Pran of Albania/Chapter 4

The great Feast Day had arrived. Pran stood at the door, watching the mountain people passing on the trail. Old men and women, young men and their wives with the babies’ cradles strapped high on their shoulders, children, boys and girls, all ages, running here and there or tramping sturdily behind the grown-ups. All took their way on the trail below her house up to the fenced-in churchyard where stood the Friar’s house higher than other houses, and the church itself with its little belfry and its wooden cross on the gable peak. She watched them go.

She could see them gathering in groups in the wide green yard that lay to one side of where the graves were with their tall hand-carved wooden crosses. The women gathered in knots; the men formed larger groups; and here and there amid the general talk Pran saw one man address the others earnestly, explaining or exhorting. Heads shook in agreement or were thrown back with the words, ​“Yo, per Zot!” She knew the words—“No, by Heaven!”—though now she stood too far off to hear them.

Some of the men left talking as she watched, unslung their rifles, and stood them close to the church door against the wall. Each straightened himself to his fine height and disappeared through the door into the church. Women followed; children were herded in. And still they came in twos and threes and fours along the trail below the house. For this was Feast Day in Thethi—Feast of St. John the Divine—and the Friar said mass for everyone to hear, and there would be a suitable feast of pork and mutton after at Marash Gjoni’s house—Marash Gjoni, the richest man in Thethi village—rich in flocks and herds and lands—and generous, as to-day would prove to more than one hungry villager.

“Pran! What are you doing, girl?” Lukja’s voice called Pran back from her gazing and her imagination of the feast. “Time flies, child, and the Friar’s man will ring the bell before ever you have changed into your new clothes. Hurry and come.”

Pran turned and went in and up the stone steps to the upper room. Ndrek crouched by the fire, shaving himself, and Lukja held Nik by one red ear while she scrubbed at his already shining face with a cloth ​wet in the wooden bowl on the rough shelf beside her.

Gjon stood winding in careful folds about him a gorgeous new belt of brilliant coloring, laying each strip fairly against the next and tracing delighted fingers over its clean smoothness. All made ready for the day’s festival.

Pran changed to her new-made stiff white jacket and arranged over her clipped hair, that lay in fringes at each cheek and on her forehead, a fresh cloth bordered in bright orange. She went outside and washed face and hands in the little stream at the yard’s edge. She looked admiringly at her new blood-red shputa, decorated just as Gjyl’s had been in gold and silver thread, and glittering now above her rawhide sandals beneath her longish skirt.

She sat down on the doorstep waiting for the rest and looked at the trail. Few passed along it now. She looked up toward the churchyard. No one stood outside. As people entered now they passed into the church at once. Old Zef, the Friar’s man, made his way across the grass from the Friar’s house to the church. He went to ring the church bell. “Nona,” called Pran, “it’s time.”

“Slowly, slowly,” answered Lukja’s quiet voice, “little by little,” and Pran heard feet coming down ​the stone stairs. Ndrek first, then the boys, and last her mother, came through the big door, shining in their readiness.

Ndrek took the lead, the boys behind him hand in hand. Pran walked with Lukja. One or two others of the Thethi households wandered from different directions toward the church. The bell tolled clamorously above them. Pran could see it swaying to and fro in its little shelter on the church roof. They entered at the gate and crossed the green yard to the church door. Ndrek unslung his rifle as the rest had done and leaned it with scores of others against the church wall. Pran knew on holidays like this enemies made a truce and under this word or bessa could kneel down beside each other in the house of God, bearing no grudge and not obliged to settle any score until the feast was done, the bessa ended. Such a scheme seemed good and most reasonable to Pran.

Inside the church was dark. Only the flickering altar candles burned. The air was close, so crowded was the room, and through the narrow windows little breeze could come. The men sat herded all on one side; across were the women and the children.

Pran and her mother found a place to sit cross-legged on the floor, like all the rest. The boys followed Ndrek close. Pran whispered, “To-day the twins ​decide that they are men.” “Well, let them,” murmured Lukja. The two boys squatted by their father happily, keeping a still, childish dignity. Even Nik was hushed by the solemn feeling in the place.

Pran saw between the heads before her the altar with its crucifix and candles. Above it hung a rudely painted picture of the Virgin holding her Baby. Pran loved this picture, loved the Virgin’s painted face with its dark, peaceful eyes. “She welcomes us,” she thought, and kneeling as her mother did she prayed a prayer the Friar had taught her long ago; then sat again and waited.

