stand like this undiscovered! She must not move. A splash or any sound would betray her. The water round her knees was cold—spring water. She had heard of springs like this, that rose under the ground and flowed into ground holes, emptying themselves under the earth.

The voices sounded louder. The two men argued with each other, it seemed. Then a third figure showed, a third voice broke in. Nothing to do but wait till they had done and gone away. What was it all about? Why did the three talk secretly in here? Spies, perhaps. The sense of what they said was difficult to get, for many of the words she had not learned from Dil nor ever heard before. What were they saying? If she could only follow! Suddenly she caught a word she knew—“to-day”—and then the very word her own folk used for rifles and fighting. They talked about the war—no doubt of that—but what? Could it be plans they spoke of? She must hear what they said. It might be something of importance—something her troops should know—her troops—the mountaineers that waited, as Ndrek said, three days now, fearing a surprise. She strained her ears. ​If only she could make some sense of it—make something sure—past doubt.

She listened. The third man did not speak as did the other two. His accent was not the same, and now and then he broke into her own tongue—Albanian. He—yes, she was sure—she heard the words—he was a mountaineer, Albanian, who talked as traitors talk, to help his country’s enemies. His broken Slavic, more like that Dil had taught her, was not so hard to understand, and he spoke slowly. She could follow now. It was a plan—the plan—that Ndrek and the others longed to know.

“At noon to-day”—and the names of two places. Yes, she understood. The Slavs were getting ready for an attack to-day, and planned to strike at the mountaineers from two points of vantage—the Gulch of the Fig Tree, and Gur-i-zi—the Black Rock. She would remember those two names if ever she got out of here alive and found safe way back to Ndrek and the men. She held her breath, anxious to catch each word.

The traitor told where the Albanians camped and how to surprise them coming from two sides. He said, “They are glad of rest. At noon, when the heat is most intense, they sleep, many of them.” The other men asked questions. “Had the men food enough?—​and ammunition?” Sometimes, to make the other understand, they used Albanian words, mingling the languages and making their talk for Pran even more intelligible. It was all clear in her mind now. If only they would go!

Things settled, the men talked of other matters. “I’m thirsty,” said one. Another answered, “Farther back in the cave the water is good for drinking.” Pran’s heart stood still. What if they should come too close and see her? That would be the end—and all her listening of no avail—and she? The man’s steps neared. Pran stood a statue there. If only she had had on a woman’s dark clothing, not the girl’s white that she wore. A terror mounted in her as she heard the man’s feet splash in the shallow water. She shut her eyes and prayed. This was the end. A thousand images chased themselves through her head—Lukja—the boys—and Ndrek—the house in Thethi—they passed like visions before her shut eyes. She saw a face—Nush’s face—she saw again the signal fires they had watched together. His voice sounded in her ears—“You have my necklace. It will protect you. Each bear’s tooth is a spear to guard you.” “A spear to guard you!” Pran’s breath caught; her hand went to her throat, where the chain always hung. Her fingers clutched it. She felt the ivory points wound​ing her flesh; she clutched them tighter yet. “A spear to guard you!” It would guard her now. Her terror ebbed. She heard the man’s feet stop. By the sound she knew he crouched and cupped his hand to raise the water to his lips. He was drinking now. She opened her eyes to see his dark figure, outlined against the cave door, stand upright—and turn—and then go back. She was saved—she was safe! The charm that Nush had given her had worked, had guarded her. As bullets glance from the stone kula’s wall, so peril had glanced from her, armored as she was by this talisman. Tears of relief and thankfulness stood in her eyes. She would fear nothing now.

The men went out. Their steps died instantly, but Pran, dreading a return or some newcomer, stood motionless, waiting. Should she go now? There was no time to lose. Knowledge such as this must find its way at once to the tribal chiefs. And she felt no assurance she could find the way back to the men; though now the sun, being higher, would help her. Yes, she must go—must chance it.

