Pran of Albania/Chapter 3

Gjon, Nik, you lazy little cucumbers, what are you doing so long?” Pran stood in the yard near the little brook that crossed it. She wore her white stiff wool jacket, but the sleeves of it hung empty, for the sun was warm, and to be cooler she had slipped her arms out through the under-arm openings. Her skirt, with its strips of horizontal black and white, stood out around her, and her head and neck were doubly wrapped from the sun’s heat with whitish cloths. Over her shoulder wound about several times was a strong braided rope of goat’s hair. Her woolen blouse bulged where she had thrust her knitting in. To-day she and her brothers went for fresh green branches—fodder for the sheep and goats all winter. Pran and her mother would pile them in a great stack in the yard, the stems out and the leafy ends of them turned inward, so that by their own dampness they would keep green and juicy all through the cold months when no beast could go to pasture. She needed the twin boys, for they were light ​enough to climb the little trees and cut the branches off.

Now she waited none too patiently. Then called again: “Come, you two rascals. The day will be gone before we get to work. We’ve far to go.”

The house door opened slowly, as if too heavy for the hands that pushed it; opened and let tumble out the two small brothers, chuckling and pushing at each other.

Each wore long tight trousers such as the men wore, small jackets over, and their waists wound with the colored girdles. In each belt a lump showed where they had tucked their bread and cheese, and, hidden safely under a tight-wrapped strip, each carried his knife, the sharp blade doubled back into the protecting horn of the handle. On each round, well-shaped head was set a tiny white cup-like cap so that each looked to be Ndrek in miniature, lacking the cartridge belt and rifle only. Their fair hair had been shaved clean off save for a scalp lock hidden under the cap. Nik’s eyes were hazel, lighter than Pran’s own, but Gjon had dark eyes, and his face was thinner than chubby Nik’s. Both boys were eight years old, though even their mother had forgotten that. Birthdays did not count in the mountains; but every year, on the saint’s day whose name he bore, ​a name-day celebration was made for each boy, and there were a feast and songs, and presents given.

Pran motioned downward with her curved hand, bending it toward herself—the sign for “come.” “Come—quickly, Nik! Come, Gjon!”

They stopped their puppy play and ran to her.

Nik said, “’Twas Gjon who made you wait so long. He had to have so large a piece of cornbread that he was eating when I was all done. A little pig he is!”

And Gjon defended, “I was through long before and had to wait for Nik to find his knife. The truth is, when he gets to be a man, he’ll lose his own life looking for his gun, and who will mourn a man not smart enough to keep his weapon by him?”

Two pairs of eyes glared at each other, while Pran, as if to break the spell, reached a hand to each head and cracked the two together, laughing and saying, “You are two good-for-nothings, both of you. Quick, now, set your bare toes on the trail behind me, and trot, little donkeys, trot!”

She started off out of the yard, and Nik, the quicker, got his place ahead of Gjon. They took the steep trail down the rocky flat Thethi was built on, crossed on a wobbly wooden bridge over the stream below, and went along a level place until the sun had ​climbed an hour in the morning sky. Pran knitted as she walked. The twins sang lustily, a song they had learned in Skodra from a schoolboy there. The words sent Pran’s thoughts back to the visit of the Hoti man. The children shrieked them out.

“That song,” she thought, “must have come from the mountains, even though the music of it is not mountain music. It is the mountaineers who live always on the edge of enemy land, and the women mourn when the men go out to die for the safety of Albania.”

It was a good month now since Mark, man of the black face, had come and spoken treachery and gone off alone down the trail. Pran had not thought of him till to-day, when the boys’ song brought him back to her mind. She watched Nikola and Gjon, who had ​passed her and raced each other, still shouting out the song as their feet clambered over the rough trail. She looked at the bright sunshine flooding the clear sky and making the farthest hills stand cleanly forth. How safe her mountains were! How could danger make its way here? She shook her apprehension from her and herself joined in the singing, placing her voice an octave lower than the boys, using a deep tone, as the women did. “For liberty let me die!” Strong were the Eagle’s sons. No foe could break the wall of their resistance, for did they not prize freedom more than life? Her heart rose.

