Pran of Albania/Chapter 14

As Pran turned off toward Abate she met an old man. Greeting him, she made inquiry for the house where the council was held.

“It is the third house after you pass the first cornfields,” he said. “It lies on the hillside near the church. Rrok Kola is the richest man in Abate. His family alone numbers over forty, and the chiefs meet to-day in the great upper room. You will find them there.”

With thanks Pran hurried on. “Near the church.” The Friar would be there surely. As Nush had said, he always spoke for peace. She had heard him speak even against war. He too saw evil in these violences—the feud and warfare. If only he could influence the men! His influence was great, but being skirted in that long brown robe girdled with rope his voice was often discounted by the men. She knew some said he wore a woman’s garb and could not understand the things that moved a man.

“I at least wear no skirt.” She looked down at the ​tight white legging-like garments that she wore. Strange, men attached importance to one’s dress. Dress was but outer covering. What lay in a man’s heart—that was what counted. And then, the Friar did not carry arms. She shifted her rifle strap. She carried arms. Arms were the very symbol of a man. On his gun rested a man’s honor, so people thought. The respect that others gave him seemed to depend on this. Did not men look with admiration on a man who had taken the lives of several others, saying, “How brave he is!” To men of such mind and habit how should she speak? What could she say to change their understanding of the good life held? She pondered. “Wounds and death—and ever—wounds and death—and wasted lives. We mountaineers use these things too freely—hurting ourselves, fighting against ourselves.” What countless lives would profit by a peace—the truce continued! Had not the bessa since the war brought blessings innumerable? Men spared, by all cessation of blood payment, to till the fields, to walk on any trail, and meet together for hours of talk and singing of ancient songs; fathers who lived and made their children glad; husbands whose living saved their wives from sorrow; children who grew unshadowed by old wrongs in homes secure, inviolate.

​Pran’s thoughts ran on, as rapid as her feet. “Did not I vow, after the curse of war was made so plain to me at Castrati, to set myself, all my life, against these things—war, takings of life, blood-payment,—all of that? Well, now I have my chance at least to speak. I am not a chief or bairaktor. I cannot call a council to stop war or feuds and settle them other ways. But, as Nush said, I can do something maybe to turn men’s minds and make this peace go on. For this peace must go on. Bessa between the tribes is our first step toward a new world of peace. War cannot end when every day men spill each other’s blood because of little quarrels. I cannot do much, but I will do all I can, with all my might, for Nush and for myself—and for our land.”

She could not wait to reach the council place. Knocking at the huge door of Rrok Kola’s house, her courage for a moment flickered down. “If I dare speak———!”

A woman opened, greeted. “They are above.” Pran heard from overhead voices in argument, then, as she mounted the stairs, silence, and the Friar’s patient tones. In the great room, with its wide fireplace set in the wall and chimneyed with stone, sat many men, cross-legged on the floor, in a large circle. The Friar, in the long brown robe of St. ​Francis, had risen to his knees to speak. No one noticed Pran’s entrance. At the side in the half dark of the unwindowed place, three or four ancient women of the tribe sat listening. They had a right to speak at councils too. Which side would they be on? Pran wondered. “Being women like myself, even though done with much of woman’s life, will they not speak for peace?”

The Fniar’s speech ended imploringly. “You men have lived now months—over a year—without the taking of blood. Live longer so. Plant your corn and know that each shall live, whether in blood or not, to harvest and eat that corn, and live a Christian life. Remember the law of God—‘Thou shalt not kill!’ God lived before these mountains raised their heads against the Albanian sky. He lived before your tribes had life; before your Lek—the giver of your laws. His law precedes Lek’s Law. Keep it. ‘Thou shalt not kill!’”

Pran’s heart beat fast. If they would only hear and heed his words. How could she help? What could she say to them? Would men, great men, the chiefs and bairaktors, give any ear to words coming from a mere girl, dressed though she might be in a warrior’s clothing? When would she dare to speak? Not now—not now.

​A chief answered the Friar’s words with passion, kneeling above the others there. “Honor is honor, and blood must be paid. If he who kills goes down to hell, then let me go to hell, my honor clean. Better to enter hell an honorable man than find a way to heaven with dishonor.”

