Pran of Albania/Chapter 2

Pran boiled the chicken on the lower fire. Her mother baked the cornbread in the hot ashes of the hearth upstairs. Pran carried water around and poured it over the hands that everyone held out. Goat’s cheese, wet and strong smelling, was brought, and the four men feasted, squatting about the low round table and lifting out hot bits of steaming chicken from the central bowl with careful fingers.

Lukja, Gjyl, and Pran ate afterward. The men, as custom was, left plenty for them. The supper done, the guests praised Pran and Lukja for their cooking, and Pran, with the little broom of bound twigs, swept the crumbs into the fire.

All turned again to the hearth which Ndrek piled high with faggots. Pran sat down close to her mother. Songs would come now. The men rolled and inserted cigarettes into their long holders. She watched each take the tiny iron tongs and pick a live coal from the flames to hold against the cigarette end. They smoked at first in silence. Then Ndrek made courte​ous request. “A song would be welcome in such company. Would one of you furnish good entertainment for us all and earn our praise and gratitude at once! Who sings? Who will sing?”

The younger men acknowledged the invitation, conferred a moment. Then the dark one dropped his lids over his black eyes, and taking hold of his ear lobes with his two hands he straightened, drew a deep breath, and sang, raising his voice in a high nasal tone that rang in the dim room, filling the darkest corners with the throbbing, sharp sound. One line he sang and waited. The youth took up the song, repeating the same line. The dark one sang again, the young one answered. So the song went. Pran did not know the words, the song was new. But she knew that when the last line came both men would sing it in unison and then wait for the thanks that followed always: “Glory be to your mouth!”

She sat very still listening.

But the voice of the dark man stopped midway in the line. Pran heard the fierce bark of the wolf dog in the yard followed at once by the battering as of a gun butt on the huge wooden door below.

Silence fell on the upper room. The fire crackled, and the two boys in their corner turned in their sleep. Pran, startled, drew in a sharp breath, but no one else stirred. Only Ndrek’s eyes met those of the old man across the fire. The latter threw back his head in the mountain sign for “no.” By that glance Ndrek asked, “Friends of yours following you?” and by the thrown back head the old man denied knowledge of who could be coming.

It was late—too late for guests. Pran watched her father. He rose silently and went down the stone stairs; for he, as head of the house, must slide the great wooden bar that closed the door and open to the man outside, whoever he might be.

Something clutched at Pran’s heart. She whispered to her mother, “Nona, I fear.”

Lukja gave her a stern look, reprimanding, and ​her quiet voice answered so that only Pran heard, “Fear has no place here, daughter.” Pran felt a little shame.

Below Ndrek shot back the bolt, and they could hear his greeting, “Long life! Enter and welcome. All my house is yours.” And now a man’s deep voice answered, and footsteps followed Ndrek’s returning footsteps up the stairs.

Only Pran’s eyes and Lukja’s sought the door when the two men came in. The guests sat smoking, and the woman Gjyl looked into the red coals, waiting.

“Mark Gjeloshit of Hoti,” Ndrek gave the man’s name.

Now the rest looked and gave each a mountain greeting. “Long life!”—“Long life!”— “How have you made the trail?”—“Are you wearied out?”—“Praise God you are safe come.”

Pran looked hard at the newcomer as he answered each greeting carefully. He was sandy haired and heavy featured and shorter than the other men. His words, spoken slowly, as if with thought, were touched with a strange accent. To Pran it seemed he was not one of themselves—not Maltsor. And yet Hoti was his tribe—so he had told Ndrek on coming in. Hoti—well, Hoti was far off. Perhaps men there talked differently. Besides, Pran knew that all the ​land of Hoti and the tribe itself had lain for several years now under enemy rule. She could remember as a little girl hearing the talk of Hoti—the invaders and the burning villages they left behind them. Yes, then Hoti had been indeed lost to the Eagle’s Land—Hoti and Gruda both—and lay outside Albania now. But the tribes there were mountain tribes—the men were Maltsor, like those of her own tribe—Shala. Now they lay helpless in enemy hands, and cruel injustices were done against the people and their pride ground into the earth, themselves oppressed. She knew all this.

