Pran of Albania/Chapter 9

Pran thought no more of Hâna. She said to Lul, “You have a sister now. Pran will be mother to you.” And she and Dil shared all their food with her. Notz made his way, running an errand when he could in the bazaar, and Pran saw that his proud grateful spirit made him eat sparingly of all their food. Even on the meager rations of the barrack life, both children gained in health of mind and body. Lul’s eyes lost their dumb fear, and she learned how to laugh and play at games with the other barrack children.

One day Pran found her in the center of a little circle of playmates, singing and dancing. “Look, Dil,” said Pran, “Lul can really dance. And listen to the words of that song. I never heard it.”

“It is a song of the city,” said Notz a little apologetically, “a gypsy song. Once for a while a gypsy child begged with us, and she taught the dance to Lul and the song too.”

“It is a pretty song,” said Pran.

​That night Lul danced for Lukja and the rest outside the barracks.

Dil said, “People give pennies sometimes for a dance. I will take Lul to-morrow to the coffee garden and let her dance there. The children of Llesh Markut must do something to help.”

The next day the children all went to the coffee garden and, while a small crowd gathered, Pran and Dil and the three boys stood round Lul in a circle, clapping their hands in time and chanting the words that Lul had taught them and Lul danced to the song.

When Lul stopped dancing the men threw her pennies, and the children gathered them with smiles and thank-yous. But Notz scowled a little and said to Pran, “These are gypsy doings and not fit for a chief’s daughter.” Still, he praised Lul, and her small face shone with happiness. She poured all her pennies into his hands.

A stoutish man dressed in the red and black of Skodra stayed near the children after the other men had gone. He smiled at them and said, “Come, mountaineers, a lemonade for everyone.” Calling the coffee boy he bought six glasses of lemonade and handed one to each of the children, “Good be to ​you!” “May you find good fortune!” they replied and squatted about on the ground, sipping luxuriously. This was a treat!

As they drank, the man sat on a chair near them and asked a great many questions. “Are you refugees?” “Where do you live?” “What village are you from?”

Pran being the oldest answered for them all. “Three are from Prifti, and my brothers and I have come from Thethi.”

The man said earnestly, “ You refugees know little of what goes on. You know the men are fighting north of here, by Castrati. But you do not know how things are going—that our men have poor supplies, that food is low and will be scarcer yet. You big girls, tell your mothers that I have certain knowledge all your Thethi men are out there at the border with the rest.”

Pran’s heart beat hard. “Ndrek—Ndrek!” Lately she had not let herself think of her father and his danger. Now she thought, “Can he be there—so near—perhaps in want?”

She fastened her eyes on the Skodran’s face, her ears intent to catch his next words.

The man leaned nearer, lowering his voice. “Tell your mother there is need of food. If you have fathers there, any of you, then sell your clothes or chains or ​whatever you have and buy food for them—and take it to the front. There is need. I have the word this morning from a runner.”

Pran’s eyes were thoughtful. She said then, “I have no way to know if he is there—my father.”

“Tell me your father’s name, then,” said the man, “and when my runner goes again to the front he will make inquiries for him, search him out, and give him news of you. And then I will make sure that word gets back to you of where he is. So you can help him. Women go often to the men with food; you know that.”

Pran’s eyes glowed now. She knew that word went back and forth like this between the front and Skodra; and she knew too that wives and daughters of the fighting men, being women and safe from danger on the trail, often traveled long distances carrying food and clothing to the men. She would tell Lukja. There was still some money left from Hâna’s sale, and anyway, they all could go without a day’s food now and then and so get together something for Ndrek. Lukja would let her go. She was sure of that.

The boys ran ahead like young goats on the long straight road back to the barracks. She and Dil, each holding a hand of Lul, walked more slowly behind them, talking of this new thing.

​“See, Lul,” said Pran, “what luck has come to me through you. I find you a sister, but through you I have got word of Ndrek, my father. I may even see him—and talk to him.”

She leaned to hug Lul, who smiled, only half understanding. “Nona iamia,” she whispered into Pran’s ear, “my mother.”

And Lukja had news that night to match their own: “God is good, Pran, and to-morrow Skodra’s prefect, the chief of the city, promises to every refugee a ration of cornmeal and a sack of potatoes. We will indeed have food for our Ndrek when word shall come.”

A few days later a ragged mountaineer of Castrati appeared at the door of the barrack asking for Lukja. He was a dark young man—so young that his mustache was barely grown; but he bore his rifle slung on his straight back, and under the worn grimy clothing could be seen his strong, untiring body.