Slowly she moved, almost without a sound, through the shallowing water toward the cave’s opening. Softly she stepped, her ears alert to catch the slightest noise outside. At the door she paused, peering out into the sunlit world. No one in sight. ​No sound. Now—to be gone? Which way? She saw the thicket where she had first stood and heard the men. She made her way toward that. The sun cast clear shadows northward. She stood still in the bushes, wondering what way to take now. Then she put her hand on the bear’s-tooth necklace, holding it lightly. It had helped her once. Why could it not help again? “Guide me,” she whispered. She walked now, looking neither to left nor right, unthinking, giving her feet the way, murmuring to herself, “I shall get back. Guide me—I shall get back.” She walked unfaltering a long way, it seemed; then stopped, hearing a woman’s voice speaking her own tongue. Her heart leaped up.

“Sister,” she called, “come here. I am lost.”

The woman came; laughed at Pran’s serious face. “Do not be anxious. You are safe here, girl. The enemy dares not come as far as this,” she assured her.

“He dares come far enough,” said Pran, unsmiling. “Where are the men?”

The woman led her easily back to the camp. Pran walked hurriedly among the groups of men who crouched and sat about their breakfast fires unnoticing. She reached the hollow where Ndrek had been the night before. He was not there. What should she do? Tell someone else? Suppose they should not ​believe her, or laugh at the story, calling it a dream? She must not risk that. It was the chief who should know. She must find where the leaders were and tell them. She made inquiry of one of the men. He answered without question. Here stranger things happened than the mere asking of an anxious girl for a mountain chief. The man led her then across some level fields and behind a small hill to where a tall man stood talking with two others. “He is the chief of Castrati,” said her guide and left her.

Pran stood near the group, waiting. At last the tall man turned to her. Under his heavy eyebrows shone two keen blue eyes. His flowing mustache was lighter than those of his two companions and tinged with red. His voice was friendly, courteous. “What is it, girl? Whom do you seek here?”

“I seek the chief. I have news—news of the Slavs and what they plan against us.”

The chief showed no surprise. His information came by a thousand devious channels, some more unlikely and less trustworthy than words of a clear-eyed, serious young girl. He motioned Pran to follow him a little distance from the other men. He fixed his eyes intently on Pran’s eyes. “Tell me,” he said.

She began her story. When she described the cave he said, “I know the place well. It has been rendez​vous before for spies and traitors. It lies in our land, yet now not in our land, but close. They dare to come so near, being too confident. The Maltsor you heard talk with them fights likely as not with us. Too bad you cannot tell me of his looks and costume. Vermin like him we should be well rid of.” The chief patted his rifle barrel. “I’ve a bullet here for him if ever I find him out.” He smiled a little. “Go on,” he said.

Pran told how she had listened and at last made out the words. “First, when I heard it in the other tongue,” she told him, “I was not sure, but when the traitor talked he used much of our language, and besides, he repeated what he said a dozen times so that those two should understand. Then I was sure—sure of the places and the names; the time was noon, the places, the Fig Tree Gulch and Gur-i-zi. You know where they are?”

“So they are named with us,” answered the chief. He asked a few more questions of her and then said, “It is all clear. The shadows must get no shorter. The men must start.” He called the two men to him and talked rapidly with them in low tones. They left at a trot. The chief turned back to Pran.

“I will go,” she said.

“What is your name?” he asked.

​She told him.

“Pran, Daughter-of-Ndrek, you have done well. To-day you have done good service to your mountain land. The knowledge you have brought will save more lives than there are leaves on that young tree behind you. Besides, if all goes well, as it must go since we prepare in time, you save your people from defeat, from vanquishment, from tyranny and death. For once these Slavs gain foothold they take root. And you have heard what justice is with them. Hoti and Gruda know from years of sorrow. Castrati does not want to know. And if Castrati goes under the Slavic heel, who shall save Skodra, and our mountain villages east and south? Our men stand now at the door of Albania—the door to her very heart. We hold the key—as yet. To-day, had you not listened bravely and so well, we might have lost that key, and losing that we should have lost the power to hold the door. Which now we shall hold—glory to your ears!” The chief’s eyes flashed, then softened. “Take word from me to the man, Ndrek. Tell him that he is father to as brave and true a heart as ever beat in all the Eagle’s Land. God in his goodness bless and protect you, always, Pran of Thethi. I, Marash Vata, Chief of all Castrati, in my tribe’s name and in the name of all the ​Maltsors give you my thanks. Shum falemi ndérës, shum, shum. Farewell, go smoothly. Long life to you!”