Others spoke; some for and some against. Argument waxed fierce—vociferous. Men spoke at once and shouted for their side. It seemed to Pran the side for blood spoke most. The violence of their voices deafened her.

Then one man with a strong eagle’s face made plea for peace. “I stand beside the Friar in this,” he said. “Debts have lain quiet for these many months. Let them lie quiet longer. Who knows how soon the Slavs may strike again? Knowing we brothers fight among ourselves, will they not seize that moment to invade our lands again? Together we repulsed them. If we divide ourselves, fighting each other, where shall be our strength? You serve your own foe’s purpose, taking blood. What more do they desire than this, the Slavs, than that we kill each other to the end and leave the land clear for them—our fields to fatten Slavic flocks and herds? Renew the bessa, and our sons grow up to strength and bear their guns along with us, their hearts set with our hearts, their ​strength beside our strength, against the enemy. Were this not better than to send brave men out of this life and lose their arms and force, thus weakening with each man’s death the wall Albania sets to stop the foe?”

Talk rose again. Pran sat with hot cheeks and breath coming fast. She must speak soon—must add her little weight—for this last speech had made the men take thought. The side for peace had more adherents now. The balance swayed ever so slightly.

An aged woman beside Pran got up, addressed the Friar. Silence fell on the men.

“Father,” she said, “few women come to speak like this. Men decide men’s affairs, and women have no voice. Why then have we come? Age gives the right. Why age? What comes with age? Wisdom of years. We bring that wisdom here, to help the tribes. A child new born knows nothing; grows and learns. Each year brings wisdom, till fourscore of years make a man wise. My gray hair speaks of years beyond your own or those of any man who is gathered here. Hear me. ’Tis true I am no man, but I have suckled men; and in those days long back, home and my children made up all my life. My work for them is done. My woman’s life is over now. What then lies nearest me—nearest my heart? Good of the tribe ​and good of all the tribes. Only for that I speak. The tribe we know is one great family. Do I not call each woman sister! More than that, I feel this bond of blood binding on all the tribes. We of the mountains are all one great House, our Head the chiefest of the tribal chiefs. Can a house, then, take blood against itself?”

She stopped and took her place again upon the. floor. The woman next her rose. “I too have words for all your ears to hear—if you will listen.” The Friar motioned to her to go on. She took a step nearer the circle of the firelight. Pran saw her clear-cut aquiline old face, it by the flames into a serene nobility of line. She spoke. Her voice was deep. “Having lived long I have seen a hundred feuds; and what did they amount to at the last? Good lives and valuable gone down to death for matter smaller than a flea’s egg. Who profited? Not I, nor you, nor those who died, nor him who caused that death. No one at all. Think on the truth of this. If you live long enough you’ll see that truth. To some of you who listen to me now the blood debt ranks large and important. Wait awhile. Make further peace and wait. Wait even for age; wait till the years have flowed like flooding water over these very things and hid them, buried them out of all sight—beyond all ​moment, even. Then look back on this day, as I look back on countless other days, and say, ‘What matter—and what gain?’ Honor, you say?” She paused—and ended, raising one withered arm, “Better a peace—free-going, happy homes. Honor enough in that. This is my word!” She turned and leaned toward Pran in the half dark. Her sunken eyes flared under her wrinkled brows. She whispered fiercely, “Speak, girl. Old age has spoken. Now is the time for youth to take its part!”

The woman’s voice raised Pran to her feet. Her heart made a wild hammering against her breast. Her throat was dry, but through her slim body in its strange garb there went a tremor of resolve. Her feeling flared into words that clamored to be said. She took one step out of the dark that hid her and stood erect, her rifle, which she had not unslung, across her back, her face illumined sharply by the light from the great chimney place. A murmur ran around the seated men. Surprise had stilled them. All they could do was stare.

In the dead silence round her the old woman’s last words rang in Pran’s ears. “Now is the time for youth to take its part.” She would speak, then, for youth—for herself and Nush and all the others like them—​young and with life to live. Would these men hear? If only they would hear!

