Pran of Albania/Chapter 11

The news Pran had carried found its way through Skodra rapidly. Runners had come, and now all Skodra knew the war was done or would be in a week’s time.

Those who were able—had enough to eat—went back to their spoiled villages, but most of the refugees stayed on in the city. The men, once the guarding of the border was done, drifted in to Skodra, and many found their families and lived with them.

Ndrek came back at last and took up his life with Lukja and the rest in the barracks. Sometimes he found work. Sometimes he could find nothing to do and sat smoking in the shade of the barrack wall with other men. They all waited for spring to come before planning to go back, for there was no harvest to gather, and the winter rains could be borne better on the scant rations of Skodra than in the mountains.

The city prefect still gave food now and then, so no one really starved, though all went hungry. Seed ​corn was promised for the spring, and the Franciscan friars stationed in some of the mountain villages helped too, and gave corn for the spring planting where they could. Ndrek journeyed once or twice to Shala to make arrangements for getting new animals—a very few—to be paid for in a year with the herd’s increase.

It was a sad winter for all of them. Only Pran kept up her spirits. She rejoiced over Ndrek’s being with them, over the war’s being done. Somehow, hungry and miserable as she often was, she could not feel sad. Only one thing bothered her; had Nush got well of his wound? And where was he now? She had no way to find out these things, and they would lie at the back of her mind, nibbling at her peace. She sometimes looked for Nush in the bazaar, even walked out on the road where they had gone together, but he was nowhere. “I am looking for a grain of sand in a bag of cornmeal,” she told herself. “I will forget him.” But often when the nights were too cold for sleep she would lie thinking, and his face would rise vividly before her in the dark, a laughing face with inscrutable blue-gray eyes.

The rains came and drenched everything, though the dry air made short work of the moisture afterward. Ndrek did his best to fix a roofing over their ​corner, with tin and bits of broken tiling he picked up. The boys gathered wood for the fire which had to be kindled more often as the weather grew colder. Dil and Pran went off across the Kiri and brought back great loads of faggots for fuel. For a long time Lul suffered from the fever and lay gray faced and haggard eyed under Notz’s blanket, day and night.

The girls joined Lukja in the porter’s work and looked always for customers for their brooms. Somehow they struggled through the long wet months. Then at the first change of weather they got ready for the journey back to Thethi. The sun shone, the sky was clear, and summer heat was still two months away. All hearts were light, and Pran’s heart lightest of all.

She said to Dil, “I have seen enough of the bazaar to last me all my life. Once I am in the mountains, there I will stay. Nothing shall budge me.”

Dil did not smile. She and Notz and Lul sat watching Lukja and Pran roll up the blankets for the journey back.

Lukja looked up at them. “Why do you three sit there?” she said. “Get yourselves ready too.”

Dil answered, “But you forget. Prifti is still full of Slavs. We must stay here.”

​Pran, who had not thought of losing her new-found friends, looked now at Ndrek, who was standing near the wall. “Hear what Dil says, Ndrek,” she said to her father.

“I hear,” said Ndrek, “but she does not know that never yet was guest turned out of Ndrek Palokit’s house.” He went over to where the three children sat cross-legged on the ground. “You three have been with us during the thin times of need and sorrow; think you, now that fatter days are coming, we turn you away to starve and beg in Skodra?”

Notz and Lul kept their eyes fixed on him, but Dil turned hers away as though in shame. “We have eaten much of your scarce food,” she said softly. “For months now we have accepted everything from you. You go back to ruins, maybe, and the seed takes long to sprout. We should be but three extra mouths to feed.”

“Not so,” Lukja broke in. “At Thethi there will be too much to do for Pran and me alone. We need your help. Having had two big daughters for so long, I cannot do with one. And Notz—he is much bigger than our boys. Ndrek can make good use of his strong back and arms in the neglected fields. As for our Lul—she cannot stay behind, for Pran is mother to her. Children stay with their mothers always.” She ​smiled at Lul’s sad little face. “See,” she said, “her eyes are big with tears, thinking her mother planned to go without her.”

Pran ran to Dil and pulled her to her feet. “You hear these words, Dil? It is the Householder himself who bids you come. And Lukja, she is the Zoi Shpiis—the Woman of the House—you cannot refuse to come when she requests it.”

Dil’s blue eyes filled, and Notz, to hide his own tears of joy, turned to Lul and hugged her to his breast ecstatically.

