Pran of Albania/Chapter 12

After that Pran went out to the pastures as often as she could in the hope of seeing Nush, but he did not appear. And though on the feast days her eyes were always searching through the crowd for his face she did not see it. Sometimes she dreamed of him at night. She made up her mind the next time she went to Skodra to buy a new cord for the bear’s-tooth necklace. The one she had was wearing through in spots. But even in Skodra there was no sign of Nush.

One day in the late autumn Pran was walking back from the mountain spring, the full keg of water tied to her back. It was early in the morning, and the gathering rain clouds of the coming season were not yet scattered by the sun. Every day now they would get thicker and thicker, until one morning they would hide the sky, and the rain would come, and then winter and the snow. The necks of the mountains would be blocked with great drifts. Few travelers would take the trails. Soon there would ​be no chance at all of seeing Nush till spring.

As she entered the lower room Pran noticed that the little cross of peeled twigs that was fastened to the wall was gone. She looked down, and there it lay on the floor. “That is bad luck,” she thought. “When the Evil One plans trouble he must first do away with the holy signs.” She frowned a little as she unslung the water carrier. She filled a wooden bowl with water for the chickens, set it on the floor, and went to the animal pen to let out the cackling hens.

As she leaned to undo the gate of woven twigs that shut the pen she felt her necklace, which she had not yet restrung, pull tight against her neck. She drew back hastily—too hastily—for the string of the necklace, caught on the fork of a twig, tightened and snapped. The bear’s teeth and the coins fell to the floor and scattered over the tramped earth.

“Woe!” exclaimed Pran aloud, “Woe! Woe! What curse is about to fall on us—on me?”

The chickens scurried out past her as she leaned to pick up the fragments of her precious necklace.

Hurriedly she carried the pieces upstairs and sat down by the hearth to string them on her new cord. Dil was getting ready to go out with the twins to pasture. Notz with Lul by the hand waited for Ndrek. To-day they were to mend the woven fences ​of the cornfields. Only Lukja was idle, sitting, her knee drawn up against her chest, before the fire and gazing into the red coals thoughtfully.

As Pran sat down with her cord in her hand and the bear’s teeth and the three coins gathered in a cloth, her eyes rested on Lukja’s quiet face. Rarely had she seen her mother’s hands empty of work like this. What was it? There was almost sorrow in her eyes.

“Nona,” she said, “why are you sad? I see your spirit just behind your lips ready to fly forth.”

Lukja did not answer, only for a moment raised her eyes to Pran’s face and then looked again into the coals.

The rest went down the stairs, calling farewells.

Pran sat and strung the bear’s teeth and the coins on the new cord, knotting and fastening them just as they had been fastened. She thought, “It must not be different. It must be exactly as it was when he gave it to me.”

Below she could hear the boys and Dil marshaling the goats and sheep. She heard the tiny patting beat of hoofs, the little bleatings, as the small herd went out. The shepherds’ voices grew fainter. The steps of Notz and Lul and Ndrek died on the trail. Even the chickens made no sound now. They had gone out to peck about the yard. The house was still. A tiny shaft ​of sun fell through the window hole past the small wooden shutter that opened inwards.

The silence was good to Pran. She had felt disturbed by the sight of the twig cross lying on the floor, by her broken necklace. When she had finished stringing the bear’s teeth she would go down and tie the cross up again. Perhaps Dil or Ndrek had fixed it, going out. It was a bad sign, surely; but now, in the stillness, peace settled on the room and on her spirit. Perhaps the broken necklace was a sign that Nush was coming. Why not? The bessa made him free to come. She worked, feeling a solace now.

Suddenly her mother moved. Pran raised her eyes; and Lukja, smiling into them, spoke quietly. “Daughter, something is on my heart—something concerning you. When you have finished what you do, come near to me. I will tell you.”

Pran’s heart, despite the calmness of the words, gave a great thump of dread. The cross had fallen, her dear necklace snapped into pieces, now Lukja spoke in this foreboding way. What? What? Her heart fluttered in little beats. Evil was on the way. Back of her mother’s words what lay—what lay?

She made no movemet to betray these thoughts. She only said, “Po, Nona,” and her eyes and fingers went back to her work.