She spoke. With the first words the tumult in her ceased. Her voice had quietness and strength. Her thoughts cleared, and her words came easily.

“Wisdom of age has spoken. I would speak, having nor age nor wisdom, only youth. I speak for those who like myself are young.

“We play and sit beside the hearth and learn, and then, once grown, we find ourselves alive in a world that you have darkened with clouds of blood. These feuds hang over us like evil daggers, strung on a hair and threatening to fall; like lightning that strikes unseen from out the sky on the guilty and the innocent alike. I say the innocent, for we are that. No one of us, the young, have started feuds, but we stand payment for them, paying our tears, if women; our lives, if men.

“A virgin sworn, I know a woman’s life and now can taste a man’s. To both these lives blood debt works evil things—disaster, shattered homes, fatherless children. Being young and unused to life we feel these things. How can we help but question violence and ask, as wisdom asked just now, ‘What gain? What gain?’”

​She stopped and looked about the circle of men. In face and costume each was like Ndrek. It seemed as if she pleaded with her own father. No one spoke. Pran thought, “Fathers they are, as Ndrek is to me.” She spoke again. “You all have children, as my father has. You love them. I have seen them climb about you, seen you touch them with the hands of love. When food is scarce you will deny yourselves to give them food. Why, even taking blood, you say you take it that their lives shall be unsullied by dishonor. Is it not so?” Heads moved and Pran went on. “Giving so much, why can you not give all? A life without threat of death for evil never done. What man is there among you that would choose evil for any child of his? And yet, ending this bessa, all you do for us, the young, is curse the very life you’ve given us. Is this our law? Then it were better broken. But you need break no law to lift this curse. Make bessa over—follow the law in that. Truce sullies no man’s honor.

“Give us, the young, a chance to live our lives free of old evil; so that each dawn we see shines for us on a world of law, untouched with blood.

“Think of yourselves, too. Each of your hearts would break, seeing your son brought home between two men, his blood poured out. You fear no danger ​for yourselves, it’s true. Fear, then, for these who pay an unjust debt, your sons, in whose own strength and courage you would, as fathers, take your share of joy—seeing them grow, unscathed, to man’s estate, a glory to our mountains and our tribes—the Eagle’s Sons.”

She ceased to speak and stepped back into the dark. A man’s voice cried out, “Glory to your mouth. You speak a woman’s words with a man’s sense.”

The Friar rose to his knees again. His voice was moved. “When old and young implore ’tis time to heed. The old have wisdom, but the young have life. Free them for living. Decision lies with you.”

Pran heard. A sudden weariness swept over her. Had anything availed? Few voices spoke, and those that spoke were soft, half whispering. Had it all been in vain? She closed her eyes there in the darkness, waiting what seemed an eternity of minutes. “Asht eghel,” it was Fate. Let come what would. She had done all she could. Custom was too strong. The world she had visaged at the Castrati fight could not come true. Men’s hearts were shut to it. Their eyes were blind. How foolish she had been to try to change unalterable things. She thought of Nush. A lump rose in her throat. Under her shut lids she felt the sting of unshed tears. “What gain? What gain?”

​She felt a hand touch her arm. One of the women spoke to her softly. “Look, morgeshe, it is peace,” she said.

Pran looked. She saw the men gather close about the Friar, who with a pen and paper wrote their words. She heard, and her heart soared with thankfulness to hear. “The bessa shall go on. A truce is sworn. We live at peace.” Chiefs marked the page. The Friar wrote their names. He thrust the document inside his robes. Pran saw his tired face beam with delight. It seemed to her as if a light shone from it. She heard him murmur to himself, “For once they listen to good counsel, like children following their father’s words, obedient—and Christian every one.” Laughter was on his lips. The men laughed too. Hands shook and cheeks were pressed to other cheeks. The fire, piled high with faggots, gave a great flame that lit the darkest corners of the room. “It is the radiance of peace,” thought Pran as she rose to make farewells.

With a singing heart she took the trail back to the north and Thethi. Nush would soon hear. The sun was too low for her to find him now. She had done battle for him, she had laid her faggot on the load. The thing was done. His life and hers were safe.