Was this man Mark oppressed? Pran looked at him. He did not look miserable at all—not even poor. He was dressed in fine new-made clothing, glistening white; and over chest and shoulders, lying on the dark red cloth of his tight under jacket glittered heavy silver chains of filigree, set here and there with semi-precious stones. The handle of his pistol too was carved silver and jeweled likewise. He wore about his waist two cartridge belts. These were all signs of riches in a man. Pran knew that, and she knew that in a man like this such signs boded no good. In the lost territories under foreign rule the men who stayed loyal to their own land, Albania, were persecuted and were often forced to give up ​lands and cattle—all their wealth—even to silver ornaments and valuable weapons such as Mark bore. While men who were willing to forget and to betray their own land and people, men who would make open friends with the invader, prospered exceedingly and gained lands, herds, and wealth and went in fine clothes and silver chains, as Mark did now.

How well Pran knew all this! Even now, looking at the man, her heart beat hard in a moment’s anger. For those silver chains became at once in her eyes traitor’s pay, bribes dealt out for treachery. She did not like this man. She watched him hang his rifle by the door and seat himself beside the hearth while he cast rapid glances round the group—glances that said as plainly as words could say, “Have I friends here?”

Pran drew back in the shadows beyond the fire’s circle and took out her knitting, thinking, “Now I shall watch unwatched. That will be best.”

No looks answered Mark, though the old Merturi man held out his shallow box of tobacco and gave also paper for a cigarette. Mark rolled one, setting the smaller end of the wrapped cone into a huge holder of rich silver workmanship which he drew out of his belt. Ndrek made coffee in the coals for him.

Pran listened. Neither of the women spoke, and ​they had drawn back a little from the hearth. Ndrek and the stranger talked of the trail, and Mark gave reason for his journeying this way. The reason had to do with purchases of cartridges in Gjakova across the border east. Gjakova road was not too safe for any mountaineer, for that land had fallen into enemy hands a long while back; but Mark showed no concern. The rest of the group, though listening, did not join but sat silently smoking. Pran wondered if one of the Merturi men would offer Mark a puff from his own holder, handing the lighted cigarette from his own mouth to Mark’s. That would be sign of friendship and of trust. But no one did.

“They do not trust him any more than I,” thought Pran, and dropped her eyes, knitting faster than before. Mark must not know she watched him. Still she did.

He sat cross-legged. Now he lighted another cigarette, leaning his heavy-featured face close to the red coals, and drawing in breath through the great bead of orange amber at his holder’s end. “Chillibar,” Pran called amber, and she knew an end like that was sign of more wealth than was the black wooden end on Ndrek’s holder. Thought Pran, “He got that holder too for evil work—betrayal of his tribe to the Slavs.”

​She watched. Mark Gjeloshit drank coffee, looking at Ndrek. To Pran his face wore friendship like a mask. “For good to you,” Ndrek said gravely as the man took the cup. And Mark answered “May you too find good,” and lifted up the hot cup to his lips. As he raised his head she saw under his chin a slanting livid streak. “Scar of an old wound” she thought, and told herself, “This man has been close to death. So close that he dares risk himself again.” His words rang in her ears, “May you too find good.” Those were the words that went with coffee drinking, but now they sounded hollow, had not truth in them. More and more Pran felt sure the man had come on evil business. What business? She must listen for a clue.

The three Merturi men joined in the talk now. But to Pran’s ears the talk was guarded talk, and Mark asked guarded questions, false innocence behind them.

“Were the crops good this fall?”

“Po, bessa,” Ndrek answered, and shook his head for “yes.” “They were indeed. Each house has corn in plenty.”