​But her thoughts surged. Why had she failed to fasten up the cross at once? Leaving it there, she had given the Evil One the very chance he wanted. Likely as not the spirits of the Oras’ Wood toward Gimaj talked of this very thing, calling the evil news across the valley to the other oras. If only she had heard them, had been warned. What could it be? Her fingers worked more rapidly. Better to know. She hurried.

“There,” she said, fastening the last tooth in its place. “There,” and she put the necklace round her neck.

“My ears are ready, Nona, but before we talk—I saw the holy little cross below lying on the floor. It is an evil sign to have a holy symbol lying on the floor under men’s feet—trampled perhaps.”

Lukja made a sign of consent, and Pran ran down the stone stairs to the room below. There lay the cross. No one had picked it up. No one had seen it, then. But she had seen it. She was the one who should have set it back. The sign had been meant for her, and she had wickedly refused to heed it. Why had she been so careless?

“Woe!” thought Pran again, a strange dread sweeping through her. She picked up the blessed twigs and crossed herself and kissed the center where ​the twigs were tied. She fastened the cross against the wall again, and her heart quieted. Now she would go back and hear what lay so heavily on Lukja’s heart.

Once in the upper room she went and sat herself down by Lukja, cross-legged, with her two hands clasped in her lap, loosely. She held them so. She would not fear.

“What is it, Nona? What do you want to say?”

Lukja’s eyes looked into hers a moment, then went back to the fire. Taking a stick that lay near on the floor she stirred the coals, then laid the new stick on them. It smoked and kindled—flared. Pran waited.

At last her mother spoke. “Pran, I can remember well the way I tied you to the cradle board, a newborn child. Since then the years have passed. You are a child no more.” Her mother’s hand reached out and rested on Pran’s knee. She did not turn her head to look at Pran, but sat so—as if waiting for the words to come.

“I do not feel so old,” said Pran unsteadily, remembering the talk with Dil that night not long ago. “I am still just the girl-child of you—and of Ndrek. I do not long to be a woman grown.”

“But you are that,” said Lukja firmly now. “You ​are a woman, Pran, and Ndrek must think what is his duty toward you—as a father, and———” She paused and turned to smile into Pran’s face, but her eyes stayed sad. She said, “Ndrek must listen now to the fathers of young men who seek a wife, offering the purchase money for the bride.”

Pran’s heart was in her throat. Her chin trembled like the chin of a little child who feels tears coming. She did not move, yet she could feel herself thrust this thing from her—push away Lukja’s words.

“No, Nona, no,” she cried out softly, “I am not yet betrothed. You said yourself you did not like a girl’s being promised early—at birth or when a child. You told me.” Pran clung desperately to these old words of Lukja’s, though as she spoke hope ebbed.

With Lukja’s next words hope vanished. “No, I did not betroth you early, Pran. I let you live and grow—freely—unpledged to any man. Perhaps I was not wise. But now you are a child no longer.” There was a sternness now in Lukja’s voice, almost impatience. The words came clearly—inescapably—falling like little blows on Pran’s ears, hating them. “Ndrek has promised you. You are betrothed. A year from now the marriage season comes and you will wed.”

Pran’s hands clasped themselves tightly in her ​lap. She felt the nails cutting into the backs of them. She tossed her head back in passionate refusal, and her lips moved, “Yo, yo,” but her voice did not sound. A pain went through her, hurting—hurting. She must not cry—no, no, she must not cry!

Then she found her voice. “Nona,” she said, “I do not wish to wed.” She could say no more. Feeling choked her.

Lukja’s sternness vanished. She put her two arms around Pran, holding her. And Pran bent her head down against her mother’s shoulder, keeping her sobs back, weeping inside her heart.

Lukja’s tone now was tender, and the love that was in her for her only girl found its way into her voice, “Pran, my little heart—Pran, you must not feel sorrow over this.” There was silence then, only Pran’s drawn sharp breaths sounded in the room. Lukja went on, her hand stroking the bent kerchiefed head pressing her shoulder. “It is a woman’s life—to grow, and wed, and go to her own home; make children, work, and take her joy in this; her man, her family, her house. It is the way of life.” And then, as if to herself, “I have done wrong not telling you so long. I, like yourself, Pran, wanted you a child—at home—with us.”