​She hurried. She must get home, for much more lay ahead of her. To-night she would tell Ndrek and Lukja of her changed vow. The witnesses could all be notified. Life would start fresh—unshadowed—glorious.

Lukja’s face shone with joy, hearing her news. Ndrek looked at her, smiling. “Women’s ways are past the understanding of a man,” he said, but in the look of his blue eyes Pran saw shining a deep happiness beyond his words’ meaning.

She herself lay beside Dil that night, feeling exulting joy. She was alive again after a sort of dying —that was it. She said to Dil, “The fire of my life had burned out to gray ashes. Now faggots are piled and someone blows the coals. The whole of it flares into sharp tongues of flame.”

With the dawn that flame burned furiously. Pran changed her clothing for her girl’s dress, and without knowing what she herself intended she started out on the trail. She took her way to the spot where yesterday she had met Nush.

“He will not be there still,” she told herself, yet knew he would.

She saw him waiting for her.

“Long life!”

“Long life! You heard?”

​“I heard. I even heard your words had turned the men.” His face was alive with joy.

“Strong words were said beside those that I said.”

“Pran, Pran—” he had her hands in his—“my heart is prouder of you than my tongue can say.” He paused, then said, “You are a girl again.”

She laughed. “Yes, and besides, I am betrothed to you. I should not be here seeing you like this. Only a moment we can talk, Prendnush. We cannot meet again. But I had to see you this once and say farewell———”

He interrupted her. “Until the wedding season, that is all. A short farewell. The summer passes fast. and then the leaves fall—and—you come to me.” He spoke the last words softly.

Pran dropped her eyes and said, “I have taken off courage with my man’s clothing. Even now I fear to stay with you, being a woman again and your betrothed.” She laughed a little, pulling at her hands that he held tightly.

“If it is farewell, then let it be well said,” Nush answered. “Come farther from the trail, for if one passed, the scandal of our meeting would be known.” He drew her off the trail. “Come with me, and, since it is forbidden me to speak of love, then I will sing of it. For I know a song that lovers sing—and I am that ​to you. And doubly so since yesterday you dared against all custom to speak out for me and spoke so bravely. Come, Pran,” he begged.

Half unwillingly she followed him down the hill that the trail hugged so closely, to a deep glen of beechwood.

On the soft grass she sat and felt her heart thrill with the joy of happiness secured, and past all loss and danger. He threw himself on the ground at her feet and lay, chin on his hands, looking up at her.

“Here is a secret place, and here we say our last farewell until our wedding day. Hear then the song I’ve kept to sing for you—for your ears only, Pran.”

Through the beech leaves that budded over them the spring sun shone, and a soft breeze of spring blew through the glen. Pran’s heart seemed carried upward on the high, lilting tune that Nush sang now. The words of the song she had not ever heard.

Pran’s happiness overflowed in her eyes. She put her hands on Nush’s shoulders. “Glory to your mouth, Prendnush, Son-of-Prenk, glory to your mouth. The song was made for us.”

“Not the song only, Pran, but all the world,” said Nush. “Look about you. The sun and the breeze and the blossoming branches are shining and blowing and blooming for us—for you and me alone.”

“If we stay longer,” smiled Pran, “you will be making a song of your own, Nush.” She stood, and Nush too got to his feet. Pran regarded him almost severely. “Nush, Nush,” she said, “I cannot stay here a moment longer. It is not lawful for a girl to talk with her betrothed. Would you have me break all the laws of the mountains for you?”

Nush’s eyes sparkled. “All but one,” he said, “all but the law that makes autumn the season for weddings.”

“Enough; I am going,” said Pran, unrelenting, though her eyes were softer than her tones. “You ​will not see me again—not till the veil is raised and you find out who it is they have wed you to.”

“I shall be surprised as any bridegroom ever was,” assured Nush, “and much more pleased than most, that’s sure.”

They laughed together. “Glory to you!” Pran started back to the trail.

“Go smoothly, little keeper of my heart,” called Nush.

She turned, and her eyes met his eyes in a tenderness of parting she would not permit herself. “Peace to you, Prendnush!” she said and left him standing there on the sun-flecked grass, gazing after her.