But Pran knew that he held back some of the truth, for though certain corn lands had yielded royally, there had been larger tracts where the plant​ings had failed to come up at all or where the yield had scarce repaid the owner for his work. And there were villages—not Thethi, to be sure, but not far off—where many families would go hungry certainly before the spring. Ndrek kept all these facts away from Mark. He talked in such a way that Mark could not have told from anything he said that there was famine danger in the border towns. Nevertheless, Mark spoke as if he knew of food shortage somewhere, for after some talk of rains he set his empty cup down on the floor and said, “There is always corn across the border. The Slavs never suffer our distress. And I have heard”—he flashed a quick glance round—“when crops fail in our border country, help and fresh provender are set for sale—or gift—across the line.”

Unsmiling, Ndrek said, “Across the line lies enemy land, and to my mind bullets and bread don’t mix. We men of Shala spurn a sack of meal that hides a dagger at the bottom of it.”

Mark answered, “No dagger hides for men like you, Ndrek.”

“Then,” said Ndrek, “I should pay high indeed—betray my land that I and mine might eat.” His voice rang now a little fiercely, and his eyes met Mark’s eyes over the smouldering hearth between them. ​“Mark Gjeloshit, hear my words now. Better is freedom with an empty stomach than slavery with a full one.”

The man sat motionless, only his fingers moved nervously to and fro along the silver chain that hung around his neck. “Why talk of slavery?” he said and smiled disarmingly.

Suddenly spoke the white-haired man from Merturi, and his voice was harsh with pent feeling, though his face was like a face carved out of stone. His eyes blazed into Mark’s. “’Tis slavery to Ndrek’s tribe and mine to sell ourselves and all our villages into the enemy’s hands—for silver chains.”

Anger flamed in Mark’s eyes, and, though he did not move, his voice rose menacing, “You hurl an insult, man!”

Slowly the hands of the two younger men dropped to their wrapped belts and rested on the carved metal handles of their long pistols. Now the blond youth spoke in a controlled, hard voice, “Mark, Son-of-Gjelosh—if that be your name—go, tell whatever friends a traitor has that it will take more than corn rattling in a sifter to scare off the bear.”

Pran’s heart was beating furiously now, though still she made her knitting needles fly in and out as if she thought nothing of these words the men ex​changed. But she thought much and took the meaning of it plainly. She understood that Mark had meant to ask the Merturi men and Ndrek, and their tribes through them, to join in treachery to their own land by making secret friends with the Slavs; so that when the invaders reached the border villages all would lie clear before them—none resist. And she knew that Ndrek and the old man had answered him with firm refusal, and the last words had been defiance for Mark to take back to his master—the King of the Southern Slavs. And she knew that no one of the men believed Mark was Maltsor—or native of the Eagle’s Land. His name was false as he himself was false.

Now he was angry, and the Merturi men were angry too; and here in the mountains anger sometimes led to drawn knives and pistols—bloodshed—and the long unforgiven quarrel of the feud. Her breath caught sharply. Would it come to that? And in her father’s house? She knew as host Ndrek was held responsible—must answer maybe with his own life—for trouble that took place under his roof. Her needles were still now. She watched the men in mounting terror—fascinated. Ndrek rose. He stepped quietly toward his rifle on the wall, fingered the lock, and came back slowly to the fire. ​A perfect silence filled the dim room. No one of the four men made movement now. Ndrek said, “Mark Gjeloshit, and you three men of Merturi, bear in mind, all of you, that you are guests in Ndrek Palokit’s house. Each of you has drunk coffee by my fire. Think—all that you do here comes on my head, for I am host and so am answerable. Cease then from anger; only know, you meet and talk beside a peaceful hearth, hearth of a peaceful man who is in blood not with Hoti nor with Merturi either. Nor would be.”

He sat down. The stranger laughed. “Merturi is too hot blooded. I but joked of the Slavs’ help. ’Tis true that riches keep off hunger, but I would never sell my country for my stomach’s peace. I am as upright and as honorable as any here. Pardon—and forgive me, men of Merturi and you, Ndrek, my host, if any idle word of mine has set a man’s hand searching for his gun. Let us be friends.”

Pran heard this with relief. But in his voice she heard the liar’s tones. She knew that fear made him take back his words and that there was no truth in him. But her heart that had been choking her stopped its wild beating, and her breath came slowly as she took up again her half-knitted slipper.