Tears forced themselves out from under Pran’s ​closed lids. She raised her head and with her kerchief’s end wiped them away. Lukja dropped her arms, and Pran took her mother’s two hands in hers and sat there, on her heels, her head bent down.

For a time neither spoke. Then Pran said, “Nona, to whom am I betrothed?”

“My sparrow, you will go to a good man—who from his father owns much fertile land, though far—he is of Merturi. Prendnush is his name. Prendnush, Son-of-Prenk, of Rai.” She paused, went on: “Ndrek loves you even more than other fathers love their daughters. You know that yourself. You were our first-born, and for long the only child. When it looked as though no son would come Ndrek said to me, ‘She shall be our son.’ He loves you. It was he as much as I who put off your betrothal. You know in Skodra girls must buy their husbands, but here in our mountains women have value, and a man must give much for a wife. Many a man promised Ndrek cattle and cornmeal, gold coins and jewel-set chains to get you for his son, but he refused, your father, wanting for you the best in birth and nature. He waited. Now he gives you willingly. He knows and trusts the man he weds you to. Trust Ndrek, your father.” She stopped and said again, “He loves you, Pran.”

​Pran spoke: “I know. I know. I love him too, Ndrek.” Her voice took fire now. “No girl has a better man than I for father.”

“Then trust him in this thing,” Lukja said. “Do as he would wish. I know the young man, too, and his mother well.”

The dog barked sharply in the yard. Lukja looked up. “Who comes?” she said. They rose. “God’s grace,” thought Pran. “No more now for a while.”

It was Dil coming back. “That puppy barks at friends as well as foes,” she called from the lower room.

When she came in Pran turned her back to her, called her a greeting, busying herself at the cooking shelf, mixing bread for the noon meal. Dil must not know. But Dil would have to know. They all would know. Had not her mother said the thing was done and settled?

In the dark corner of the room Pran mixed the bread, and into the yellow batter her tears fell. She could not keep them back. She stayed there a long time stirring the meal and water with her hand, nor let her sobbing make a single sound against the talking of the other two.

Nush’s face seemed to rise before her eyes. “If I could see him.” Why should she see Nush? Be​trothed, she could not even talk with him again, most likely. Oh, it was all cruel wickedness, this thing. No wonder that the cross had fallen down for her. No wonder that the twig had snapped his chain!

She could not stand here longer beating the bread. She rubbed her face clean of its tears. She poured the batter out into the shallow pan, covered, and carried it to the fire. Dil bent to rake out the red coals for her, and Pran leaned down and set the bread pan in the ashes, piling the embers on the top of it, coal after coal. “The pan is like my heart,” she thought, “buried in the hot ashes of sorrow.”

Notz and Lul came home for noonday bread. “Ndrek is working still,” Notz said to Lukja. “I will carry him some bread and cheese.”

Pran heard the words thankfully. No, she could not have borne to see Ndrek just then. She saw Notz’s glance shift from her reddened eyes. She felt relief that Nik and Gjon were out and would be out till evening. She could not eat, but she must make pretense. The bread was tasteless in her mouth. She did not listen to what the others said.

That afternoon she and Dil threaded the loom for weaving. They talked but little. “Dil’s heart understands,” Pran told herself.

Time dragged. Pran longed for evening and the ​dark, so that she could be shut off from them a bit, and lie—and think. “If only I could see Nush!” Why Nush?

At last night came. Pran showed Ndrek her usual smiling face. Guests came. Old songs were sung. The children slept. Dil and Pran went to their corner, lay under their one blanket listening to the men’s voices. There was relief for Pran in the high ringing shriek that filled the room. The phrase of music, sung a hundred times the same, stilled the restlessness of her thinking, gave her a peace. But when the song stopped then her own thoughts leaped again at her, like gnawing dreadful beasts tearing her mind. Should she tell Dil? Why not? She must tell someone. This was too hard to stand alone.

“Dil,” she whispered, when the songs began again, “Dil.”

“Yes, Pran.”

“You and I talked a month or more ago of brides and marriages. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Dil answered under the ringing music.