Pran bowed her head, her heart too full for speech. The chief called a young runner. “Take this girl to where the safe trail lies to the east. She is for Skodra.”

“Smooth peace upon you,” answered Pran and followed the guide away.

Already as she went word flew from one group of waiting men to the next. She could see the ragged marching lines starting away in wandering irregular formation, going steadily toward the two danger spots.

Would they be in time? And if they were, could they repulse the Slavs? How could she go, not knowing? Such a fight as this might turn the fortune of the war itself. Had not the chief implied as much in talking with her? She would not go back—not till she knew the outcome. And she would wait now and see Ndrek and say good-bye once more. She called the guide. “I’ll go no farther. You can leave me here.” He went away. Pran climbed a little knoll on the clear way the men must pass going north. Here she would wait.

She watched the men troop by. They all went fast, an eagerness in step and bearing. Three days of quiet ​and anxiety; now at last action and certainty. No wonder they went gladly. To what? For a moment Pran’s heart misgave her. What was this she had done? Sent them, with rifles ready, to a place where danger surely waited—maybe death. “But better this,” she thought, “than surprise—and massacre.” At least they went prepared.

She watched the straight, tall figures trooping by. She scanned the ranks for Ndrek. There he was—at last!

He saw her, stepped aside. “You have not gone?”

“I lost my way close to the enemy lines. I heard men talk of this attack that you go now to stop. I told the chief, Marash Vata.”

“You!” said Ndrek.

But Pran had no reply for the look of wonder and dawning pride that filled his eyes. Only she thought of him and how he went now to the battle she had sent him to.

Doubt swept her soul again. “I meant to do right, Ndrek.”

“You did right, Pran.”

“Good-bye, my father.”

“Good-bye, my daughter,” he answered her and held her for a moment by the shoulders. She felt his two strong hands, fiercely tender in this strange ​farewell, where all these passing men forbade that he should clasp and kiss her.

He left her then to follow after the rest.

Still the men came, but there were fewer now. Soon they would all go and leave her here to wait alone. She sat cross-legged on the little hill unseen by those that passed. At length no more came by. She was alone.

Here she would wait, wait until she could learn whether Albania had kept the door—whether Ndrek would come safe through this danger and violence she had sent him to. She did not eat. She did not think of food. She sat there in the soft grass and leaned her head against a little tree. A long, long time she sat this way, unmoving.

The sun had passed noon when the rifles started. She could hear their crackling easily from here. Words of an old song came to her, a song some of the refugees had sung by the barrack fires at night.

Now for the first time she heard that thunder, knew what the song’s words meant.

For a while there was a fury in the sound, and then it stilled. Then came crackings of single shots and ​then a hundred shots together. Men—her men—firing at the foe. But some of these sounds were sounds of Slavic rifles—bullets that sped this way—into the midst of the straight, fearless men she had seen march out only a short while back.

Suddenly her heart rose in her throat to choke her. Tears started back of her eyes. What if Ndrek should stop one of those singing things? What if her bear’s-tooth talisman should not avail to save him at the last?

Sitting there alone in the green world of leaves and grass Pran listened despairingly, dropping her head down on her raised arms, and then, as the sound rose to a loud roaring, she raised two hands and stopped her ears with them—clenched fists to keep out the sound of this flying cruelty and death—so far away from her and yet so near to every one of those she had seen go by—and to Ndrek—Ndrek—Ndrek!

Hours she sat so, motionless—thinking no thoughts, feeling within her heart a surge of dread, a hatred of this violent thing safety seemed built on, laws seemed bastioned with—and men must die of. This they had fled from, she and the boys and Lukja, and all Thethi, moving sadly from cold hearths. This they had sent their men to dauntlessly. “For liberty let me die!” the song had said.

​Now at last tears came. Her hands relaxed. She let herself fall face forward on the grass, pressing her body there, sobbing as children sob. The song rang through her. “For liberty let me die!” Liberty—must liberty come so? At such a price? Could not free men live and keep their lands without this fire and death? Ndrek—Ndrek—Ndrek!

The guns had stopped. She had no way to know what had befallen—who had won advantage from disaster at the end. Would they come back—her men—or not come back? Ndrek—Ndrek—Ndrek!