They climbed and rested by a wayside cross, and then the trail dipped lower. The stones were fewer underneath their feet, and soon the way led on softer earth through a little woods. Once out of this they saw stretching before them a southern hillside, broad and set out with sparse trees larger than any they had seen yet, but pruned from many cuttings, so that the trunks looked stunted while they bore a great plenty of slim leafy branches—just the kind they sought for the fodder stack.

“Here we begin,” said Pran, who recognized the hillside as the one Ndrek had told them to gather in. She led the way under the trees and slipped her coiled rope off her shoulder. The boys gamboled ​about her, pleased that the fun of climbing would begin.

“You go up this tree, Gjon,” she said and led him to the nearest slim trunk. He clasped it, arms and legs, and up he went. Once in the branches he drew out his knife, and climbing out on the thicker boughs he cut off a long leafed twig and set it floating down to Pran. He cut another then, and another, climbing here and there so that no single part of the tree should be too well stripped and suffer a withering. The twigs began to fall fast, for Gjon worked steadily.

Meanwhile Pran had set Nik to work in a tree near by, and now she set about her own business. As the boys cut she gathered up the slim branches in a leafy pile that grew and grew. And when each boy went to another tree she followed, carrying back the new-cut twigs to where the rest were piled. They worked with little talking. Though it was autumn the sun glared hotly as it got nearer noon. Both the boys threw down their woolen jackets so that the dry air blew coolingly through their cotton blouses.

Now they began to work in rivalry. Each watched the other as he himself cut and clipped. “I’m cutting faster than you, Gjon!” called Nik. “I have twice as many on the ground. Ask Pran.”

​“Not true,” Gjon answered, setting himself astride a branch and addressing himself to his sister underneath. “Pran, in Nikola’s counting a ‘hundred’ follows ‘thirty,’ so he can go faster, knowing no numbers between those two.”

Nik stopped his work to call, “That is your own way, Gjon. For me there are not numbers big enough to count the twigs I've cut.” He grinned at Gjon’s hot red face tauntingly.

Pran stamped her foot. “You two magpies sit talking and making a big calabrek while the sun climbs to the top of the sky. Think you our goats and sheep can eat your words in place of good green fodder? Get to work.”

Both boys went back to cutting, and Pran’s great pile grew high and higher yet. She would call them to come down soon for midday bread. Gjon was working silently, good boy that he was, but she could hear Nik, who was taking things more easily singing to himself a nonsense song. She had sung it when she was a little girl. Now Nik’s little shrieking voice rang out on the still hillside:

Suddenly a voice took up the song where Nik had stopped:

Pran turned toward the trail where the voice came from, while the two boys, glad of the excuse for rest, jumped each from his tree and rushed down the hill.

Pran saw a boy standing at the base of the wooded slope just off the trail, a boy slim and as tall as she was, taller, a little. He carried no gun. He was not old enough for that. He wore the tight white trousers and the colored belt, but even from where she stood she saw the braiding made a pattern unlike that on the clothing of her brothers.

“Long life to you!” he called, waving an arm in a salute to her. The boys had reached him. Pran could see them taking his hand in greeting, and Gjon, mindful of his manners, was asking, “How have you made the trail?” She called a greeting.

​For a few minutes the strange boy stood talking to the twins while Pran watched curiously. Then she saw her brothers each take him by a hand and lead him up the hillside.

As he drew near Pran saw that he had a finely cut face with pleasant blue-gray eyes and a strong, friendly mouth. He greeted Pran again and said, “These two in payment for my song ask me to stay and eat. What do you say?”

Pran laughed and said quietly, “If Nik offers to share his bread and cheese with you then you must be welcome indeed. Where do you come from?”

The boy hesitated a moment, then he said, “I come from far off, but I live now with my uncle, Prentash Gjoka, in Plani. My name is Nush.”

“I am called Pran, and this is Nikola, and this is Gjon. Our father is Ndrek, the son of Palok of Thethi. To-day we have come to get fodder for our flocks to use this winter.” Pran pointed to the great pile of branches they had gathered.