He sat down by a little fire Lukja had kindled to make coffee for him. He smoked rank mountain tobacco from his silver box, and he sat cross-legged, taking great puffs through a long silver cigarette holder. “Greetings to Ndrek’s wife. Long life,” he said.

The boys squatted with Dil and Lul some distance ​off, but Pran came and sat close to her mother that she might hear.

Lukja’s eyes were fixed anxiously on the man’s face. “My man, Ndrek, is well—unhurt?” she asked, after giving him welcome.

“Well and unhurt,” he answered. Pran breathed a prayer of thanks and saw Lukja’s lips move as she made in gratitude the holy sign of the cross. The man went on. “Skodra sends food to some, but all the men from far-off villages fare badly. Fighting goes on, and hungry men will get the worst of it. To-day Skodra sends bread—never enough for all, and I must go as guard with the bread cart. But whether I arrive there safe or not, no one can tell.” He took out of the fire a burning twig and lit with it another cigarette.

Then, he said, “If you have food, send it for your man. A woman travels safer, as you know, and many in the barracks here are from Castrati tribe and know the land about there. Let your girl ask of the trails and country. She must go north by hidden ways—not by the road. They watch the road for spies, and they stop anyone who goes too near. Even our own men, fearing a spy’s work, let no one pass. But—she knows mountain ways”—he looked at Pran, who ​moved her head for “yes,”—and she can get through to Ndrek.”

With a sharp stick he traced on the ground near the fire a picture of the men’s position. “Here fights Castrati. Here fight Thethi’s men and other men of Shala. Let her make inquiry from one of the women here how she shall reach the spot. They will know better than I, perhaps.”

Lukja with her cornmeal had made exchange for a handful of coffee. She mixed it now and boiled it at the fire and poured it out into a tiny can, for cups were scarce. “Drink and refresh yourself. And glory to the mouth that brings me news of my husband. Glory to the feet that brought you here. Good fortune, then!” She gave the cup to him.

The man thanked her and made the wish for her own good luck and drank in tiny sips, his eyes fixed on the dying ashes of the little fire.

Pran whispered with Lukja.

The cup empty, the young man rose and said good-bye. “I have much business here before I go back,” he said. “Good luck to you, girl, and blessings on you.”

“A smooth trail be yours,” said Pran.

“Smooth peace.” He smiled and left.

​Pran turned to Lukja. “To-day, Nona?” she asked, bursting with eagerness to be on her way to Ndrek.

“To-day you must talk with some of the Castrati women here,” said Lukja. “Get in your head the secret way to the north. I will make the food ready. At the dawn you shall start. Better alone, though Dil can walk with you across the plain.”

All afternoon Pran talked with several of the Castrati women. They sat outside the barracks in the shadow of the wall sheltered from the fierce sun, and there Pran drew on the sandy earth, as the messenger had done, tracings of the men’s position and the path there as the women told it to her. She planned her journey. It would take a day.

That night she slept lightly and woke a dozen times, sure dawn had come.

At last it came.

Her mother had a small sack of potatoes saved from the city’s distribution to the refugees, and another smaller bag of cornmeal. With money from the sale of the goat she had bought dried salted fish, and these she had tied fast in a strong cloth. With skillful hands she fastened all the load onto Pran’s back.

Gjon, waking, came and kissed her, saying, “Be careful, sister, I have heard that the Slavs’ bullets ​cannot tell women from men.” His eyes were big and serious.

Pran laughed. “Trust to my own sense, Gjon,” she answered him. “I do not go seeking bullets, but Ndrek, our father. I shall be safe, no fear.”

Nik sat up sleepily and rubbed his eyes. “Go on a smooth trail, muttra iamia,” he said, “and tell Ndrek to send for me if he needs a strong fighter at his side.”

Notz waked and wished her luck with a grave face. Older than the twins and taught by his hard life, he dreaded Pran’s going, and his brown eyes were anxious. Dil was ready at Pran’s side. Only Lul slept, curled in a little heap under her brother’s blanket. Pran knelt down and kissed her softly. “Farewell, my little sparrow,” she whispered, and then she said to Dil, “You have the care of her alone now. Give her my food and finish the purple socks I told her should be done to-day.”

Dil promised. Then with last good-byes and wishes for the trail the two girls started off across the plain.

At first they walked in silence. Daylight spread slowly across the sky, and the sun rose over the mountain wall beyond the plain.

At length Dil spoke. “You are not afraid, Pran?”

“Afraid?” said Pran.

​Dil’s eyes met hers. “You will go close to where the fighting is.”

“Ndrek goes closer,” Pran answered gravely, turning away her eyes.