“To-day,” Pran said, “Lukja talked to me of that same thing. I am betrothed.”

Dil’s voice betrayed an eager excitement. “Oh, Pran, you—you—betrothed? Who is the man?”

​Pran’s own voice was bitter. “What does it matter who? Someone of Rai—of Merturi. Son to Prenk.”

“You are not glad?” Dil’s tone showed a surprise.

“Glad? Why should I be glad? No, I am not glad. I do not want to wed.” Impotent anger smote her. Her voice broke. “I cannot bear it, Dil. I cannot bear it.” She choked a sob back, but she felt tears on her cold cheeks.

Dil’s hand sought hers in the darkness hiding them. Her voice was puzzled—hurt almost. “Why, Pran dear, why do you feel this way! Marriage is good, not evil.”

Pran turned on her face now, burying her head in her circled arms. Her body shook, but no sound came from her. She felt Dil put a hand on her shoulder, and she heard Dil’s whispered calm voice: “Sometimes a girl dreads marriage, having seen a man whom she desires for hers. That is not so with you, Pran—is it?”

Pran’s sobbing stopped. She raised her head up suddenly. What had Dil said? She had asked if what was true? “A man whom she desires for hers.” Was that the truth? The face of Nush came up before her. She saw his firmly smiling mouth and his blue-gray eyes as they had looked into hers on that day of the battle at the Fig Tree Gulch. She stared at the darkness ​of the wall that faced her. Was it true, then, she hated marriage for itself? She had always known some day she would be wed. Would she have set herself so desperately against betrothal if Nush were the man Ndrek had picked for her?

Dil said again, “Is someone in your heart, Pran, that you cannot go to him whom Ndrek chooses? Tell me, friend of my heart, tell me, Pran.” She threw her arm over Pran’s shoulders, putting her own cheek against Pran’s wet one. “Trust me and tell,” she murmured, “muttra iamia.”

Besought like this, Pran wavered. Why should she not tell, then, if 1t was true? And each moment passing made her know its truth. Let her confess to Dil what she had never till now acknowledged to herself. There would be peace in that—peace and a strange new happiness. Dil’s question said itself over in her bewildered head: “Is someone in your heart?”

She caught her breath, held it, turned her face round so that her mouth was close against Dil’s ear. She breathed her answer softer than any breath: “Someone is in my heart!”’ then turned her head away and let herself sink quietly down beside the unmoving Dil. So the two lay.

The songs were over now. They heard the men unwinding girdles, slipping off moccasins. Everyone ​made ready for the night. The fire burned low. Thick darkness filled the room. Time passed, and still the two girls did not move. Soon all were sleeping. Only they two waked.

Pran raised her head on one hand, her face toward Dil. She whispered to her, “Dil, you think that is evil of me?”

“No,” came Dil’s voice.

“I did not know until you asked me, Dil, that it was so. I thought I only hated leaving home—going to Merturi to a stranger’s house. But now—I see what holds me. It is thought of him. If he were the one I went to—I would go—” a throb went through her, and her heart beat with the sudden glad truth of what she said—“I would go—gladly, Dil, gladly.”

“Did you tell Lukja that?” Dil asked.

“Oh, no, how could I? It was not in my mind.” Pran’s voice caught in a half sob.

“What did you tell her, then?” asked Dil.

“Nothing,” said Pran. “Nothing. I only wept.”

“Then Lukja thinks———?”

“She thinks—I will,” said Pran.

For a moment Dil did not speak. Then she said slowly, “It will be next wedding season, then—next fall.”

Pran sat up in the dark, drawing her knees close to ​her with her arms. ‘“Next fall—next fall,” she thought. She pressed her forehead down on her rough cloth skirt. A little moan escaped her.

“Will it be?” said Dil, and her voice searched.

“Oh, Dil—I can’t—I can’t!” Pran’s eyes were dry. Fear swept her then—fear of where her own thoughts were leading.

And as if knowing those thoughts Dil spoke. “The thing is done,” she cautioned. “There is no escape.”

Pran’s heart felt like cold lead within her breast. She stared dry eyed into the impenetrable blackness of the room. No shadow showed. The fire seemed dead—extinguished. Her lips formed twice her next words before they would be said, and when they came she heard her own voice sound far off—and lost: “There is one way,” she said.