The sunlight faded slowly. A faint breeze blew, cooling the day’s fierce heat. Voices and footsteps sounded, rousing her, pulling her back out of this misery engulfing all of her. Pran sat up, wiping her face clean of its tears. If they came back they must not know one of their women cried. If this was the enemy marching triumphant through the broken door—well, let them come—and find her. Better so. She stood to see, her heart throbbing in great slow beats. She felt no fear.

And then she saw who came; the ragged mountaineers, bearing their guns! And as she watched they gave a cheer—“Rrnoft!” The breeze swept the shout on. A hundred voices answered, and a hundred more. They had won!

​Joy beat in Pran, but joy could not drive out sorrow. For she saw that, though some walked, others were carried. Words of a mountain song came to her—song of Castrati—“Slain is Zef Lanula. Zef Lanula—cry for woe!” Would Ndrek come, or would he too be borne between two men? “Slain is Zef Lanula. Zef Lanula—cry for woe!” She waited, moving closer to the passing crowd of mountaineers. Some called a greeting to her. At last—a voice she knew! Not Ndrek’s. Whose? Her eyes searched. Between two comrades, half supported by them, a young boy went. She knew his face. “Nush—Nush!” the name burst from her. Nush it was—pale—with a tight cloth band about his shoulder, a cloth that reddened even as she looked. Nush—wounded! He passed, lost in the crowding men.

Pran felt a trembling through her—put a hand out to clutch a tree near by. Now it came clearly, for what she had wept so bitterly that afternoon; for waste like this—waste of good lives—a life like Ndrek’s—like Nush’s. “So life is,” Lukja had said. Again there came the thought—“Must it be so?” Must this be that she witnessed now? Could not quarrels find settlement another way, sparing these lives, now threatened, or lost, perhaps? Where was Ndrek?

​With the last men he came—unscathed! Pran caught his hand—kissed it as he passed. His eyes answered her eyes, but he had no strength to smile. “Bless you, my daughter. I am tired, tired. Go home now, Pran. Tell them we are safe, and you in Skodra safer than ever. Go.”

Next day Pran took the long trail back to the town. Her head was too full of thoughts for thinking. In her heart sat happiness and sorrow side by side.

As she walked her mind cleared, and Lukja’s words came back, mocking her: “So life is.” How could life change? She could not change it. What could a woman do? Nothing—until when she was old her words would matter at the council circle. She would gain that some day. Old age and deference to wisdom lived. Then she would talk against this thing called war and urge her men to find a better path to end old quarrels, never settled so. “I am so young,” thought Pran. “Age is far off. No one will listen now.”

As she had heard the voices in the cave, not near yet audible, so now she seemed to hear within herself voices that spoke to her. “What will you do, Pran?” And herself answered herself, “I will raise strong sons and fill their heads with thoughts of a new life where war is not, where men can meet their enemies and talk, and barter even, for a peace, for boundaries, ​and for gain—whatever they are after. I have seen a council of two warring families sit in a circle in a clear green field and settle a dispute without the shedding of a drop of blood. They paid with money. Money costs less than lives. I know—I know. I’ll teach my sons to know.”

Her thoughts went back to Nush. Was he much hurt? After his wound perhaps he’d understand these thoughts of hers. She’d tell him when they met. Being a man, why should he not feel more keenly than herself the evil of this violence? For what was gained to-day? A victory? How long did victory last? How did they know but what in two years’ time, or more, or less, the Slavs would try the door again and fight their way in? They were safe now—she and her people—but war made nothing safe for long. Wars bred more wars. The thing was clear as day.

Thoughts crowded. Long afterward, when she looked back on this home journey, she could remember nothing of the way, only this fervor of resolve in her to stand against this thing that set man against man, and uselessly at last.

Seeing the barracks lie beyond the plain that evening as dark fell she took the down trail, with a strange sense that she left a new world for the old.

​Descended—that was it—out of the world that could be, yet was not.

And she was faint with eating no food so long. Slowly she went across the plain, half in a dream. She stood in the barrack doorway, seeing in the darkness there Lukja and the children like shadows—unreal—impalpable.

“Pran! Pran!” Their voices faded in her ears. They themselves grew dim before her. Her eyes closed. Lukja caught her as she fell.