Dil went to Ndrek, and taking one of his hands she pressed it to her forehead, then to her heart. She ran and knelt before Lukja, kissing her skirt’s edge. “Thanks are not enough for what you do, Pran’s mother. I pledge myself to you, my hands, my arms—all my strength—always.” Her voice choked. Lukja raised her up.

“Get ready, daughter. Henceforth our roof is yours. It is true we shall be hungry before harvest, but what matter? We shall make shift somehow.”

“What matter indeed!” thought Pran next day, taking the trail, a bag of the city’s cornmeal tied to her shoulders. “Our feet point north at last. Home lies ahead.”

They made the long way gladly, all of them, their ​hearts filled with the joy of going back, even though it meant to desolation.

They passed many a house, roofless, with blackened walls, and knew that farther west many went back to ruins worse than this. But Thethi had been spared destruction. It was little altered. Heaven had been kind. Their own house, bare of all food and livestock, still stood.

As they sat about the home hearth that night Notz came and sat down close to Pran and Dil. His look was serious. “Pran—Dil,” he said in an earnest voice, “I have come with a confession.”

Both looked at him, surprised. Without a word he took out of his girdle a bulging cloth packet. He laid it in Pran’s lap. She lifted it. It was heavy, and the circled shapes of coins showed through the fabric. “It is money,” she said to Dil, amazed.

“Open it,” said Notz.

Pran undid the cloth and spread it out on her lap. A heap of copper and silver lay on it. “Why, Notz, where did all this come from?” she stammered. Dil looked at her brother as if afraid of what he was going to say.

Notz was shamefaced a little. He reddened, and his brown eyes avoided theirs, looking across the hearth to where Lul sat. “That is all honest money,” ​he said and brought his eyes back to Pran’s. “It is the money the people gave Lul for dancing. She always gave it to me. You thought I spent it for food, but I did not. I saved some of it every time. Hungry or not, I saved it, fearing the time when Pran and the others should leave us alone again. I saved it not for myself—or Dil—only for Lul.” His dark eyes fell. “She is so little—she is not strong—and—besides—she is my sister.” His voice had fallen nearly to a whisper, and on the last words it broke in a little sob. He swallowed—controlled himself. “I did not do wrong, keeping it for her,” he said more bravely, looking up at Pran.

“No, Notz,” Pran answered, “but———”

He interrupted her. “Take it now, Pran. Give it to Lukja. She can buy chickens from a village where the soldiers have not been. Then there will be eggs and some meat for all of us before the harvest comes.”

Pran carried it to Lukja joyfully. That summer the chickens bought with Notz’s secret hoard did much to help Lukja feed her hungry brood. Meanwhile an early spring had made planting early, and a plentiful harvest saved them all from real starvation.

By fall, life was settled somewhat into its old channels. The girls spun and wove and helped Lukja cook ​and carry wood and water. Notz worked with Ndrek in the fields, and the twins took the tiny flock of sheep and goats Ndrek had mustered out to the pastures. Lul learned to knit, and some days she went with the twins to sit in the grass and ply her needles while they watched the animals and blew on the shepherd pipes that Gjon had made. Some days she stayed at home and played about or helped the girls work. She was rosy now, rosy and happy. The mountain air had driven the poison of the fever out of her body.

Ndrek went to far villages, where animals were plentiful, and traded some of his corn for goats and sheep. He was eager to build up his herds again, and wool was needed, with so many now to clothe. He traveled long distances, his rifle on his back and round his waist his belt of cartridges.

Lukja said to Pran, “Of course he takes his gun, being a man. But truth is he has little need to use it now. He travels safer than he ever has.”

“Why?” asked Pran.

“The war last year, as evil as it was, brought good along with it!” said Lukja. “The bessa that the tribes made when the Slavs came in has been renewed. They keep the truce still. So long as this is ​so old feuds are stifled. No one takes blood payment for a while. Ndrek is safe even on enemy land. God grant it lasts!” She crossed herself.

So Ndrek went along trails where even a year ago his life or that of any man of Shala tribe would not have been safe for the distance of ten steps. Thinking of this Pran felt a thankfulness.

“The wound the war made bleeds no more,” she said to Dil that night as they lay under their blanket together. “The herd grows; the corn is gathered; even Ndrek lives safer than before. Now you shall know Thethi life at its best.”

“Time is the best medicine,” answered Dil. “It is already autumn. To-day the leaves began falling. And last week when I was in Skodra I saw three brides in bridal clothing walking through the street. It is the wedding season.”