“Glory to your arms and strength,” said Nush. “You have done well. Have you enough, or may I help? I am as good a climber as your brothers.”

“Thank you,” said Pran, “but we have now all I can carry back. Better for us to eat our midday bread. Come and sit down with us.”

​They all sat down where a full-leaved tree made a good shade, and Nik and Gjon took out their bread and cheese and with their knives made a fair division of the food.

“T’boft mir, Nush!” said Nik, wishing him good appetite as he handed him his share. “T’boft mir!” Nush answered, and Gjon and Pran echoed, “T’boft mir!” Then all began to eat.

Pran asked, “Where have you been, Nush? Have you come a long way to-day?”

“I am coming back from Skodra Bazaar,” Nush answered. “Last night I slept in a strange house about five hours from here, and to-day I will reach my uncle’s house at Plani.”

The boys’ mouths were too full for talking, but their eyes sparkled at the mention of the bazaar. They knew the crowds and shops there and the fun of watching people buy and sell, for now and then Ndrek had let them take the trail in to Skodra.

“I like the bazaar,” said Pran. “There you can see so many things being made—cradles and copper dishes, saddles and shoes. Everything in the world is made in Skodra, I think.”

“I took with me two wooden water kegs and sold them,” said Nush. “I have the silver coins they gave in payment in my belt now.” He patted his wound ​girdle. “And I heard talk there. Men say a great deal in Skodra—true and untrue.”

“What did you hear?”” asked Pran.

Nush’s face grew serious. “I heard talk of the Slavs and the plans they make to march against Albania.”

Pran’s mind flashed back to Mark Gjeloshit and his queries about conditions on the border. She bit into her cornbread thoughtfully. Nik and Gjon were finished eating now and played leapfrog together farther off. She watched them a moment, then looked back at Nush. “Do men think there is danger to the border people, then?” Her voice was lowered a little anxiously.

“Is your village close to the Slavs’ land?” was Nush’s answer.

“Not close to their land,” said Pran, “but close to land of ours that the Slavs hold. Danger to the border always means danger to us.”

“Then tell your father that men talk with earnestness in Skodra and say that the Slavs make ready.”

“He will not be glad of news like that,” said Pran, and her eyes clouded.

The two finished their meal in silence. When the last bite was gone Nush looked at her. “Your thoughts make darkness in your heart, Pran,” he ​said. “Change them for others. I have good news too.”

She looked up at him questioningly.

He laughed. “Let evil days care for their own evil. To-day the sun shines, and if you and the boys will come I can lead the way across a rocky stream east of here and show you where honey is hidden. A bee tree—smoked out—but there is left through haste or carelessness a lot of honey near the base, and well within reach. What do you say? Shall we find it and make a feast?”

Pran’s face lightened now. Honey was a rare treat. And work was done. There would be time to go if it was not too far. She stood up quickly and smiled with pleasure. “That is good news. At our house there has been nothing sweet to eat for a long time—even the coffee often has been drunk unsugared. We would love to go.”

She called to Nik and Gjon, whose game had led them far down the hill. They raced back at the word “honey,” each thumping at his belt to show how eager he was for feasting.

All four started off, with Nush ahead. Nik ran circles round them, crying to Nush, “You are the right sort of guest. You make a fine return for goat’s cheese and bread. Hurrah—rrnoft—for Nush.”

​“Save thanks for afterward,” Nush counseled him. “I know where the tree is, but someone else may have been there before us. And besides, you have a torrent to make your way across. Just wait and see.”

After crossing a little valley and climbing a rocky hill they took a rough trail leading to the east. Now they could hear the wild rush of mountain water.

“It thunders,” said Gjon.

Pran said, “To my ears that sounds no easy stream to cross.”

As they came out around a spur of the hill they saw the water. Between two crags of rock it poured itself down, crashing and rumbling to a deep pool below, which, in its turn, emptied the stream farther down the mountainside. In the path of it huge boulders stood, and the white fury of the torrent broke into splashing spray over and around them.