Dil sat up suddenly and gripped her arm hard. Her voice trembled a little. “Pran—Pran—you would not do that—not—take the vow?”

Pran heard her own voice as before, cold and far off, make answer, “I would—I shall.” Then there was silence.

At last Dil spoke, and Pran could hear the pain and sorrow in her voice. “Oh, Pran,” she said, and then again, “Oh, Pran.”

Pran’s hand sought Dil’s cheek and stroked it as ​one who would give comfort. “Do not weep tears for me, Dil. Every sheep must hang by its own leg. This will not be hard, once I have told Ndrek and Lukja.” She pressed her face to Dil’s. “Good-night—good-night. I cannot talk more now. Thoughts strangle me. Sleep, Dil. Good-night.”

Dil kissed her, laid herself down. “Good-night, my Pran. May the night bring you peace.”

Pran listened till she heard Dil breathe the slow breath of sleep. She alone waked now. She was alone. Dark shut her from the others mercifully. Here she would sit and let her own desperate thoughts think themselves out.

So—it was Nush—Nush who had kept her back and made her hate her father for this deed—his duty really. It was Nush—Nush—whose name and town and tribe she did not know. Nush who thought still of her—had even said, “I shall not forget.” She would not, either. She could promise that. Relief swept over her—relief that she had made decision. But that decision seemed to shake the very base of life—her deepest being. Why should she fear? What was so terrible in the virgin’s vow that she should tremble like a stick in the water? She would have home—and family—and tribe. Nothing was lost to her of what she had. And yet—to set herself apart ​forever so—no longer even to wear a woman’s garb—to carry the sign and symbol of a man—a rifle—on her girl’s back? Something deep in herself revolted at the thought. To live so, and grow old, and at the last to have no home but this—Ndrek and Lukja dead. Never to belong to any man, nor ever to bear sons. Hardship was in that last. For as much as she had wanted to postpone her wedding day, still she had not thought never to be a wife. And now, so long as the man lived to whom Ndrek had given her, she must keep to her vow—forego a woman’s life—forever.

Again Nush’s face rose before her, laughing, clear. No, she could not have Nush—not ever—that was sure. Well, then—this was the best. This she chose gladly since that could not be.

“To-morrow I will tell them.” A chill went over her. She shuddered. Unwelcome words for any parent’s ear. Lukja would grieve—might try to change her, even. And Ndrek—what would he say? Reproaches? Anger? Sorrow, perhaps?—No, surely. Oh, for her to hurt her father so! But—“my life is mine. Lukja has said to-day I am a woman. This is a woman’s right. They cannot gainsay or thwart it. I stand on a mountain canon, old as time. This is our law. I take the law, and I shall stand on the strong ​rock of it and never move though the earth open under me.”

Resting her elbows on her knees, her chin on her cupped hands, she sat long hours, hugging to her young breast this strange resolve. “My life is mine. This is a woman’s right.”

So she sat till the black dark at last gave way to dawn.

Men stirred, the children waked, the fire was roused. She heard all this and saw it, but she still sat, a statue, motionless and cold, dreading the day, yet feeling through herself, after her vigil, strength and peace: strength to face Lukja and Ndrek, and peace that would help her to take up this life that she had chosen for her own.

She did her work silently that day, talking with no one, not even Dil. Often she felt her mother’s eyes on her face, puzzled, pleading a little.

At sunset by the fire of the lower room she found Lukja standing alone. “Mother,” she said, and told her. Lukja said little, but it seemed to Pran as if her mother’s tears fell on her own heart and each drop burned there like a drop of fire.

“Ndrek!” Lukja called him down from the upper room. Pran spoke. He heard, unmoving. Pran stood before him, her eyes on the floor. What would he say​—her father? Her heart beat in great throbs and her throat was dry. She waited. Would he never speak? At last! His hand on her bent head, his voice shaken with sorrow. “My girl———” he said, and stopped. Then mastering himself he spoke calmly, as always: “It is your right,” he said.

Pran could not look. She heard his feet drag heavily up the stone stairs.