Pran laughed softly, for in the darkness about them all the rest slept. She whispered, “We shall have to find a husband some day for you, Dil. Then you will no longer live in exile but have a home of your own. You will like that.”

“There is time for all things,” said Dil, “and I do not want to leave Lukja so soon. I have done little to repay her and Ndrek for all they have done and still ​do for Llesh Markut’s children.” She paused, then whispered more softly, “Are you betrothed, Pran? You have never said.”

“Not I,” said Pran. “Lukja was not betrothed till late herself and wished it not for me. I know some girls are promised from the day that they are born, or even before birth, but I was not. I am not sorry. I love my own home and do not wish to wed myself too early. I should think it hard—a sad thing even—to go to a strange house and wed a man unseen by me before, a stranger really. I have always wanted the years to pass less swiftly toward the marriage time; for it must come—to all of us.”

“Some women do not marry,” Dil replied. “They turn morgeshe—nuns. You’ve seen the mountain nuns?”

“Once I saw one,” said Pran. “The man she had been betrothed to died, and she took the virgin’s vow and did not change it. She wore men’s clothing, even bore a rifle, and cut her hair.”

“One can choose such a life,” said Dil. “There was such a one in Prifti, I remember. Her betrothed had not died; she only chose never to marry. One has that right, of course. Myself, I would not take a vow like that. Better a home and children.” Dil yawned. “We talk too long, Pran. It is already the third hour ​of dark. We should be sleeping. Good-night. May you see good things in the night.”

“Good-night, Dil,” answered Pran. “Sleep easily.”

She herself turned to sleep but could not. Dil’s words had roused her to thinking. Yes, she was older now. Many a girl her age would marry this very season. She knew that. What if some day Lukja should call her to her and tell her of betrothal plans and the marriage day? Her heart beat faster a little. “I am not old enough,” she told herself, “and Lukja needs me. Her back is not so strong as it once was to bring in wood and water. She will not send me off to a husband early.”

She turned restlessly, hearing Dil’s steady breathing at her side. “Some day, perhaps, some day. Not yet.”

She drowsed. Half dreams passed through her head. She seemed to see again, as she often had since the war, the dark cave where she had listened to the spies talking. Again she saw the men go bravely out—return again, ragged, victorious. Their faces crowded past her dreaming mind. One face stood clearly out—a voice called—Nush’s face. Nush, wounded! Pran started, suddenly awake. She sat up, open eyed, staring into the thick dark, lit only by the tiny glow of coals on the banked hearth.

​Where was Nush now? Had he got well of his hurt and gone to that far village where he lived, mysteriously, in a house not his own? “I must see Nush,” she said to herself, “I must see him. Why, I have never told him what his necklace did for me and how the charm saved Ndrek; and I have not talked with him—of anything. I wonder where he is. I have not met him yet on any trail. Perhaps—the twins———” Why had she not thought of them? It was with them that she had first seen Nush. To-morrow she would ask them. They went far with the flocks. She’d talk to Gjon. Besides, the bessa held still. Likely enough Nush could go freely now, live openly. Certain it was he had dressed like a Maltsor that day of the border fight. She’d ask Gjon. And if Gjon could not help, she herself would make inquiries when she went to the bazaar. “But”—her heart misgave her—“I do not even know his father’s name nor where he lives. There are a thousand Nushes in these hills.” She gave a little rueful laugh in the stillness of the dark room.

She lay down and pulled the blanket round her. But an evil thought seized her: “What if Nush had died?” Some wounds got poisonous and killed a man. She shuddered. Yes, she must ask Gjon to-morrow. She felt Dil’s body near her. Why not tell Dil? She ​never had told Dil. She could not now—not when Dil had spoken so of growing up and wedding. Dil would think it odd for her to seek to meet so secretly a strange young man—for now he was a man, no doubt of that. Had he not carried a rifle at the border with the rest—and fought, even as they? She would ask Gjon. She curled herself up to sleep.

When the morning came she went down the stairs with Nik and Gjon and followed them outside. “Gjon,” she said, “you remember the big boy, Nush, who saved Nik’s life when we went honey-hunting long ago? Since we came back to Thethi have you ever met him or seen him passing on the trail when you were out?”

At first both boys looked blank, and then Nik turned away, his eyes avoiding hers. Gjon reddened; then, shamefaced, as if remembering, he said, “Pran, I should have told you. Last week Nik saw that boy in the bazaar. He dresses as a man now—wears a gun. I meant to tell you of it. Nik told me, for Nush gave him a message for you.”