Dil touched her arm. “I cannot go all the way with you, my sister,” she said, “but my prayers will go with you.” She stopped and then went on more softly: “Come back safe, Pran,” she said, and Pran saw tears stand in her eyes and heard the half sob that choked her.

Why should Dil fear for her? She did not fear. No thought of fear had come to her. She went to see Ndrek, her father—after so long—to see him—and take him food—and comfort him with news of those he loved. She was too glad—there was no room in her for fear. Happily she trod the level way, her back straight under her burden, and her heart strangely at peace and lifted above itself.

She stroked Dil’s hand that lay so lightly on her arm, and smiled into her friend’s blue eyes that swam with unshed tears. “Have no grain of fear for me, Dil. I shall be safe.” Her own heart felt the certainty of this.

At the plain’s edge Dil wished her smooth going and stood to watch her go. Pran waved and looked back at her, standing there. “Smooth peace!” she ​called and took the mountain way. The hill’s spur shut Dil and the plain from sight. She was alone.

The sun was high now, and the trail was hot, but Pran felt no discomfort. To feel under her feet again the stony path, to walk so freely under the wide blue sky, to see about her valleys and hills once more, after the close life of the Skodra barracks—this was delight. Each slope was pleasure to her hard mountain muscles, each height she climbed gave her new happiness. She journeyed fast, watching the way she went, remembering the turnings and the short cuts she had been told to take.

She met no one. At noon she ate her cornbread as she walked, not stopping for a rest. The way was long. Before night fell she wanted to be sure to reach the border and the camping place. Her father! He was well, the man had said. “Well and unhurt.” Brave Ndrek! He could fight well. Like every mountain man, he knew the value of ambush. No one more clever than Ndrek to find low rocks to shoot from and the wooded shelters that kept a man hidden from his foe’s eyes. What would he say, seeing her come so far with food to keep up his strength and courage! She wondered if he had the bear’s tooth still. Of course he had. Was he not safe and unhurt because he carried it? She hummed a mountain tune. ​With men like Ndrek war could not last long. No enemy could down such men. She knew, as did every mountain boy and girl, that these undaunted Northern mountaineers had held their hills from time immemorial. Had not even Turkey itself failed to collect an atom of tribute from them? They had been free men always and would be forever—unconquered and unconquerable, the Maltsors, Sons of the Mountain Eagle! Pran’s heart leaped with her thoughts, and she could not refrain from singing to herself Lul’s dancing song—a foolish song, but there was a gayness in it that suited her mood just now.

The summer afternoon passed slowly over her. Still she went on, turning always more to the west. Then, seeing the valley of Castrati lie at her feet, she took the winding trail down from the hills. Soon she had reached the spot where the messenger had said the men would be encamped. She looked about her. Clumped low woods and little clear spaces of grass, with here and there heaped ashes of dead fires. No one at all in sight. Could it be here? She took a few steps farther—stopped, uncertain.

Suddenly four mountaineers confronted her, their rifles in their hands. Pran started, for she could have sworn a second since she was alone, and now these four solid men of flesh and blood seemed to have ​sprung like apparitions out of the ground she stood on. Her heart beat a tattoo, though she could see they were Albania’s men and Maltsor besides.

They spoke, “Greetings. Long life!” One said, “What errand brings you, girl?”

Pran answered, feeling at once their friendliness, “To you long life, uprisers and defenders of the hills. I seek Ndrek, the son of Palok Daka, a Shala man of Thethi village. I have brought food for him. Where can I find him?”

One of the men stepped forward, gave a low whistle, and it seemed to Pran that every bush and stone became alive, and where before no sign of men had been, men stood in groups—miraculously—talking together as if they had talked for hours, standing just there.

“Come—” the man nearest her motioned her to him—“I’ll lead you to Ndrek.”

She followed, with difficulty, for the man went fast, and though he took no path he went as if sure of his way, leaping lightly from stone to stone and over gullies, finding a footing where Pran nearly fell. Now she could see through the bushes here and there smoke of small fires. They passed a great heaped pile of potatoes lying on the grass. She went close to a fire over which an iron pot bubbled and boiled while ​men squatted and stood about it. Her guide went on. He wound and turned, and still went on, unspeaking, steadily. Pran followed close, thinking, “I can never find my way back again, that’s sure.”

Suddenly she saw they were alone, no sign of men or fires. The mountaineer stopped and pointed to a wooded knoll. “Behind there are encamped the Shala men. Climb and go down. You’ll find the man you seek among them. Go on a smooth trail.”