The bell had stopped ringing, and no more came in. Pran knew somewhere behind there Friar Gjiergj changed his brown monk’s frock for gorgeous gold and crimson. Now—he came. All stood. The mass began. Pran knew the answers to the Friar’s words. The language was her own; she understood. She loved to watch him move about, handling the sacred things, dressed in his gay embroidered vestments, so much more colorful than mountain black and white. His servant knelt near him, holding a big brass bell, ready to ring it when the time should come. An old man with a long stick stood to one side, and woe betide the child who made noise or disorder, or any worshiper who dared to drowse. The old man’s ​eagle eye was ready to detect such disrespect, and his long stick would pounce on such a culprit mercilessly.

The chanting stopped, and people knelt again. A hush fell, and Pran’s eyes fixed themselves a bit fearfully on her own lap. She dared not look, but knew the Friar raised the holy bread, the blessed sacrament, that all might worship it. The bell clanged jinglingly, and Pran, her heart missing a beat, made the cross with her right hand and felt for a brief moment that the God of the mountains and of all faithful Maltsors leaned for a second’s time from that high throne of His accepting what men gave.

Now mass was done. The people all filed out; more quickly than they had come in, for was there not a feast preparing farther up the hill? The men took up their rifles, and the crowd stood, some talking quietly and some silent.

Pran waited, holding fast to Nik and Gjon.

Then all began to move toward the house of Marash Gjoni, higher up the hill’s slope.

Pran kept close to Ndrek and Lukja, leading the boys. Lukja, who knew well the wife of Marash Gjoni—Angja, she was called—had told Pran that she was to help serve the food. Pran was glad to be of such importance on this day, and as she walked after ​her mother she was thinking of the food that they would have. There would be hot cornmeal in huge wooden bowls, and butter for it, and then plenty of mutton roasted on the spits outside and the boiled meat of young goats, perhaps. And then heaps of fried fat pork, and hens fresh-killed that very morning. What a great man was Marash—both generous and good to give his grain and animals like this in honor of St. John, and for the pleasure of so many.

They reached the house. Outside, the mountain people sat and squatted all about, while some gathered about the spitted animals and piled the fires high. Inside upstairs there was a gathering that cramped the great room, huge as it was. The women did the cooking down below. Here Pran stayed, watching for a chance to take her part in the great preparations going on all around her.

Fires burned in two great stone hearths set against opposite walls and fitted with rude flues to take the smoke. Great iron pots were hung above the flames. Besides these, smaller fires burned here and there on the earth floor, or charcoal braziers stood on slim metal legs holding red glowing coals, and set on these was a pot or pan of copper or of brass. The room was smoky, and the smell of boiling meat filled the air.

“Here, Pran,” and Lukja handed her a deep pan ​filled with pale yellow butter, soft, but not yet melted for the sauce.

Pran moved to where one of the fires showed there was room to set a pot and raked with a stick a level place in the hot embers. Then she set on her saucepan and, leaving it, asked Marash’s wife for a smooth paddle to stir it that it might not burn. She could smell, as she went back to stir, the muttony steam that rose from the great pots and the tasty odor of the frying pork. In the dim room lit here and there with fires she saw the women stirring and mixing with the great wooden paddles or kneading huge masses of yellow dough in the wooden troughs. Some baked the bread in the large shallow pans. Much had been done already, for Pran saw piled high against the wall the round wheels of yellow loaves—“buk kalamuchit.”

She stirred the butter down.

Now women brought great bowls of cooked cornmeal over to her, and Pran, with a smaller bowl, dipped out the butter, pouring it in a bubbly stream over each bowlful. Then the bowls were carried up the stairs for the house guests, and some were taken outside where people gathered in groups and used bits of bread or wooden spoons to dip the stuff up from the common dish.

​Some women had started breaking up the bread into great yellow chunks. Pran, now her pan was empty, joined them to help. The meat was portioned after the bread was given, the boiled meat in wooden bowls, the roasted meat carved up in crisp smoking pieces. Now the feasting was well under way.

Pran thought, “I’ll find the daughters of the house and eat with them.” Carrying a small bowl of meat and bread she went upstairs. In a dark corner, seated on the floor, she found two girls of her own age dressed just as she was herself, in white felt clothes with head scarves and the rawhide moccasins. They smiled and greeted her, and Pran took the hand of each in turn and leaned to touch her cheek to each cheek offered her. “Long life, Lezina; long life, Filia,” she said and thanked them for the space they made for her to sit beside them. “Good appetite!” each wished the other two, and all began to eat, chattering together softly of the feast and guests and border gossip.

“The men talk war,” said Filia, nibbling off bits of mutton from the bone she held.