Pran’s heart beat fast. A message! And Nik had seen him! “Nik!” she called. Nik turned unwillingly. “Cha don? What do you want?” he asked.

“Gjon says you met with Nush in the bazaar—and that he sent me words by you. What were they? And ​why did you not tell before, you little donkey?” Her voice trembled with eagerness.

Nik stood before her, silent. Then his eyes twisted away from hers. He dug a shamed toe into the earth and spoke low, reluctantly: “Yes, I did see him. I told Gjon, and I meant to tell you too, but I forgot.” He stopped.

Pran spoke impatiently: “For heaven’s sake, Nik, tell me what he said. Don’t stand there like a silly—dumb as a rock.”

Nik went on, still unwillingly. “It was last week—Wednesday—that I saw him. He—he said to tell you to meet him in three days—at the same tree where we had found the honey long ago. He said to be there early—he would wait.”

“Oh—Nik!” Pran hardly could keep back tears of exasperation, disappointment. “Oh, Nik—and ten days have passed since then. He told you that—and you forgot so long? How could you?” Her voice grew hard. “I can’t forgive you, Nik.”

Nik’s eyes besought her. “Really I meant to, Pran. Other things drove it clean out of my head. Gjon forgot too—even Gjon forgot. Scold him.”

Gjon took up the tale sadly: “Yes, we forgot. And when we did remember it was too late, and we were ​both ashamed.” He caught Pran’s hand. “Do not be angry, muttra.”

Pran shook his hand off. “I am not angry at you, Gjon. Only at Nik.” Suddenly she took hold of Nik’s drooping shoulders as if to shake him; then as suddenly let her hands drop. “Oh, what’s the use! You are a little blockhead—nothing else.” She spoke to Gjon. “You do not know all that Nush did for us. It was really Nush who saved me when I was in grave danger at the border.” She let her voice drop. “And it was really Nush that saved Ndrek—so that he came back to us—unhurt. We owe him much —and I—” she spoke unsteadily—“I wanted to thank him. Now———”

Nik touched her arm. “Listen, muttra, I have not forgotten everything. Nush sent you words besides what I have told. Listen, I'll tell you.”

Pran turned on him eagerly. “What words—what message?”

Nik was thoughtful a moment. Then he said, “I remember it all, now. Nush told me three times over so I would keep the words. He said, ‘Tell her———’” He paused.

“What? ‘Tell her———’ What, Nik?” Pran prompted.

Nik straightened. His face cleared. “I have it ​now,” he said. “Tell her I have not forgotten her. I think of her always. Tell her not to forget me either.” Nik drew a deep breath. “There—that was all of it—that and the words to meet him by the tree.”

Pran’s bitterness against Nik faded away. She smiled, but scolded still. “Castrovetsa, you cucumber! You are not old enough for messages, though Gjon here would have been. Is this last message true! Were those his words?” She doubted.

“Po, sha Zoten, yes, by the heavens,” said Nik.

“He speaks truth.” Gjon moved an assenting head.

“Well, go then, both of you. Take your flocks and keep a sharp lookout. When next you see Nush—if you ever do—tell him Gjon is my messenger, not you, Nik.”

“I am sorry,” murmured Nik repentantly.

“Run along now,” Pran ordered. “Your sheep will starve if we stand talking here.”

They went, Nik looking back a dozen times, until Pran waved a forgiving hand.

That day and all day, while she was busy with her household tasks, her mind went over all that Nik had said. She rehearsed each word of Nush’s to herself. He had asked for her—asked her to meet him. How cruel Nik had been, forgetting that! Perhaps ​Nush had waited hours at the old tree—all day—thinking she had refused to come—had failed him. But there was comfort in his other words. He had not forgotten her; he thought of her—“always.” Well, she would think of him—would not forget him, either. And Nik had said no word of any hurt—a crippled arm? No, Nush’s wound had healed, apparently. She thanked the saints for that.

“You are far away to-day, Pran,” said Dil.

“My head 1s as full of thoughts as the Shala River is of pebbles,” answered Pran, and she glanced at Dil, who worked at the loom beside her. She thought, “You do not know who it is fills my head!” Dil did not raise her eyes. She worked on silently, while through Pran’s brain a thousand fancies chased, fancies that colored all that day for her and many days thereafter.