“Thank you. Peace go with you,” said Pran. The man was gone. She hurried now. How near she was at last! Another moment and she would stand before Ndrek himself. Her heart beat less with climbing than with joy. She pushed through the thick brush and little trees covering the knoll and took the steep down slope, her feet slipping at every step. She reached the little hollow at the foot.

No one? Yes—there were men. Yes—there—there was Ndrek! She ran.

He stood with other men about a fire. His back was toward her. “Father!” she called, but softly, for she felt the secretness of the place.

He turned, gave one startled look—knew her, and took her in his arms. “My Pran—my daughter—brave darling. You have come—you have come!”

Why was she crying? What a foolish thing, to cry ​before soldiers. Furious at herself she turned her back and scrubbed her tears off with her sleeve. And then she turned again and stood close to Ndrek, too happy for any words. What was he saying? Asking after the boys and Lukja.

“They are all right,” she said, glad that her voice was steady as she spoke. “We live not badly there in Skodra. We have food. Scores of the refugees have less than we. We have not suffered—yet. God has protected us as He has you.” She pressed Ndrek’s hand to her forehead—to her mouth. “I thank Him from my heart.”

Ndrek signed himself with the cross. “I thank Him too.” He looked now at the bundle on her back and smiled. “What have you brought, then? Food for the whole army that you are loaded so?” He laughed, and his eyes sparkled in the old way she knew. But she could see that he was thinner, that his clothes were worn, and that about his mouth were stern new lines carved there by hardship and distress.

“I have brought something for you to eat. They say in Skodra that the Slavs find hungry men too easy prey.” She smiled and unslung her load, letting the two sacks and the packet of fish fall at Ndrek’s feet.

“Rrnoft!” cried Ndrek. “Glory to your strong ​back and never-erring feet. God bless you, daughter. My courage lights itself anew from the flame of yours, even as my body takes strength from the food you bring.” He dragged the bags farther from the fire and sat down cross-legged before them, pulling at their openings, peering within. “Good store,” he said, “I shall use it carefully.” Then, quickly anxious, “You in Skodra will not go hungry now, bringing so much to me?”

Pran tossed back an emphatic head, clicking her tongue. “Yo, never,” she said.

Ndrek unwrapped the fish and gave one of them to Pran. “Eat, and good appetite. You have come far.” He took one for himself.

The two sat there side by side in the dusk and ate. Ndrek told Pran how things were going in the border war. “Sometimes our men drive back the Slavs, and sometimes we have to give ground and let them farther in.” He frowned. “Things are not settled yet. There runs a rumor now the Slavs are massing somewhere for a big attack—they would surprise us. It is three days and more since we have had fighting of any kind. We are all glad of the rest, but anxious—not knowing what they plan—where they will strike. We wait—and, being Maltsor, you know how hard that is. Fighting is better.”

​“Po, bessa,” agreed Pran.

Darkness fell as they talked. At last Ndrek said, “Other women have come with food to-day. Go where they are and sleep. Start home to-morrow. God speed you safely—He has led you here. Go warily—until you are on the trail. You know enough for that.” He laid a hand on Pran’s shoulder. “I cannot be sure of seeing you again, so I will give you farewell to-night and blessings for your journey. Take word to Nik I do not need him yet. And tell our Gjon—he’s older than his twin by the space of time it takes to boil a jasme of water, so he’s the head of the house—tell him he is the head while I am gone, and that he must guard his family as I would from all danger. And tell Lukja”—he paused—“tell her if it be the will of Zot i Madhe”—he smiled—“and if your bear’s tooth works its charm, tell her I shall come home. If luck should favor us—our men fight well—there’s hope we may be home before the rains. May the sweet Virgin look on you with love, my girl, and keep you on the trail so that you reach Skodra by dark to-morrow. Go a smooth way.”

They rose. Pran bowed her head. He touched it tenderly. “Peace be with you, my father.”

He kissed her cheek. “Now go, bearer of comfort for the weary, go. Long life.”

​“Long life to you, Ndrek.” She meant those words.

He said, “You will find the other women to the east over the southern slope of the knoll. They too wait for the dawn. Good-night.”

“Good-night.” She left him, taking an unsure way through the young dark lit by casual fires. Sadness and joy together filled her heart. She left him to live in danger, but she had brought succor to him, and had seen and talked with him, and could take back to Lukja and the boys his words—his love.

She found six or eight women from as many tribes where he had said. The night was warm. They slept under the stars together peacefully. No shot was heard. Only a faint wind blew, stirring the leaves.

“Perhaps they have done with fighting,” murmured Pran to her she slept beside.

“You speak so, being young,” the woman said. “When you are older you will learn that echo of a shot lasts longer than the bullet’s flight. Sleep easily.”