“They always do,” said Lezina, smiling a little as she broke her bread.

Pran said, “I have heard much lately of the South Slavs and what they plan against the Maltsor on our ​border lands. A man came not long since to visit us and asked my father things no one need know—of food and fighting men and things like that, and where our own hearts were if war should come.”

The girls leaned nearer, and the two pairs of eyes looked earnestly into Pran’s face. “What will it mean?” asked Filia with a touch of dread in her voice.

“More sorrow for the mountains,” answered Pran. But Lezina broke in impatiently, throwing back her fine, proudly set head. “There is too much of such talk. Why cannot they choose more pleasant things to mingle with the smoke of cigarettes?”

Pran sighed and licked from her finger tips the mutton grease, and then said softly, “Perhaps it is only talk, but, after all, where the tooth aches the tongue will go. We suffer, since so much of our own land lies under Slavic rule.”

Lezina turned the talk to other things, but Pran could not shake off the heavy feeling that the words had left deep in her heart. The feast was shadowed for her, and, as she and the other two gathered up bowls and scraps from those who had done eating and carried them below, she felt anxious to have the feasting over with and to hear the singing that always followed.

​When the first voice was raised in an old tune she went upstairs to listen. Lezina and Filia sat beside her, far from the central hearth where the men sat and sang. The shrill shrieking of their voices in the monotonous tunes satisfied Pran and quieted in her the unrest she had been feeling. It was good to smell tobacco smoke and let the wailing music ring through the room and through herself, and listen to the brave words that told ever and always of the mountains’ strength and the stout undaunted hearts of mountain people. Comfort was in that.

After a while the crowded room grew very warm—too warm. A pause in the singing made Pran notice this, and she said to the girls near her, “I’m going outside, down to the spring a moment, and wash myself cool.”

She left the house and took her way down the slope below the door. Following a well-trodden trail, she reached the high rocks where water splashed down in a swift little stream. Leaning, she put her hot face in the water as it fell and held her hands and wrists under its splashing.

She sat down on the edge of the little pool and thought, “It is cool and fresh here. I’ll stay awhile. Up there there are so many people one cannot think.” She sat half dreaming, watching the bubbles form ​and break, the water passing near her chuckling softly as water chuckles flowing over rock.

Suddenly a crackling in the bushes up above startled her. She looked up to the rock’s top and saw a white cap through the brush, and then bare feet, and then the figure of a boy. Where had she seen that face? Who?—Why—Nush!—that was who it was. She opened her mouth to say his name, but as she did so he raised a finger to his lips for silence. “Sh!” he said softly. “Don’t say my name, Pran.” He knelt above her, looking down, half smiling, half serious. Pran’s puzzled glance met his.

He spoke again in a low tone, “Greetings to you, Pran, Daughter-of-Ndrek. Long life.”

“Long life,” said Pran, speaking unconsciously in the same soft voice. “Why are you not at the feast to-day? Have you just come?”

Nush knelt there silent a moment looking out of steady eyes, hesitating, as if unsure how to reply.

Pran wondered. Then he spoke, “Listen, Pran. I cannot come to any feast. It is forbidden me. Never mind why. Wonder—if you like.” He still spoke secretly.

“Are you in trouble, Nush—in blood, perhaps—that you dare not go?” Her eyes were wide, but she was well aware that sometimes, if a man’s family was ​in feud, a son—even a son as young as Nush, if he was oldest of the line, could pay that debt—forfeit his own life; but to-day—St. John’s Day?

“Why, Nush,” she said, “no one to-day need fear feud or blood payment. There is a bessa among all the near-by tribes. You would be safe.”

“Safe for to-day,” Nush said impetuously, “but after, not so safe, having given sight of myself and news of where I dwell to everyone—foe as well as friend. There is more to this than I can tell you. The sure fact is that no one must carry word of where I am, nor what my face is like, nor where I live. I do not go to feasts—not now.”

Pran puzzled. Her eyes were filled with anxiety—bewilderment.

“I do not understand,” she said at last, “but every sheep hangs by its own leg. Tell me, then, why do you come here at all—risking a recognition?”

“I came for one thing only.” Nush spoke more firmly now. “Climb up to me, and in the bushes here we can talk without fear of being seen.”

Pran, thoroughly mystified and not quite at ease, did as he asked. She climbed up the rock’s face to where he was, and they went off a bit into the bushes, well out of sight of the spring path.

Nush looked about him cautiously. “Here we are ​safe,” he said. “If someone should come down to the spring the sound of the water falling covers our voices, and the bushes are too thick for us to be seen.”