The boys stopped short. Gjon’s face fell. “No bridge, Nush?” Nush threw back his head for “no,” clicking his tongue.

Nik rushed to the very edge. He pointed to three huge rocks, well separated, that nearly spanned the stream. “Here are stepping-stones!” he shouted over the water’s thundering.

Pran took a quick step toward him and held his ​jacket tight. “Wait, wait, wild man,” she cried into Nik’s ear. Leaning, she swiftly unwrapped his belt from round him and tied one end securely to his waist and held the other end herself. “So—you must go on this rope, Nikola, for I cannot risk losing even a little donkey such as you.”

Nik scowled and pulled at the band. Nush said, “Better turn up your trousers around your ankles, boys. No one can cross quite dry. That second rock is under water.”

The three boys sat down and turned their trouser legs up above their shins. A slit bound on the edge with the black braid made this easy to do.

Pran drew off her moccasins and shputa and her socks and tied them to her leather belt. “How hard we work for a taste of honey,” she laughed.

Now they were ready. Pran, holding Nik by his belt, waited for Nush to lead the way across. He climbed with sure feet, motioning to Gjon to follow after him. Nush first, then Gjon, balanced and stepped and jumped. Safely they made the far side.

“Rrnoft!” Gjon shouted, waving a triumphant hand to Nik. Nik pulled impatiently at his tether, eager to go. Pran jerked it sharply. “Careful—and watch. Go slowly. Nush will pull you in on the last step. Little by little, now.”

​Gjon screamed across, “The second rock is slippery, Nik.” Nik climbed and stood in high excitement on the first stone. Pran held him on a short leash from the bank.

Without warning now, Nik took a great straddling step toward the next rock, and Pran, not ready for the sudden pull on the belt, fell forward, clutching at the rock to save herself. But the belt slipped from her hand, and Nik, glad at this sudden slackening of the rope that held him back, leaped from the second stone. His foot slid treacherously, and, falling short of Nush’s outstretched hands and the last rock, he fell, belt and all, head over heels into the rushing current. Pran saw that for a second he struggled for a footing and then was swept off his feet and under, down the stream. From the rock she was standing on now she could see him whirling helplessly down the slope against the rocks until the current carried him into the deep whirlpool below.

“Nush! Nush!” she cried out desperately. But Nush needed no word from her. Like a flash he had run down the stream’s edge to the far pool, and now, as Pran and Gjon watched breathlessly, he hurled himself clothes and all into the flood.

Nik, who could not swim, was strangling and sinking even as Nush drove through the deep swirling ​waters of the pool. “Heaven be thanked!” gasped Pran. “He swims strongly.” But she could see he needed all the strength he had to make his way to Nik. She breathed a prayer to good St. Nicholas, who has in special charge those who risk themselves in the water. “O blessed saint—give Nush the power—to reach my Nikola.”

She saw Nush grab hold of the floating belt and pull Nik near him. Then he took hold of one arm of Nik’s—how limp it was!—Pran shuddered—and battling with the swirling current he fought his way to the shore, the farther side, where Gjon stood. Pran saw him lay Nik down. A terror swept her, for he did not get up. Steadying herself, she made the hard crossing by the three unlucky rocks and ran to where Gjon and Nush crouched by Nik.

“He’s all right, Pran,” Nush told her, reassuring. “He’s cold, that’s all. The water is like ice.” His own teeth chattered.

Pran leaned over Nik. He opened two bloodshot eyes in a white face and curved his blue lips into a smile.

“Nik—Nik!” Pran hugged him up to her and felt him writhe away. Yes—that was Nik—to push at her like that. He was himself. “You wicked little cucumber,” she scolded, half in tears, and Nik said ​fiercely, “I’m all right—I’m not drowned—I’m all right, I tell you.”

Pran took in a great breath of relief, then thought of Nush. “A thousand, thousand thanks, Nush. Without your bravery and your strong arms he’d never be alive!” She grasped Nush’s hand and pressed it to her forehead, trying to show how thankful she was to him.