The Merturi men seemed to accept Mark’s words. ​Each smiled a grim smile and each rolled with steady fingers a fresh cigarette. The young dark man said, “No matter, Mark. The smoke of words blows away quickly. Only the smoke of a rifle lasts down the years—and our guns have not spoken. Good luck to you, man of Hoti.”

Ndrek sat down. Talk turned to other things. But was it accident that Ndrek told so carefully the number of flocks, the size of herds in every border town? Or did he want Mark to know that meat and clothing would not fail here in this section for a long time yet? Pran listened. Ndrek spoke carelessly, it seemed, brought up the subject of old border wars, when Shala and the neighboring tribes had held the passes against enemy forces with heavy losses to the enemy. He made a swift count of the houses in each border village, and he even told as if to prove the tribe’s increase of strength the number of men of rifle-bearing age. “Shala breeds sons,” he said.

Pran felt sure that Ndrek gave deliberately information meant for Mark to carry back as news of Shala’s strength, that the Slavs might know the impregnable wall of able fighting men that Shala and all the tribes around her could set up to daunt the invader. And Pran could hear that Ndrek counted twice and even three times some houses, and that ​where a family had only one son he gave out to Mark that there were two or three, and in the same way gave exaggerated count of animals. She knew he did this so that Mark should not suspect the desperate truth, that poverty, and scarcity of food, and lack of cattle ran through all this section. Mark was the enemy, and to an enemy one must pretend the strength that one has not. So Ndrek, heavy hearted, made pretense—to save his people if he could. Pran’s heart went out to him, wishing success.

Now Lukja brought the coffee things, and Ndrek made coffee again for all. And he pressed Mark to stay that night and sleep beside the fire with them. Pran knew he would not stay. No man would choose to spend a night with men who did not trust him.

Mark thanked Ndrek and rose, tightening his belt and strapping on his rifle for the trail. He said farewells, and Ndrek took him down to the door. They could hear his feet tread swiftly down the trail.

The fire was nearly out. Ndrek laid on it one more stick—a large one that would flicker through the night. The three guests and he smoked silently together for good-night. Lukja took Pran and Gjyl to one side of the room where a wide woven shelf with blankets on it offered a sleeping place. Pran lay down between the two women.

​Darkness grew deeper as the flames died down. She heard Ndrek and the three men unwind their girdles and then lay themselves down feet to the hearth to sleep. Only a few words passed among them.

The old man said, “Always before the serpent strikes he sends one of his own sort ahead to find if money can turn foes to friends.”

The youngest laughed. “Well, word will go back to-night that Shala’s not for sale and that she stands stronger than any knew, ready to fight.”

“Good-night.”—“Sleep easily.”—“Good-night.” No one spoke again.

Pran lay a long time thinking. Mark’s visit had driven out of her mind her earlier curiosity as to the reason for the coming of the old man and his sons. She thought now only of Mark. He had come spying and if possible to buy friendship for the enemy, the Slavs. He would go back disappointed, and assured of fighting strength and perfect loyalty along the border—but did that mean that the Slavs would not strike? Or did it mean only that they would seek a breach in the wall—a faithless bairak where the villages, lacking in food or courage, would give in and open a path for their enemy into the heart of the north mountain country, so coveted by the Slavs?

Pran drew herself gently up until she could see the ​faint flicker of the flame on the hearth, the glowing coals, and the four sleeping figures of the men. In that dark corner over beyond the hearth slept the two little brothers. On each side of her she felt the warm bodies of her mother and of Gjyl. They slept too. Only she was awake. How safe they all were, shut in Ndrek’s house! And yet—were they as safe as they had been before this man Mark had come in on them—spying, with treachery?—Man of the black face! That was what he was.

As she lay down there sounded in her ears words and the high shrieking tune of an old song—even the name was his name:

And then again, “Burra, me facet i zi! Man of the black face!” Pran’s thoughts wandered into uneasy dreams. She slept.