Pran felt strangely expectant now. She knelt before him, sitting on her heels and waiting.

Nush fumbled at his belt. Then he drew out of it a tiny bit of cloth wrapped about something—something very small it seemed to Pran. As he unwrapped it she leaned curiously to see what it could be. Nush opened the bit of cloth with careful fingers. He spread it out. On it there lay a gold piece—thin Turkish gold traced with strange signs in Arab writing. At the rim on one side someone had nicked out a pointed piece, so that the coin was marked.

“See this?” said Nush. He handed the gold piece to her. Pran took it gingerly. What strange charm was this? An evil spell, perhaps—such as the Mussulman children wore, made of blue magic beads. The priests she knew had warned them all of charms other than those that bore the Virgin’s image.

Nush said, “Don’t be afraid. I'm Christian, like yourself. I wear no fez. This coin is not a charm. It bears a message, rather, It has meaning, Pran—and meaning for one person only. By a strange piece of luck you came here where I waited secretly, hoping ​for a chance to get this gold piece to—the one who knows the message that it brings.”

Pran stared into his serious eyes, fingering the coin and eager to hear more.

“I trust you, Pran,” he said, and looked away, speaking more slowly. “It is hard to find someone who can be trusted.” Then he looked at her searchingly and said, “Is your heart with mine in what I shall ask now?”

Pran drew a deep breath, then said, as serious now as he, “By Nik’s life you saved, by the Virgin’s image in the church down there, and by my pledged word—my bessa—you can trust me surely, forever.” She paused. “What is it, Nush? What can I do for you? Tell me, and it is done.”

Nush, who had been tense till now, relaxed as with relief and sat a moment silently, breathing more slowly. Then he said, “Who has come to the feast, Pran?”

“All Thethi,” answered Pran, “and the households from three bairaks—and———”

“From Merturi tribe has any household come?” He interruped her, an eagerness in his voice.

Pran thought. “Yes, Nush,” she answered, “Merturi is not so far but that many have walked the trail from there to-day—Rai has sent many families.”

​“You know them, Pran?”

“I know few of them, Nush. Only my mother’s tribal sister Gjyl, wife of a man of Merturi, I have seen her. She came with her own husband’s brother, for her man is dead—killed in the feud. I know. She stayed a night with us not long ago, she and her man’s father and his brothers. Then it was I heard her husband had given blood payment but a short while back.”

As Pran was speaking Nush’s face had clouded darkly, and his eyes, that had been soft and friendly, hardened themselves to the color of gray steel. “I have heard, too,” he said, and then was still.

“Marash’s daughters talked with me about that trouble as we sat at bread. Lezina said one of the dead man’s brothers had taken life to clear the honor of his house. You knew of that?”

Nush’s face did not change, but for a moment he seemed to sink deep into thinking. Then he came back to Pran and answered her, “I did not know. But such a thing had to be done. Blood calls for blood. Though to be sure the debt is never paid.” Nush lost himself again in his own thoughts. His eyes were fixed, not on Pran now, but on something far off, it seemed.

​“Why do you ask for Gjyl?” Pran said at last.

His eyes came back to hers. “Gjyl is the one. Gjyl knows the meaning and the message of that coin. The gold piece must find its way into her hands. That is the trust I give you, Pran. Take it—” he touched the coin—“take it to her.”

“And what words go with it?” Pran asked.

“No words,” said Nush, “only—give it to her. She will find words herself seeing this nicked edge.” He stood. “Let no one else see or know, and say no word at all of seeing me here to-day. Now, go—quickly, for I can hear feet on the spring path. Remember, Pran, no word of me—do you hear?” His voice in its sudden fierce earnestness dismayed her. She caught at his arm as he was turning to go.

“Nush—Nush—” her heart beat fast—“what—what is wrong?”

His face broke into a smile then. “Nothing is wrong, Pran. Nothing will be wrong if I can trust you. Can I?”

Pran heard the footsteps on the path below. She whispered, “Yes, Nush, by Heaven, you can. Good-bye. Go on a smooth trail.”

And Nush answered as softly, “Peace be with you, Pran. Long life. A thousand thanks.” He crouched to make his way through the thick undergrowth. ​A second and he had vanished. Even his feet sent back no sound to Pran’s ears.

She went back to the spring rock and clambered down its face. Below stood Filia and Lezina.

They laughed. “We guessed you would be here,” said Filia. Lezina said, “She is a mountain goat and climbs for the pure pleasure of it. Be careful, Pran. Some morning you will wake to feel two pricking horns and find your hands shaggy with brown hair.”