Nush answered, smiling ruefully, “No, without me and my evil idea of honey gathering he would be safe in the woods instead of cold and half drowned like this. You should scold me, Pran, not Nik.”

They all laughed together now, and Nush and Nik got to their feet and ran and jumped to warm themselves. The dry air was making short work of their wet clothing.

“And now for honey,” said Nik at last.

“Half drowned or not,” teased Gjon, “Nik will take care of his insides.”

Nush pointed out a blackened hollow tree standing a bit upstream and back from the rocks. “There is the tree. Now—who will be first?”

Off ran the boys. Nik reached the tree first, swung himself up by a gnarled branch to the opening in the trunk, and plunged in an eager arm, felt about, and finally drew out a charred bit of comb dripping with ​dark syrup. He climbed down and squatted on the ground just where he was to eat it. Gjon climbed and reached and brought up a better piece and sat down near Nik to revel in the treat. The dark, strong-tasting honey ran down their fingers, smeared their faces, but they did not care.

Nush rolled his sleeve up to reach ’way down in. He pulled himself up to the hole. “I’ll get some for us both,” he said to Pran. “It’s sticky in there, and sooty from the smoke.”

He drew out a dripping fragment of the comb and came to her with it, throwing his head back in refusal when she would have broken it in two. “I owe you more amends than that,” he said, “for letting Nik run such a risk.”

“No,” said Pran, “you saved his life for me.” For a moment she forgot the honey dripping on the ground and on her skirt and looked into Nush’s face earnestly. He pointed to the bit of comb she held. “Why do you give that to the ants and beetles?” he said, laughing.

Pran laughed and raised the sweet mass to her mouth. How rich it tasted! She would eat it slowly so she could remember for a long time the sweet strong taste of it.

Nik, moved by a sudden generosity, brought up a ​piece to Nush. “Here, Nush—and good appetite,” he said, smiling his broadest.

“You owe him more than that,” said Gjon, looking up from his piece of comb.

“You owe him your life, most likely,” said Pran. “And I should scold you for jumping so carelessly—I should scold you well—but”—she laughed as Nik hastily handed her the rest of the piece of comb he was nibbling at—“you make diplomatic presents, and besides, having you here safe, my heart cannot harden itself enough for scolding.”

The honey tree was very empty now, and Nush and Pran and the two boys sat licking their fingers regretfully.

Pran squinted at the sun. “Time to go back,” she said.

“We’ll take no chances this time,” said Nush. “I will play horse for the boys and carry them across, one at a time.”

“Can you keep your footing, Nush?” Pran looked at him anxiously. And then she added, “You will get wet again.” But in her heart she felt a great relief, for she could not have borne to see either of the twins take those dangerous leaps all over again.

​“I am wet now,” said Nush. “Here Gjon—you first.”

Gjon sat astride Nush’s shoulders, holding fast to his head. Nush waded in—knee high—waist high. “Hold fast!” They were across.

Next Nik’s turn. He crouched low over Nush’s head. “Don’t blind him,” called Pran and shut her own eyes in fear—opened them. All were safe. Then she made the crossing on the stones—more easily, this time.

“It’s late,” she said when they had started on the trail back. “We’d better run.”

They all ran until they reached the place where she had piled the branches. Pran knelt down, and taking her braided rope she passed it under and over the leafy mass, pulling and drawing it and winding it on itself until she had all safely and tightly tied in a huge bundle. Two loops were left to pass her arms through.

Nush lifted it and set it on her back, and Pran fastened it firmly. Nush helped her, tucking and twisting here and there until Pran was satisfied the load would ride.

“Mother will think a tree is walking home,” said Gjon, for Pran was nearly buried under the leaves.

​Nush said, “Luck be with you all,” and turned to leave them. “Long life,” the boys called out. “Good go with you,” said Pran, and Nush answered, ‘“Go on a smooth trail, all three of you!”

“Smooth peace—smooth peace!” they called, and Gjon and Nik waved a hand to him, then trotted after Pran who walked, steady and only slightly bent, under her great bobbing burden.