Pran shook a laughing head. “I should not mind. The goats are free to roam and sure of rest—and more than that—no feud or war bothers their hard brown heads.”

The two girls chattered back, but Pran did not attend to what they said. Tight in her hand she clutched the golden coin, and her head buzzed with what she had to do and with the anxious thought, “Where was Gjyl now? Had she started back home, perhaps?” Her feet went faster on the sloping path.

“Pran, you will leave us far behind,” said Filia. “Why must you hurry so?”

Pran hid her concern behind a smile. “I must say some farewells before the guests are gone,” she said, and her feet broke into a run.

As she entered the big house she met Ndrek and ​Lukja on their way out. “Get the two boys, Pran,” Lukja said. “It is time we went home.”

“I will find them, Nona,” Pran said and went up the stairs to the big upper room. But she was not thinking of Nik and Gjon, for her thoughts were full of the question, “Gjyl—where is Gjyl?” The coin burned her hand. Suppose she should not find Gjyl and so should fail in this trust that Nush had given her? Her heart beat faster as she entered the dim room.

In the half darkness few people were to be seen. Pran’s eyes searched the corners. A woman saw her and said, “You seek your brothers, Pran. They are outside.”

“No,” thought Pran, “Gjyl is nowhere here.” Should she risk asking? If she did not ask, failure was certain. She would have the coin and no way to get it back to Nush again. After a time he’d know that she had failed—had not been worth the trust he’d put in her. She swallowed hard; turned to Angja, the host’s wife, and asked in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Have all the Merturi people left for home, Angja?”

“Long since,” answered the woman. “They had far to go.”

​Pran’s heart stood still. She felt tears of frustration gather in her eyes. Now she had failed! Catching her breath she said a quick farewell and ran down the dark stairs and out the door. The trail was filled with people going home. If only Gjyl had gone late she might catch her yet!

Pran ran on down the trail, forgetting Nik and Gjon, passing on the run one group after another—people of Shala bairaks—no one from Merturi. She must, must find Gjyl somehow, even if she ran till dark. Panting, she turned off on the Merturi trail. She could hear voices from the groups she passed exclaiming in surprise, “There goes Ndrek’s girl. What is after her that she goes so fast and in the wrong direction?”

But the trail she took now was nearly empty. Only one group was in sight—three men—a woman with them. Gjyl? Pran’s feet flew. “Yes, it is Gjyl, it is!” She raised her voice, breathless as she ran, “Gjyl! Gjyl!” she called.

The woman stopped and turned, waited; while the men, glancing a moment back, continued on the path.

“What is it, daughter? What do you want of me? Does Lukja send?”

Pran met her and took her hand, pressing it to her ​forechead and her heart. “Long life, Gjyl. Stay a minute. I have—something to give you.”

Now the time had come Pran felt almost afraid. The coin she clutched so tightly seemed suddenly something of evil omen. She hesitated. Gjyl stood before her, question in her eyes.

Then Pran shook off her fear. She sank her voice to a whisper, though they two were quite alone now. “Someone has sent you—this,” she said, and held out her hand, palm up. The gold piece stared from the palm like a glistening eye.

Gjyl leaned—and saw. Pran started at the sudden soft cry she gave. Her hand closed over the coin, and Pran could see her face, pale in the dying light, then red again. She heard Gjyl catch her breath as though a sob had risen in her throat. And she saw Gjyl press the hand that held the coin against her breast, and in Gjyl’s eyes that met hers questioningly she thought she saw tears starting. Pran’s eyes dropped. She murmured, “It is for you.” And then, “Good-bye, Gjyl. Go on a smooth trail.” Her trust had been fulfilled. Now she must go.

Then Gjyl spoke, and her voice was quiet. When Pran looked up her face was quiet too; only her eyes looked burningly into Pran’s own. “Blessings upon you, daughter. You have brought peace, and may ​smooth peace go with you.” A moment her hand caressed Pran’s kerchiefed head and then she turned and took the trail toward Merturi, saying no more.

Pran walked slowly back. Now and then she gave a mountain greeting to those that passed, but her mind did not know the words her tongue was saying, for her thoughts were whirling in her head. “What did it all mean? Why did Gjyl act so? And why this secrecy! And why———” And then like a wave she felt come over her a sense of satisfaction, happiness. She had not failed. No, she had fulfilled the trust she had been given. Nush would know that she was a true friend to him whose bravery and strength had saved Nik from his death. She smiled to herself.

She found the twins climbing the hill to home ahead of her. They all went in together.